The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (100 page)

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Authors: Helen Bianchin

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Erotica, #Collections & Anthologies, #Contemporary Women, #General

BOOK: The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections)
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The servant was patiently waiting when she opened the door, and Kristi attempted to dispel a faint fluttering of nerves as they descended the staircase.
‘Dining room' was a slight misnomer, she discovered on being directed to a semi-formal lounge with an adjoining dining room.
Shalef was an impressive figure in a royal blue
thobe
edged with silver, and the butterfly wings inside her stomach beat a faint tattoo as he crossed the room to greet her.
‘I hope I haven't kept you waiting.' Her voice sounded faintly husky even to her own ears, and her eyes widened fractionally at his indulgent smile.
‘Not at all.' He caught hold of her hand and lifted it to his lips, his eyes silently challenging hers as he glimpsed her inner battle to retain a measure of composure.
He was initiating a deliberate strategy, alluding to a relationship which didn't exist merely to qualify her presence here. Yet Kristi had the distinct feeling that he intended to derive a certain degree of diabolical pleasure from the exercise, and it rankled unbearably that the only time she'd be able to castigate him verbally for his actions would be when they were alone.
Her eyes flashed a silent warning as she offered him a brilliant smile: Don't play games with me.
She saw one eyebrow lift in mocking amusement, and she had to marshal her features not to reflect the burning anger that simmered deep within her.
‘Come and meet Nashwa's daughters,' Shalef bade her smoothly as he turned and led her into the centre of the room. ‘Aisha.' He indicated a slim girl of average height whose dark gaze was openly friendly, then the younger girl at her side. ‘Hanan.'
Both girls were beautiful, with flawless complexions and dark, liquid brown eyes. Each wore traditional dress, Aisha in gold-embroidered aqua silk, while Hanan had opted for a soft blue. Their mother looked resplendent in deep emerald.
At least she provided a contrast in black, Kristi decided as she smiled and offered the girls a greeting. ‘I've been looking forward to meeting you both.' She turned slightly and included the young man standing unobtrusively a short distance from Nashwa. ‘Nashwa. Fouad.'
‘Mother says you're a photographer,' Aisha said politely. ‘It must be a fascinating occupation.'
‘Most of the time it's routine,' Kristi acknowledged with a touch of wry humour.
‘I am to study fashion design when I return from Switzerland,' Hanan declared. ‘Shalef has given permission for me to begin in London. If I do well, he will allow me to study in Paris.'
Nashwa stood up. ‘Shall we all go in to dinner?'
Shalef took a seat at the head of the table, and indicated that Kristi should occupy a chair close to him. An honour, she assumed, that merely endorsed her place as his latest ‘companion'.
The food was excellent—hot, spicy lamb served with rice and beans, followed by a variety of sweets laden with dates and honey. There was a platter of succulent fresh fruit, and Kristi opted for some sliced melon and a few dates.
They were waited on by a number of Filipino servants, who stood inconspicuously in the background as each dish was served, then moved forward to remove plates and replace them with each subsequent course, and no sooner was a water glass empty than it was unobtrusively refilled.
‘Is your photographic work confined to studio portraits?' Fouad queried politely.
Kristi set down her glass. ‘Frequently, in between assignments.'
‘Tell us something about these assignments. Are any of them dangerous?'
‘Not really,' she answered lightly, deliberately meeting Shalef's hard gaze. ‘The risk is minimal.'
Shalef's fingers toyed with the stem of his crystal goblet. ‘Indeed?'
Kristi held his gaze without any difficulty at all. ‘You hunt in the desert and attempt to master the falcon. Is that without risk?'
‘Attempt' was perhaps not the wisest choice of word. There could be no doubt that Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed achieved success in everything he did, and to hint at anything less was almost an insult.
‘Your concern for my safety warms my heart.'
‘As does yours for me,' she responded, offering him a sweet smile.
His eyes gleamed darkly and one eyebrow slanted in silent amusement. ‘When we've had coffee I'll show you the garden.'
She forced her smile to widen slightly, while silently threatening to do mild injury to certain of his male body parts if he dared anything more than a light clasp of her hand.
At the mention of coffee the servants moved forward to clear the dessert plates from the table, and Shalef rose to his feet, indicating the conclusion of the meal.
The partaking of coffee was leisurely, the conversation pleasant, and throughout the ensuing hour Kristi was supremely conscious of the tall man who chose to sit in a chair close to her own.
For a brief moment she almost considered declining when he suggested that they stroll through the illuminated gardens, and she glimpsed the hint of steel in those dark eyes and was aware that he knew the passage of her thoughts. Then she gave him a slow smile and stood up, offering no protest when he clasped her elbow as they left the room.
The warmth of the early evening was evident without the benefit of the palace's air-conditioning, and she surreptitiously lengthened her step in an effort to move further from his side—an action that was immediately thwarted as he captured her hand in a firm clasp that threatened to tighten should she attempt to wrench it from his grasp.
‘What in the name of heaven do you think you're doing?' She kept her voice quiet, but he could hardly have failed to detect her anger.
‘If we act as polite strangers it will raise questions about our relationship,' Shalef said smoothly.
‘We don't have a relationship!'
‘For the purposes of this visit we do,' he reminded her.
She turned slightly in the pale evening light and was unable to discern much from his features. ‘I'm not in awe of your wealth or of you as a man,' Kristi declared in an undertone. The first was the truth, the latter an outright fabrication.
‘No?'
Her eyes acquired a fiery sparkle at the faint mockery evident in his voice. ‘If I didn't need your help, I'd leave and be grateful that I never had to see you again.'
‘But you do need me,' Shalef pointed out silkily. ‘So we shall walk and admire the garden, and appear to be as engrossed in each other as the situation demands.'
A slight breeze riffled the palm fronds and teased the length of her hair. ‘Perhaps you'd care to introduce a subject of conversation that we can both pursue?' she said.
‘One that won't digress into an argument?'
‘You could tell me how you coped when your father first brought you here.'
‘Fill in the blanks that have not been written up in the tabloid press?'
‘Alternatively, there's Riyadh itself. Islam.'
‘Religion and politics are a dangerous mix,' Shalef dismissed.
‘They form an important part of life. Especially in the land of the Prophet Mohammed.'
‘And if I were to present you with my views what guarantee would I have that they wouldn't be written up and sold to the media?' he said drily.
She looked at him carefully, aware of the caution he felt constrained to exercise with everyone he met. A man in his position would have many social acquaintances, numerous business associates, but few friends in whose company he could totally relax. ‘Is that why you retreat here several times a year?'
The gardens were extensive, with carefully tended lawns, shrubs, and an ornamental fountain strategically placed to provide a central focus. Water cascaded over three levels, and at night, beneath illumination, it was nothing less than spectacular.
No doubt for him the palace represented a welcome and familiar sanctuary, whereas she found that it contained an air of Eastern mystery that she wanted to explore. The people, the culture, their beliefs, the vast, definitive division between men and women. To read and be aware of factual reporting was not the same as experiencing it for oneself.
‘This is the land of my father,' Shalef began slowly. ‘A land where the power of nature can move tonnes of sand for no apparent reason other than to reassemble a shifting terrain. Man has plumbed its depths and channelled the riches, reaping enormous rewards.'
‘Yet you choose not to live here.'
He smiled faintly. ‘I have homes in many capital cities around the world, and reside for a short time in several.'
‘When do you plan on going to the hunting lodge?'
He paused and turned to face her. ‘In a few days, when the first of my guests arrive. Meantime, I will ensure that you see some of the sights Riyadh has to offer, such as the museum, Dir'aiyah, the Souk Al-Bathaa. Fouad will continue to see that you are entertained in my absence.'
His features hardened fractionally. ‘I must impress on you the fact that as a woman you cannot venture anywhere beyond the palace unless accompanied by Fouad or myself. Is that understood? Women are not permitted anywhere on their own, and cannot use public transport. To do so will result in arrest. Nashwa will provide you with an
abaaya
to wear whenever you leave the palace.'
Kristi made no protest. Despite her personal views on such issues there was nothing to be gained by flouting Saudi Arabian religious dictates. ‘Have we been out here sufficiently long, do you think?'
‘You have grown tired of my company?'
What could she say? That he unsettled her more than any man she'd ever met? ‘I think you're enjoying the pursuit of this particular game,' she ventured, meeting his gaze.
‘There are advantages,' Shalef drawled.
‘Such as?'
‘This.' His hands caught her close as his head lowered and his mouth closed over hers, his tongue a provocative instrument as he explored the delicate interior and wrought havoc with her senses. At her soft intake of breath his mouth hardened, staking a possession with such mastery that it took considerable will-power not to give in to sensation and kiss him back.
When he released her she stood, momentarily bemused, then reality returned, and with it a measure of anger.
‘That was unnecessary!'
‘But enjoyable, don't you agree?'
She wanted to hit him, and her fist clenched as she summoned a measure of restraint. ‘You're despicable.'
‘Come,' he bade her easily. ‘We'll explore the garden further then return indoors. By that time your anger will have cooled.'
‘Don't bet on it,' she returned inelegantly, unsure just how much control she could exert during her sojourn in the desert. Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed was a law unto himself, but when it came to a clash of wills she intended to do battle.
 
