lifted his tumbler and took a long draught of his own drink. ‘A concise journalistic account.’ His eyes speared hers, dark and relentless beneath the slightly hooded lids. ‘Words which can’t begin to convey several of the offbeat assignments you were contracted to undertake.’
‘Photographs, even video coverage, don’t adequately express the horror of poverty, illness and famine in some Third World countries. The hopelessness that transcends anger, the acceptance of hunger. The utter helplessness one feels at being able to do so little. The impossibility of distancing yourself from the harsh reality of it all, aware that you’re only there for as long as it takes to do your job, before driving a Jeep out to the nearest airstrip and boarding a cargo shuttle that transports you back to civilisation, where you pick up your life again and attempt to pretend that what you saw, what you experienced, was just a bad dream.’
‘Until the next time.’
‘Until the next time,’ Kristi echoed.
He surveyed her thoughtfully for several long seconds. ‘You’re very good at what you do.’
She inclined her head and ventured, with a touch of mockery, ‘But you can’t understand why I failed to settle for freelancing and filling the society pages, in a photographic studio, as my parents did.’
‘The lack of challenge?’
Oh, yes. But it had been more than that—a great deal more. The photographic studio still operated, as a mark of respect for their parents, run by a competent photographer called Annie who doubled as secretary. It was an arrangement which worked very well, for it allowed Kristi freedom to pursue international assignments.
‘And a desire to become your brother’s equal.’
She digested his words, momentarily intrigued by a possibility that had never occurred to her until this man had voiced it. ‘You make it sound as if I wanted to compete against him,’ she said slowly, ‘when that was never the case.’
‘Yet you have chosen dangerous locations,’ he pursued, watching the play of emotions on her expressive features.
Her eyes assumed a depth and dimension that mirrored her inner feelings. ‘I don’t board a plane and flit off to the other side of the world every second week. Sometimes there are months in between assignments, and I spend that time working out of the studio, attending social events, taking the society shots, sharing the family-portrait circuit with Annie.’ She paused momentarily. ‘When I undertake an assignment I want my work to matter, to encapsulate on film precisely what is needed to bring the desired result.’ The passion was clearly evident in her voice, and there was a soft tinge of pink colouring her cheeks. ‘Whether that be preserving a threatened environmental area or revealing the horrors of deprivation.’
‘There are restrictions imposed on women photographers?’
It was a fact which irked her unbearably.
‘Unfortunately feminism and equality in the workforce haven’t acquired universal recognition.’
‘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.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE 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
