The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (98 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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‘Have you not once considered what your fate might have been if it had been you, and not your brother, who had taken a miscalculated risk and landed in the hands of political dissidents?' Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed queried with dangerous softness as he finished his drink and placed the glass down on a nearby side-table.
Topaz-gold chips glowed deep in her eyes as she subjected him to the full force of a hateful glare. A hand lifted and smoothed a drifting tendril of hair behind one ear. ‘Shane refused to allow me to accompany him.'
‘Something for which you should be eternally grateful,' he stated hardly.
Kristi caught the slight tightening of facial muscles that transformed his features into a hard mask. Impenetrable, she observed, together with a hint of autocratic arrogance that was undoubtedly attributable to his paternal forebears, and which added an element of ruthlessness to his demeanour.
‘It would appear that, although a fool, your brother is not totally stupid.'
‘Don't you dare—'
She halted mid-sentence as Rochelle entered the room unannounced. ‘Hilary is ready to serve dinner.'
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed nodded briefly, and Rochelle exited as soundlessly as she had appeared.
‘You were saying?'
‘You have no reason to insult my brother,' she asserted fiercely.
He smiled, although it didn't reach his eyes. ‘Familial loyalty can sometimes appear blind.' He stood and moved towards her. ‘Shall we go in to dinner?'
‘Kristi tried to bank down her resentment as she vacated the chair. ‘I seem to have lost my appetite:
‘Perhaps you can attempt to find it.'
T
HE dining room was smaller than she'd imagined, although scarcely
small,
with its beautiful antique table and seating for eight, and a long chiffonier. Glassed cabinets housed an enviable collection of china and crystal. Expensive paintings and gilt-framed mirrors adorned the walls, and light from electric candles was reflected in an exquisite crystal chandelier. Several silver-domed covers dominated the table, with its centrepiece of exotic orchids.
Kristi slid into the chair that Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed held out for her, then he moved round to take a seat opposite.
A middle-aged woman with pleasant features busied herself removing covers from the heated platters, then indicated a choice of desserts and the cheeseboard, laid out atop the chiffonier.
With a cheerful smile, Hilary—it had to be Hilary, Kristi surmised—turned toward her employer. ‘Shall I serve the soup?'
‘Thank you, Hilary. We'll manage.'
‘Ring when you require coffee.'
He removed the lid from a china tureen. ‘I trust you enjoy leek and potato soup, Miss Dalton?'
‘Yes.'
He took her plate and ladled out a medium portion before tending to his own.
‘Bon appetit,'
he said with a tinge of mockery, and she inclined her head in silent acknowledgement.
The soup was delicious, and followed by superb beef Wellington with an assortment of vegetables.
‘Wine?'
‘Just a little,' Kristi agreed, motioning for him to stop when the glass was half-filled.
He ate with an economy of movement, his hands broad, with a sprinkling of dark hair, the fingers long, well formed and obviously strong. She could imagine them reining in a horse and manoeuvring the wheel of a rugged four-wheel drive. Gently drifting over the skin of a responsive woman.
Hell,
where did that come from? Her hand paused midway to her mouth, then she carefully returned the fork to rest on her plate. The pressure of the past few weeks, culminating over the last two days, had finally taken its toll. She was going insane. There seemed no other logical explanation for the passage of her thoughts.
‘Can I help you to some more vegetables?'
Her vision cleared, and she swallowed in an endeavour to ease the constriction in her throat. ‘No. Thank you,' she added in a voice that sounded slightly husky.
He had eaten more quickly than she, consuming twice the amount of food.
‘Dessert?'
She settled for some fresh fruit, and followed it with a sliver of brie, observing his choice of apple crumble with cream. The man had a sweet tooth. Somehow it made him seem more human.
‘Shall we return to the lounge for coffee?'
‘Thank you,' she returned politely, watching as he dispensed with his napkin. Kristi did likewise and then stood.
He moved to the door and opened it, ushering her into the hallway.
A host of butterfly wings began to flutter inside her stomach. The past two hours had been devoted to observing the conventions. Now it was down to business. And somehow she had to convince him that she'd use the information she held against him in order to ensure that he would enlist Mehmet Hassan's help in freeing her brother.