Shalef was as good as his word, and during the ensuing few days he assumed the role of perfect host. In the company of Nashwa, with a Filipino chauffeur at the wheel of the Mercedes, he ensured that Kristi saw many of the sights Riyadh had to offer. They visited the museum, the Masmak Fortress and the Murabba Palace, followed by the King Faisal Centre for Research and Islamic Studies. There was also the King Saud University Museum, and Kristi displayed a genuine interest as their assigned guide explained the history attached to each of the finds from the university's archaeological digs at Al-Fao and Rabdhah. The Souk Al-Bathaa, Shalef explained as they explored what remained of it, had become a victim of Riyadh's rush into the twentieth century.
Being in Shalef's company almost constantly had a disturbing effect on Kristi's composure, as he meant it to have. His behaviour was impeccable, although she was acutely aware of the intensity of his gaze as it lingered on her a trifle longer than was necessary, the touch of his hand when he directed her attention to something of interest, the moment he caught hold of her arm when she almost tripped over the hem of her borrowed
abaaya.
Frequently she found her gaze straying to the firm lines of his mouth...and remembered what it felt like to have it move over her own.
Kristi didn't know whether to feel relieved or dismayed when one evening he suggested that they dine together in town.
‘The night-life here is notoriously thin,' Shalef revealed, watching the fleeting play of emotions on her expressive features. ‘However, the hotels have excellent restaurants, and the Al-Khozama has one I can recommend.'
With Nashwa and Fouad present, there wasn't much she could do but agree.
 
The
abaaya
was a necessary addition, but beneath it she wore silk evening trousers and a camisole top, and kept her make-up to a minimum. In some ways it had been amusing to discover that Nashwa, Aisha and Hanan each wore modern Western clothes beneath their
abaayas.
Saudi Arabian women, they assured her, spent a fortune on European couture.

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