The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (104 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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When she had finished the meal she joined Shalef in the foyer.
‘You'll need to wear a
shayla
and apply sunscreen.'
She stood perfectly still as he fixed the long scarf in position. ‘Shall we leave?'
The four-wheel drive was the same model as the one she'd driven from the palace, and she wondered if he'd ordered them by the half-dozen.
An hour later Shalef eased the vehicle off the road and drove along a well-worn track for several kilometres before slowing to a halt close to a large black tent.
He indicated a tall elderly man moving forward to greet them. ‘My father sprang from the seed of the Bedouin. I thought it might interest you to meet some of them. We'll be offered coffee, which if we refuse will cause offence. Remember to accept the cup with your right hand. Follow my example.'
He offered her a faintly quizzical smile. ‘This man and his family have no command of English. They will accept your dutiful silence as a mark of respect for me.' He leaned forward and caught the edge of her
shayla,
adjusting it to form a partial veil. ‘Let the edge fall when we are inside the tent and refreshments are about to be served.'
Kristi was enthralled by their hosts, and she was careful to follow Shalef's brief instructions, all the time aware of their circumspect appraisal.
Her jeans were well washed, their cut generous, and her chambray shirt was buttoned almost to the neck, the sleeves long and cuffed. The
shayla
felt a little strange, but it covered her head and shoulders.
Out here, she could almost sense Shalef's empathy with these people, the link by birth, the inheritance of definitive genes. He was at one with them, yet different.
His education, she knew, had been extensive, and gained in one of the best boarding-schools in England. He was fluent in several languages and held a doctorate. His business acumen and standing in the financial sector were legendary. Yet he spoke Arabic as if it were his first language, mingled with the Bedu, and chose the simplicity and the relative isolation of this desert land for his home for weeks on end at least twice a year.
Was the call of his Bedouin blood so strong? Or was it contrived out of duty to his late father, to Nashwa and her daughters?
The woman in his life would have to understand that, while she could be his hostess in London, New York, Paris, Lucerne or Rome, there would be times when she would need not only to accompany him to Riyadh, but to accept the severe restrictions that extended to women in this land. She would also have to don the
abaaya, shayla
and veil—light, gauzy colours in the palace, and black in public. She would have to forgo her independence temporarily, and never in the presence of others would she be able to question his opinions, his direction or his wishes.
Yet there was a dignity, a sense of timelessness, an acceptance that was encapsulated in
inshallah
...if God wills it.
Kristi watched as the coffee was served first to Shalef, then their host. Kristi was careful to accept her cup as Shalef had instructed, then she waited until he drank from his cup before attempting to touch the contents of her own.
She would have liked to know the topic of their conversation, but she sat quietly, instinctively aware that she should not intrude. When she was offered another coffee she didn't refuse.
The encampment was small, and there were a few camels that contrasted sharply with a Japanese-assembled pick-up truck. Even the equipment and utensils were at variance with each other. Water reposed in plastic containers instead of bags made from animal skins, and there was a modern transistor radio close to where their host's wife had prepared the coffee.
At last Shalef rose to his feet, his actions repeated by their host, and Kristi followed suit as it became apparent that they were preparing to leave.
Outside the tent, Shalef was drawn by his host towards the camels, and each was solemnly inspected and commented upon. Then came the formal farewell before Shalef made his way to the four-wheel drive.
As soon as they were on their way he asked, ‘You found the encounter interesting?'
The four-wheel drive gathered speed, billowing dust behind it as Shalef headed for the bitumen road.
‘Intriguing,' Kristi amended.
‘Perhaps you'd care to elaborate?'
‘You fit in so well, yet your Arabian persona is totally at variance with the Western image.'
‘You find that strange?'
‘No,' she said slowly. ‘Somehow it suits you. Yet I can't help wondering if you suffer a conflict of interests. Having enjoyed the best of what the West has to offer, doesn't it even bother you that Aisha and Hanan are not free to experience the freedom of their Western sisters?'
He directed her a sharp glance. ‘One does not choose the country of one's birth,' Shalef pointed out. ‘One simply accepts the dictates of one's heritage until education and personal choice instil the will to change. Aisha and Hanan are fortunate in that their education will be completed abroad, they are free to work in their chosen careers, and they are free to marry—wisely, one hopes—a suitable man of their choosing.'
‘Yet, as head of the palace, your opinion is sacrosanct.' It was a statement, not a query.
‘Their welfare is very important to me. If they displayed bad judgement, and Nashwa requested me to intervene, I would hope to be able to persuade them to rethink the situation.'