‘Make yourself comfortable,' Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed bade her as they entered the lounge, and she watched as he pressed an electronic button beside the wall-switch. ‘Hilary will bring coffee.'
Kristi sank into the same chair she'd occupied on her arrival. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed.' Now that the moment had come, it was costing her more effort than she'd envisaged. ‘Dinner was very pleasant,' she began. ‘But now—'
‘You want to discuss business,' he concluded with a touch of mockery as he took the chair opposite.
‘Yes.'
He placed an elbow on each arm of the chair and steepled his fingers, assuming an enigmatic expression that she couldn't begin to fathom. ‘The ball is in your court, Miss Dalton. I suggest you play it.'
Her eyes were steady, the tip of her chin tilting at a firm angle as she carefully put the metaphorical ball in motion. ‘When do you plan leaving for Riyadh?'
‘Next week.'
The butterfly wings increased their tempo inside her stomach. ‘With your influence I imagine that allows sufficient time to have the necessary sponsorship papers processed.'
‘Indeed.'
So far, so good. ‘Perhaps you could let me have flight details, and any relevant information I need.'
He was silent for several seconds, and the silence seemed to grow louder with each one that passed.
‘The flight details are simple, Miss Dalton. We board a commercial airline to Bahrain, then take my private jet to Riyadh.' He regarded her with an intensity that had the butterfly wings beating a frantic tattoo. ‘Not so simple is the reason for your accompanying me.'
It seemed such a small detail. ‘Why?'
‘My father's third wife and her two daughters live in the palace, each of whom will be wildly curious as to why I have chosen to bring a woman with me.'
Surprise widened her eyes. ‘You're joking. Aren't you?' she queried doubtfully.
‘Since I can avail myself of any woman I choose,' he drawled hatefully, ‘the fact that I have brought one with me will be viewed as having considerable significance—not only by my late father's family, but by several of my friends.' He smiled—a mere facsimile which held an element of pitiless disregard. ‘Tell me, Miss Dalton, would you prefer to be accepted as the woman in my life, or a—' he paused imperceptibly ‘—transitory attraction?'
Hilary chose that moment to enter the room, wheeling a trolley bearing a silver coffee-pot, two cups and saucers, milk, cream and sugar, together with a plate of petit fours.
‘Thank you, Hilary. The meal was superb, as usual,' Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed complimented her while Kristi inwardly seethed with anger. Somehow she managed to dredge up a smile and add to her host's praise. However, the instant that Hilary disappeared out the door she launched into immediate attack.
‘What is wrong with presenting me to your family as a guest?' she demanded heatedly.
His eyes hardened measurably, and she felt the beginnings of unease. ‘I accord Nashwa and her two daughters the respect they deserve. Whenever I visit Riyadh I observe the customs of my father's country for the duration of my stay. As sponsor, I must vouch for your good behaviour while you are in Saudi Arabia, take responsibility for your welfare, and ensure your departure when it is time for you to leave.'
Kristi lifted a hand, then let it fall in a gesture of helpless anger. Her main consideration was Shane, and the influence that Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed could wield with Mehmet Hassan in negotiating her brother's release.
‘OK,' she agreed. ‘I don't particularly like the idea of pretending to be your woman but I'll go along with it.'
He made no comment. Instead, he rose to his feet and proceeded to pour dark, aromatic coffee into the two cups. ‘Milk, cream, or a liqueur?'
‘Black.' She helped herself to sugar, then sipped the strong brew, watching as he did likewise. When she finished she placed her cup and saucer down on a nearby table and stood up. ‘If you could arrange a taxi for me, Sheikh bin Al-Sayed, I'd like to return to my hotel.'
‘Shalef,' he corrected silkily. ‘As we're to be linked together, it will be thought strange if you continue to address me with such formality.' He unfolded his lengthy frame with lithe ease. ‘I'll drive you into the city.'
Why did that cause an immediate knot to form in her stomach? ‘A taxi would be less inconvenient.'
‘To whom?'
