Sir Alexander informed her. ‘When you have finished your drink, my dear, we will leave.’
Kristi felt the knot of tension tighten in her stomach, and she attempted to disguise her apprehension as Georgina gave her a swift hug.
‘Good luck. I’ll ring you tomorrow and we’ll get together for lunch.’
Sir Alexander’s car was an aged Rolls, the man behind the wheel a valued servant who had been with the Harrington family for so many years that employer and employee had given up trying to remember the number.
‘The traffic is light, sir,’ Ralph intoned as he eased the large vehicle forward. ‘I estimate we will reach the Sheikh’s Berkshire manor in an hour.’
It took precisely three minutes less, Kristi noted as they slowed to a halt before a massive set of wrought-iron gates flanked by two security guards.
Ralph supplied their invitation and sufficient proof of identity, then, as the gates swung open, he eased the Rolls towards the main entrance where they were greeted by yet another guard.
‘Miss Dalton. Sir Harrington. Good evening.’
To the inexperienced eye he appeared to be one of the hired help. Given the evening’s occasion, there was a valid reason for the mobile phone held in one hand. Yet the compilation of information that Kristi had accumulated about his employer left her in little doubt that there was a regulation shoulder-holster beneath his suit jacket, his expertise in the field of martial arts and marksmanship a foregone conclusion.
A butler stood inside the heavily panelled front door, and Kristi relinquished her coat to him before being led at Sir Alexander’s side by a delegated hostess to join fellow guests in a room that could only have been described as sumptuous.
Gilt-framed mirrors and original works of art graced silk-covered walls, and it would have been sacrilege to suggest that the furniture was other than French antique. Multi-faceted prisms of light were reflected from three exquisite crystal chandeliers.
‘I’ll have one of the waiters bring you something to drink. If you’ll excuse me?’
An elaborate buffet was presented for personal selection, and there were several uniformed waitresses circling the room, carrying trays laden with gourmet hors d’oeuvres.
Muted background music was barely distinguishable beneath the sound of chattering voices, and Kristi’s smile was polite as Sir Alexander performed an introduction to the wife of an English earl who had recently presented her husband with a long-awaited son.
Kristi scanned the room idly, observing fellow guests with fleeting interest. Black dinner suit, crisp white cotton shirt and black bow-tie were de rigueur for the men, and her experienced eye detected a number of women wearing designer gowns whose hair and make-up bore evidence of professional artistry.
Her gaze slid to a halt, arrested by a man whose imposing height and stature set him apart from everyone else in the room.
Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed.
Newspaper photographs and coloured prints in the pages of glossy magazines didn’t do him justice, for in the flesh he exuded an animal sense of power—a physical magnetism that was riveting.
An assemblage of finely honed muscle accented a broad bone structure, and his facial features bore the sculpted prominence of inherited genes. Dark, well-groomed hair and olive skin proclaimed the stamp of his paternal lineage.
Information regarding his background gleaned from press releases depicted him as the son of an Arabian prince and an English mother—a woman who, it was said, had agreed to an Islamic wedding ceremony which had never been formalised outside Saudi Arabia, and after a brief sojourn in her husband’s palace had fled back to England where she’d steadfastly refused, despite giving birth to a much coveted son, to return to a country where women were subservient to men and took second place to an existing wife.
Yet the love affair between the Prince and his English wife had continued to flourish during his many visits to London, until her untimely death, whereupon the ten-year-old Shalef had been removed from England by his father and introduced to his Arabian heritage.
Now in his late thirties, Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed had won himself international respect among his peers for his entrepreneurial skills, and in the years since his father’s demise his name had become synonymous with immense wealth.
A man no sensible person would want as an enemy, Kristi perceived wryly. Attired in a a superbly cut evening suit, there was an elemental ruthlessness beneath his sophisticated façade.
As if some acute sense alerted him to her scrutiny, he lifted his head, and for a few timeless seconds his eyes locked with hers.
The room and its occupants seemed to fade to the periphery of her vision as she suffered his raking appraisal, and she was unable to control the slow heat coursing through her veins. Intense awareness vibrated from every nerve cell, lifting the fine body hairs on the surface of her skin.
No man of her acquaintance had made her feel so acutely vulnerable, and she found the sensation disconcerting. Had it been any other man, she would have displayed no interest and openly challenged his veiled evaluation. With Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of doing so.
For one split second she glimpsed lurking cynicism in his expression, then his attention was diverted by a man who greeted him with the earnest deference of the emotionally insecure.
The study of body language had been an integral part of her training as a photographer, inasmuch as she’d consciously chosen to emphasise the positive rather than the negative in the posed, still shots that had provided her bread and butter in the early days of her career in her parents’ Double Bay photographic studio.
Kristi’s gaze lingered, her interest entirely professional. Or so she told herself as she observed the slant of Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed’s head, the movement of his sensually moulded mouth as he engaged in polite conversation, the piercing directness of his gaze. To the unwary he appeared totally relaxed, yet there was tensile steel apparent in his stance, a silent strength that was entirely primitive. And infinitely dangerous.
A feather of fear pricked the base of her neck and slithered slowly down the length of her spine. As an enemy he would be lethal.
‘Kristi.’
She turned at the sound of her name and gave Sir Alexander a warm smile.
‘Allow me to introduce Annabel and Lance Shrewsbury.’ His voice was so incredibly polite that Kristi’s eyes held momentary mischief before it was quickly masked. ‘Kristi Dalton, a valued friend from Australia.’
‘Australia!’ Annabel exclaimed in a voice that diminished the country to a position of geographical obscurity. ‘I’m fascinated. Do you live on a farm out there?’
‘Sydney,’ Kristi enlightened her politely. ‘A city with a population in excess of five million.’ She shouldn’t have resorted to wry humour, she knew, but she couldn’t help adding, ‘The large farms are called stations, each comprising millions of acres.’
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Good heavens. Millions?’
‘Indeed,’ Kristi responded solemnly. ‘A plane or helicopter is used to check boundary fences