‘And if you failed?'
‘I would take measures to ensure no mistakes were made.'
‘Such as?'
‘Refuse to hand over their passports, the restriction of their allowance.'
‘Confine them to the palace?'
‘The palace is hardly a jail,' Shalef reminded her. She ventured soberly, ‘It could be, if you didn't want to be there.'
‘Since this is a purely hypothetical conversation, without any basis of fact, I suggest we change the subject.'
‘That's a cop-out,' Kristi protested.
‘A tactical sidestep,' Shalef amended.
‘Because it's an issue you don't want to discuss?'
‘An issue that cannot be addressed without understanding of the Koran in a country which has no constitution. Much of the legal system is based on a straight application of Islamic
sharia
law as interpreted by the Hanbali school of Islamic jurisprudence, the most conservative of Sunni Islam's four main legal schools.'
‘I see.' It was a contemplative comment that brought a faint smile to his lips.
‘I doubt that you do.'
She studied his features, wanting to dig beneath the surface and determine his personal views, rather than political observations. ‘And you, Shalef? Do you consider yourself fortunate to enjoy the best of both worlds? The Western and Islamic? Or are you frequently caught between the two?'
‘I accept my Arabian heritage, for that was my father's wish.'
‘And when you marry, will you follow the Islamic tradition by taking more than one wife?'
‘I would hope to choose a wife whose love for me would be such that there was no need to seek another.'
‘But what of your love for her?'
‘You doubt I could please a wife?'
He was amused, and it rankled. ‘Sex is only one aspect of a marriage. There has to be mutual respect, emotional support,' she ventured. ‘And love.'
‘Many women would forgo the last three in exchange for wealth and social position.'
‘You're a cynic,' Kristi reproved him, and caught the mockery evident in his expression.
‘I have reason to be.'
She didn't doubt it. Women flocked to his side like moths dazzled by flame. Yet very few would be interested in the man himself, only what his wealth could provide in terms of jewellery and cash, magnificent homes and social prestige, in exchange for sexual favours.
The hunting lodge was clearly visible, and Kristi evinced surprise.
‘Time flies when you're having fun,' Shalef commented, tongue-in-cheek, and she pulled a face at him.
‘Lunch,' he announced in response. ‘After which you can witness the taming of the falcons.'
‘Birds held in captivity, manacled and chained,' she said with veiled mockery.
‘Yet when set free they merely circle and eventually return to their master.' He swung the vehicle into the compound. ‘They are well housed, well fed, and lead an infinitely better life than they would in the wild.'
‘What a shame they can't communicate; they might tell a different story.'
He cut the engine and turned towards her. ‘Then again, they may not.'
‘You're a superb strategist,' Kristi commended him with intended irony. ‘In the business arena you'd be a diabolical adversary.'
‘In
any
arena,' Shalef corrected silkily, and she suppressed a faint shiver at the knowledge that there were few men, or women, who could best him.
L
UNCH comprised grilled chicken, rice and a fava bean dish. The simple fare was filling, and Kristi accepted a small portion, preferring to complete the meal with fresh fruit.
‘You wish to rest for an hour?'
She glanced across the table and met Shalef's steady gaze. ‘You suggested showing me the falcons. I don't want to delay your joining your guests.'
‘In that case we shall leave.' He rose from the table and Kristi did likewise, following him through the hallway to a rear door.
‘The falcons are housed opposite the stables,' he indicated as they moved away from the house.
‘You have horses?'
‘Is that so surprising?'
Nothing about this man would surprise her. ‘I didn't expect to find them here.'
‘Do you ride?'
‘Yes.' Her eyes glowed with remembered pleasure. ‘I was taught as a child.' There was something magical about sharing the power rather than controlling it, the wonderful feeling of speed and the empathy one achieved between man and beast. ‘They're beautiful animals.'
‘Then you shall ride with me at sunrise tomorrow.'
A singularly sweet smile curved her generous mouth. It was months since she'd last ridden, and there could be little doubt that Shalef owned the finest Arabian stock. ‘Thank you.'
‘Is it the prospect of the ride or the sharing of it with me that affords you such pleasure?'
‘The ride,' Kristi returned without hesitation, and heard his soft laughter.
The compound was large, much larger than it had appeared from the air, and she followed Shalef to the end of a long building some distance from the house.
‘Stay there,' he bade her as they drew close to a large enclosure. ‘You are a stranger, and the falcons will be wary.'