She looked at him carefully. ‘To you, of course. An hour's drive each way seems unnecessary at this time of night.'
‘There are several spare bedrooms, any one of which you would be welcome to use.'
The hint of mockery brought a fiery sparkle to her eyes. ‘As long as you're aware it wouldn't be yours.'
One eyebrow slanted. ‘I wasn't aware I implied it might be.'
She drew in a deep breath. ‘I don't find verbal games in the least amusing.'
It was impossible to detect anything from his expression. ‘I'll get your coat.'
Polite civility edged her voice. ‘Thank you.'
In the car she sat in silence, grateful when he activated the stereo system and Mozart provided a soothing background that successfully eliminated the need for conversation.
He drove well, with considerably more speed than his chauffeur. Or had it been his bodyguard? The miles between Berkshire and London diminished quickly, although once they reached the inner city any attempt at swift passage was hampered by computer-controlled intersections and traffic.
Kristi sighted the entrance to her hotel and prepared to alight the instant that Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed brought the car to a halt.
‘Thank you.' Her hand paused on the door-clasp as she turned towards him. It was difficult to fathom his expression. ‘I imagine you'll be in touch with the flight time?'
‘I have been invited to a formal dinner on Saturday evening. I'd like you to accompany me.'
‘Why?' The single query slipped out unbidden, and his eyes hardened slightly.
‘In less than a week you will meet members of my late father's family. It would be preferable if we are seen to share a rapport.'
‘Does it matter?'
‘I consider it does. Be ready at seven.'
She felt the stirrings of resentment. ‘I don't like being given an order.'
‘Are you usually so argumentative?'
‘Only with people who refuse to respect my right to decline an invitation,' she responded coolly.
‘Are you dismissing my request?' His voice was dangerously soft, and despite the car's heating system she felt suddenly cold.
‘No,' she said quietly, ‘merely stating that I prefer to be asked rather than told.' She activated the door clasp and stepped from the car, hearing the refined clunk as she carefully closed the door behind her; then she turned towards the main entrance and made her way into the foyer without a backward glance.
It wasn't until she was inside her suite that she allowed herself the luxury of releasing an angry exclamation.
Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed was beginning to threaten her equilibrium in more ways than one. She didn't like it, any more than she liked him. Nor did she particularly like the idea of partnering him to a formal dinner party. Except she couldn't afford to anger him.
Not yet, a tiny imp inside her taunted with mischievous intent. Not yet.
 
‘Formal' was particularly apt, Kristi reflected with idle interest as she scanned the room's occupants. Twenty-four people sat at the table, and were served cordon bleu courses by uniformed maids and offered finest vintage wines by impeccably suited waiters. Gold-rimmed bone china vied with gleaming silver and sparkling crystal, and the floral centrepieces were a work of art.
Expensive jewellery adorned the fingers of the female guests, and there was little doubt that their gowns were designer originals.
‘Dessert, Miss Dalton? There is a choice of tiramisu, strawberry shortcake, or fresh fruit.'
Although each single course had comprised a small portion, she'd lost count of the courses served and was reluctant to accept yet another. She offered the waitress a faint smile. ‘No, thank you.'
‘You have no need to watch your figure.'
Kristi turned towards the man seated on her left and felt the distinct pressure of his knee against her own. Without any compunction she carefully angled the tip of her slender-heeled shoe to connect with his ankle. ‘I doubt Shalef would appreciate your interest,' she ventured sweetly.
‘Point taken,' he acknowledged with sardonic cynicism. ‘literally.'
Her smile held no sincerity. How much longer before they could leave the table and adjourn to the lounge?
‘Try some of this cheese,' Shalef suggested smoothly as he speared a small segment onto a wafer then offered it to her. His eyes were dark, their expression enigmatic, and her own widened marginally at the studied intimacy of his action.
Kristi's mouth curved slightly in response as she sampled the wafer. ‘Superb,' she acknowledged. She had never doubted that he was dangerous. When he set out to charm, he was positively lethal.
‘Would you like some more?'
‘No. Thanks,' she added.
‘So polite.'
‘Don't amuse yourself at my expense,' she warned in a silky undertone.

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