HELEN BIANCHIN - Desert Mistress

‘Miss Dalton.’

‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed,’ Kristi acknowledged formally, aware that his gaze rested fractionally long on her hair before lowering to conduct a leisurely appraisal of her features.

It was crazy to feel intensely conscious of every single breath, every beat of her pulse. Silent anger lent her eyes a fiery sparkle, and it took considerable effort to mask it. An effort made all the more difficult as she glimpsed his amusement before he turned his attention to Sir Alexander.

‘Georgina is unwell, I understand?’

‘She asks me to convey her apologies,’ Sir Alexander offered. ‘She is most disappointed not to be able to attend this evening.’

Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed inclined his head. ‘It is to be hoped she recovers soon: He moved forward to speak to a woman who showed no reticence in greeting him with obvious affection.

‘Would you care for another drink?’

Kristi felt as if she’d been running a marathon, and she forced herself to breathe evenly as everything in the room slid into focus. The unobtrusive presence of the waiter was a welcome distraction, and she placed her empty glass on the tray. ‘Mineral water, no ice.’ She didn’t need the complication of a mind dulled by the effects of alcohol.

‘Would you like me to get you something to eat, my dear?’ Sir Alexander queried. ‘Several of the guests seem to be converging on the buffet.’

Kristi summoned a warm smile as she linked her hand through his arm. ‘Shall we join them? I’m feeling quite hungry.’ It was a downright lie, but Sir Alexander wasn’t to know that.

There was so much to choose from, she decided minutes later: hot and cold dishes, salads, hot vegetables, delicate slices of smoked salmon, seafood, chicken, turkey, roast lamb, slender cuts of beef. The selection of desserts would have put any of the finest London restaurants to shame, and the delicate ice sculptures were a visual confirmation of the chef’s artistic skill.

Kristi took two slices of smoked salmon, added a small serving of three different salads, a scoop of caviare, then drifted to one side of the room.

How many guests were present tonight? she pondered idly. Fifty, possibly more? It was impossible to attempt a counting of heads, so she didn’t even try.

Sir Alexander appeared to have been trapped by a society matron who seemed intent on discussing something of great importance, given the intensity of her expression.

‘All alone, chérie? Such a crime.’

The accent was unmistakably French, and she moved slightly to allow her view to encompass the tall frame of a man whose smiling features bore a tinge of practised mockery.

‘You will permit me to share a few minutes with you as we eat?’

She effected a faint shrug. ‘Why not? We’re fellow guests.’

‘You are someone I would like to get to know—very well.’ The pause was calculated, the delicate emphasis unmistakable.

Kristi’s French was flawless, thanks to a degree in Italian and French, her knowledge and accent honed by a year spent in each country. ‘I am selective when it comes to choosing a friend—or a lover, monsieur.’ Her smile was singularly sweet. ‘It is, perhaps, unfortunate that I do not intend to remain in London long enough to devote time to acquiring one or the other.’

‘I travel extensively. We could easily meet.’

His persistence amused her. ‘I think not.’

‘You do not know who I am?’

‘That is impossible, as we have yet to be introduced,’ she managed lightly. Perhaps she presented a challenge.

‘Enchanté, chérie.’ His eyes gleamed darkly as he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Jean-Claude Longchamp d’Elseve.’ He paused, head tilted slightly as he waited for an expected reaction. When she failed to comply, his mouth assumed a quizzical slant. ‘I cannot believe you lack the knowledge or the intelligence to be aware of the importance my family hold in France.’

‘Really?’

He was an amusing diversion, and he was sufficiently astute to appreciate it. ‘I am quite serious.’

‘So am I, Jean-Claude,’ she declared solemnly.

‘You make no attempt to acquaint me with your name. Does this mean I am to be rejected?’ The musing gleam in his eyes belied the wounded tone.

‘Do you not handle rejection well?’

His mouth parted in subdued laughter. ‘I am so rarely in such a position, it is something of a novelty.’

‘I’m relieved. I would hate to provide you with an emotional scar.’

He still held her hand, and his thumb traced a light pattern over the veins of her wrist. ‘Perhaps we could begin again. Will you have dinner with me?’

‘The answer is still the same.’

‘It will be relatively easy for me to discover where you are staying.’

‘Please don’t,’ Kristi advised seriously.

‘Why not?’ His shrug was eloquent. ‘Am I such objectionable company?’

She pulled her hand free. ‘Not at all.’ She cast him a slight smile. ‘I simply have a tight business schedule and a full social calendar.’

The edge of his mouth curved in pensive humour. ‘You mean to leave me to another woman’s mercy?’

In different circumstances he might have proved to be an amusing companion. ‘I’m sure you can cope.’

His eyes gleamed with hidden warmth. ‘Perhaps. Although I may choose not to.’

‘Your prerogative,’ she accorded lightly. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I should rejoin Sir Alexander.’

Jean-Claude inclined his head and offered a teasing smile. ‘Au revoir, chérie.’

Her food had remained almost untouched, and she handed the plate to a passing waitress, her appetite gone.

Sir Alexander wasn’t difficult to find, although he appeared deep in conversation with a distinguished-looking guest and she was loath to interrupt them.

‘Champagne?’

Kristi cast the waitress and the tray she carried a fleeting glance. Perhaps she should have a glass to diffuse her nervous tension. Even as the thought occurred, she dismissed it. Coffee, strong black and sweet was what she needed, and she voiced the request, then made her way to the end of the buffet table where a uniformed maid was offering a variety of hot beverages.

Declining milk, she moved to one side and sipped the potent brew. The blend was probably excellent, but she hardly noticed as she steeled herself to instigate a planned action.

Seconds later her cup lay on the carpet, and the scalding liquid seared her midriff. The pain was intense—far more so than she’d anticipated.

‘Oh, my dear, how unfortunate. Are you all right?’ The voiced concern brought attention, and within minutes she was being led from the room by the hostess who had greeted them on arrival.

‘We keep the first-aid equipment in a bathroom next to the kitchen.’ The hostess’s voice was calm as she drew Kristi down a wide hallway and into a room that was clinically functional. ‘If you’ll remove your dress I’ll apply a cold compress to cool the skin.’

Kristi complied, adding a sodden half-slip to the heap of ruined silk, then stood silently as the hostess efficiently dealt with the burn, applied salve, then covered the area with a sterile dressing.

‘I’ll organise a robe and have someone take care of your dress.’

Minutes later Kristi willed the hostess a speedy return, for despite central heating the room was cool, and a lacy bra and matching wispy bikini briefs were hardly adequate covering.

A frown creased her forehead, and she unconsciously gnawed at her lower lip, uneasy now that she had implemented her plan. There was a very slim chance that Sheikh bin Al-Sayed would check on her himself. Yet she was a guest in his home, and courtesy alone should ensure that he enquired as to her welfare—surely?