She watched as he unlocked an outer door and disappeared inside, only to emerge some minutes later wearing a heavy leather glove on one arm upon which rested a blue-grey falcon whose lower body was white with blackish-brown bars; it was leg-bound—attached to a short lead whose ring was firmly secured.
‘This is one of my most prized falcons,' Shalef explained. ‘It is extremely rare, and the most powerful of all the breeds. Its speed when it swoops on its prey is estimated at two hundred and ninety kilometres per hour.'
It looked fearsome, exuding a tremendous sense of predatory strength, and the claws, the beak were undeniably vicious.
‘You enjoy the sport?'
‘Falconry is a method of hunting game which was begun about four thousand years ago by the Persians. The challenge is in the training of the falcon, for it is an art that takes skill, a lot of time, and endless patience. First they must become used to having men around them. Then they are broken to the hood, which is placed over their head while they are carried in the field. The hood is removed only when the game is seen and the falcon is turned loose to pursue it. Finally, the birds must be trained to lure, so that they will not fly off with the game after they have struck it down or pounced on it.'
She looked at him carefully. ‘One assumes you own some of the finest falcons in the country. Is that why Mehmet Hassan retreats here as your guest?'
‘He is one of a chosen few.' The falcon rose up on its feet and arched its wings. Shalef said something briefly in Arabic and it immediately quietened. ‘He's getting restless. I'll return him.'
Minutes later he rejoined her, and they walked slowly back to the house.
‘You like being here.' It was a statement, and one he didn't refute.
‘It's a place where I can relax and enjoy the company of valued friends without the intrusion of society.'
Kristi gestured towards the house, then widened the gesture to encompass the desert beyond. ‘I can understand why. There is a harshness that challenges the survival of man.'
‘Very profound, Kristi Dalton,' he lightly mocked as they entered the house.
Without thinking, she placed a hand on his arm. ‘Thank you,' she said quietly.
‘For what, precisely? Giving you a few hours of my time?'
‘Yes. My being here must be a source of irritation.'
‘Are you suggesting I deny it?'
She felt stung, the hurt incredibly strong for one brief second before she was able to mask it. She turned away, wanting only to be free of his disturbing presence, but a hand closed over her shoulder and forced her back to face him.
Kristi met his gaze and held it, hating him at that precise moment for being able to render her vulnerable.
When his head began to descend she averted her own, then she cried out as he cradled her nape so that she couldn't escape the pressure of his mouth.
She had no defence against a kiss that was hard and possessively demanding. He seemed to fill her mouth, exploring, coaxing a capitulation that she was loath to give.
Just as she thought she'd won, the pressure eased, and in its place was a soft, open-mouthed kiss that swamped her emotions and left her weak-willed and malleable.
The desire to kiss him back was impossible to deny, and her body swayed into his as she lifted her arms and linked her hands behind his head.
He permitted her to initiate a kiss, then he subjected her mouth to the explorative sweep of his tongue, teasing, tantalising in a manner that sent an electrifying awareness tingling through her veins, heightening her senses to a frightening degree as she began to melt beneath the magnetic thrill of his sensual onslaught.
Slowly, with infinite care, he eased the flare of passion, tempering it with one lingering kiss after the other on the soft fullness of her lower lip, the edge of her mouth, before trailing his lips up to rest against her temple. Then he gently pushed her to arm's length.
‘I must leave.'
Kristi didn't feel capable of uttering so much as a word, yet she managed a sigh before turning away from him to seek the sanctuary and solitude of his bedroom.
A shower would rinse off the desert sand, and she'd shampoo her hair. Then she'd find pen and paper and compose a letter to Georgina Harrington. She'd also write a short note to Annie.
Thoughts of the studio brought forth an image of home. For a moment she almost wished that she were back in Australia. If it hadn't been for Shane, she wouldn't be in a desert a few hundred kilometres from Riyadh. Nor, she vowed silently as she stepped beneath the pulsing jet of warm water, would she be in a constant state of emotional turmoil over a man who could never be a part of her life. Or she a part of his.
 
 
It was late when the men returned, and after eight before dinner was served. Conversation was convivial, and it was clear that the falcons had performed well, the kill excellent. Kristi's vivid imagination conjured up their prey, the deadly power of the falcon, and she endeavoured to mask her distaste for a sport that centred on the death of the victim.
The last of the meal was cleared from the table and the men began to move into the lounge for coffee. Two of the guests displayed a penchant for strong cigars, and after an hour Kristi was conscious of a persistent headache as a result of passive smoking.
‘If you don't mind, I'll retire for the night.' She stood, smiled at each of the men in turn, then moved towards the door.
Once clear of the room she contemplated taking a walk, but the evening air would not have cooled sufficiently for it to be more pleasant outdoors than in the air-conditioned interior of the house.
The bedroom was blissfully cool, and after brushing her teeth she undressed, donned the shirt that Shalef had provided the night before, then slipped beneath the covers of the large bed.
An hour later she was still awake and the pain in her head had intensified into a full, throbbing ache that showed no sign of dissipating.
Maybe there was some medication in the
en suite
bathroom that might alleviate the pain, she thought, and got up to see.
Switching on the light, she opened a drawer, and was in the process of searching the second when she heard Shalef's unmistakable drawl from the doorway.
‘What are you looking for?'
‘Paracetamol,' Kristi responded without preamble.
‘Try the last cupboard above the vanity to your right.'
She moved towards the designated cupboard, extracted a slim packet, removed two tablets from the blister pack, found a glass and half filled it with water, then swallowed both tablets.
‘You are unwell?'
She turned towards him. ‘The cigar smoke gave me a headache.' Her fingers shook slightly as she closed the pack, and as she reached for the cupboard the pack slipped from her grasp.
She bent quickly to pick it up, then winced as the downward movement magnified the pain. In her hurry she neglected to foresee that the loosely buttoned shirt would gape, given its voluminous size, and she clutched the edges and held them tightly against her midriff. Her defensive action came too late, and there was little she could do to avoid the firm fingers which extricated her own from the cotton shirt.
‘You are bruised.' He undid one button, then the one beneath it, drawing the edge down over her shoulder.
There were more bruises on various parts of her body, and he seemed intent on inspecting them all.
‘You assured me you were uninjured,' Shalef said grimly, ignoring her efforts to remove his hands.
‘I don't class a few bruises as
injuries.'
Her voice rose as his fingers probed a large, purpling patch close to her hip.
‘Don't.'
‘You didn't suffer these from being held at bay, locked in the four-wheel drive,' he observed with deadly softness. ‘Did the men undo the door and drag you out?'
His voice was like the finest silk being abraded by steel, and for some inexplicable reason her nerves felt as if they were stretched close to breaking-point.
‘They didn't appear to understand English or French,' she related starkly, and the muscles of his jaw tensed with chilling hardness.
‘Did they beat you? Touch you in any way?'
‘They stopped when I said your name.' The words sounded stilted even to her own ears, and his eyes narrowed at the fleeting changes in her expression.
She watched in mesmerised fascination as he lifted a hand and brushed his fingers across her cheek then trailed them down to the corner of her mouth. Gently he outlined the contour of her lower lip, then slid down the column of her throat to trace a path over the stitched edge of the shirt to the valley between her breasts.
Then his head lowered to hers, and his lips followed an identical route as he pushed the shirt aside and brushed his mouth back and forth against each bruise in turn.
Something wild and untamed unfurled deep within her, flooding her being with a slow, sweet heat as his lips closed over hers in a kiss that was so erotically evocative that she never wanted it to end.
No man had ever wreaked such havoc with her emotions, nor made her feel so wickedly wanton as she returned his kiss and silently begged for more.
She needed to feel the touch of his skin, the silky external layer sheathing the finely honed muscles and sinews that bound his broad bone structure into a frame that was solely, uniquely
his.
His clothes followed the path of her shirt, and she gave a silent gasp as he swept an arm beneath her knees and lifted her high against his chest to carry her into the bedroom.
The sheets felt deliciously cool as he laid her down on the bed; then he lowered his body beside her, bracing his weight with his hands as he began an erotic tasting path that slowly traversed every hollow, every intimate crevice until each separate nerve-end screamed for the release she craved.
Not content, he rolled onto his back and carried her with him so that she sat nestled in the cradle of his thighs.
Kristi stilled as he extracted prophylactic protection, broke the seal, then extended it in silent query. She accepted it with fingers that trembled slightly, unsure whether to feel relieved or dismayed. A bubble of silent hysteria threatened to escape her lips as she contemplated whether she could complete the task with any degree of finesse. Perhaps she could opt out and hand it back to him...
His fingers closed over hers, guiding them, and her discomfiture was no longer an issue as his hands slid to her shoulders and captured her head, forcing her mouth down to his as he initiated a long, slow kiss that heated her veins and heightened her emotions to fever-pitch.
The juncture of her thighs ached, and she almost cried out as he gently exposed the aperture then lowered her against the length of his shaft.
She gained some relief, but not enough, not nearly enough, and a low, guttural moan rose in her throat as he drew her forward and brushed his lips against the soft, aching curve of her breast.

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