Guess who's back!!!! Hey guys it's me Kaci…Sorry for the delay in responding, but for those who didn't know or hadn't heard from Kamryn, I was over in Iraq. Lemme tell you it wasn't pretty and I'm definitely glad to be back home. I would be even better with this cast off my arm and without the use of crutches, but beggars can't be choosers. Anyway I got everyone's messages and thanks for the support, as for the other messages for the alternate story. I'm working on it. Between physical therapy and getting back into my semi-normal routine, I'm totally swamped. I will get to it though, no doubt about it…
A/N: I urge you to reread the first chapter, as I have made a few changes since my return. A change of scenery influenced me to take a different angle to the story…you'll understand as you read along…I'm pretty sure that's everything. Any questions, just comment or email me as per usual. And as always HAPPY READING!!! Kaci
Bargain With The Devil
Summary: Serena's journalist brother was a hostage, and only one man could help him: Sheikh Darien Al-Sayed Shields. He had power and influence at his fingertips--but how could Serena win his support? Darien was way out of her league. His world of wealth and privilege was closed to Serena...Gate-crashing his glamorous cocktail party was the only way of grabbing his attention! But Serena got more than she bargained for...
Chapter 1
Serena put the finishing touches to her make-up, then stood back from the mirror to scrutinize her reflected image. An image she had deliberately orchestrated to attract one man's attention. That it would undoubtedly gain the interest of many men was immaterial.
The dress she'd chosen was fashioned in pink raw silk; its deceptively simple cut emphasized her generously molded breasts and narrow waist, and provided a tantalizing glimpse of silk-clad thigh. Elegant high-heeled shoes completed the outfit.
Bright blonde hair fell past her shoulders in a cascade of layered waves and cosmetic artistry highlighted wide-spaced, sapphire flecked blue eyes, accented a delicate facial bone structure and defined a sensuously curved mouth. Jewelry was kept to a minimum—a slim-line gold watch, bracelet and ear studs.
Satisfied, Serena caught up her evening coat, and collected her purse and exited the hotel suite.
Downstairs the doorman hailed her a taxi with one imperious sweep of his hand, and once seated, she gave the driver a Knightsbridge address, then sank back into a contemplative silence as the vehicle eased into the flow of traffic.
The decision to travel to London had been her own, despite advice from government officials in both Australia and England that there was little to be gained in the shift of location. "Wait," she'd been cautioned, "and allow them to do their job!"
Except she'd become tired of waiting, tired of hearing different voices intoning the same words endlessly day after day. She wanted action. Action that Sheikh Darien Al-Sayed Shields might be able to generate, given that his assistance with delicate negotiations in a similar situation more than a year ago had resulted in the successful release of a hostage.
The slim hope that she might be able to persuade him to use his influence to set her brother free had been sufficient for her to book the next available flight to London and arrange accommodation.
Yet in the two weeks since her arrival Serena's telephone calls had been politely fielded, her faxes ignored. Even boldly turning up at his suite of offices had met with failure. The man was virtually inaccessible, his privacy guarded from unwanted intrusion.
Serena's long standing friendship with Amy Anderson, the daughter of a foreign diplomat, with who she'd attended boarding school, provided the opportunity to meet the Sheikh on a social level. There could be no doubt that without Sir Robert Anderson's help she would never have gained an invitation to tonight's soiree.
The decision to replace Amy with Serena as Sir Anderson's partner had been instigated by a telephone call to the Sheikh's secretary, and had been closely followed by a fax notifying him that Amy had fallen prey to a virulent virus and would not be able to attend. It had gone on to ask if there would be any objection the Serena Tsukino, aged twenty-three, a friend of the long-standing, taking Amy's place. Details for security purposes were supplied. Acknowledgement together with an acceptance had been faxed through the following day.
The taxi cruised through the streets, the glisten of recent rain sparkling beneath the headlights. London in winter was vastly different from the Southern hemispheric temperatures of Australia, and for a moment she thought longingly of bright sunshine, blue skies and the sandy beaches gracing Queensland's tropical coast.
It didn't take long to reach Sir Anderson's elegant, three-storied apartment, and within minutes of paying off the taxi she was drawn into the lounge and handed a glass containing an innocuous mix of lime and lemonade.
"Absolutely wonderful," Amy accorded with genuine admiration for Serena's appearance—a compliment which was endorsed by Sir Anderson.
"Thanks," Serena acknowledge with a slightly abstracted smile.
So much rested on the next few hours. In her mind she had rehearsed precisely how she would act, what she would say, until the imagery almost assumed reality. There could be no room failure.
"I've instructed Melvin to have the car out front at five-thirty," Sir Anderson informed her. "When you have finished your drink, my dear, we will leave."
Serena felt the knot of tension tighten in her stomach, and she attempted to disguise her apprehension as Amy gave her a quick hug.
"Good luck. I'll call you tomorrow and we'll get together and meet for lunch."
Sir Anderson's car was an aged Rolls, the man behind the wheel a valued servant who had been with the Anderson family for so many years that employer and employee had given up trying to remember the number.
"The traffic is light, sir," Melvin 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, Serena noted as they slowed to a halt before a massive set of wrought-iron gates flanked by two security guards.
Melvin 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 Tsukino. Sir Anderson. Good evening."
To the inexperienced eye he appeared to be one of hire 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 Serena 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 paneled front door, and Serena relinquished her coat to him before being led at Sir Anderson's side by a delegated hostess to join the fellow guests in a room that could only have been described as extravagant.
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 Serena's smile was polite as Sir Anderson performed an introduction to the wife of an English earl who had recently presented her husband with a long-awaited son.
Serena 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 halt, arrested by a man whose imposing height and stature set him apart from everyone else in the room.
Sheikh Darien Al-Sayed Shields.
Newspaper photographs and colored prints in the 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 muscled accented a broad bone structure, and his facial features bore the sculpted prominence of inherited genes. Dark, well-groomed hair and slightly tanned 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 formalized outside of 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 Darien had been removed from England by his father and introduced to his Arabian heritage.
Now in his late twenties, Darien Al-Sayed Shields 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 a enemy, Serena perceived wryly. Attired in 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 Darien Shields 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 emphasize 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 mother's Double Crescent photographic studio.
Serena's gaze lingered, her interest entirely professional. Or so she told herself as she observed the slant of Darien Shields' head, the movement of his sensually molded 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.
"Serena."
She turned at the sound of her name and gave Sir Anderson a warm smile.
"Allow me to introduce Ann and Lance Shrewsbery." His voice was so incredibly polite that Serena's eyes held momentary mischief before it was quickly masked. "Serena Tsukino, a valued friend from Australia."
"Australia!" Ann exclaimed in a voice that diminished the country to a position of geographic obscurity. "I'm fascinated. Do you live in a farm out there?"
"Sydney," Serena enlightened politely. "A city with a population in excess of three million." She shouldn't have resorted to wry humor, 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. "Oh my God. Millions?"
"Certainly," Serena replied solemnly. "A plane or helicopter is used to check boundary fences and monitor stock."
Ann suppressed a faint shudder. "All that red dirt, the heat, and the snakes. My dear, I couldn't live there." Red-tipped fingers fluttered in an aimless gesture, matching in color the red-glossed mouth, and in perfection the expensive orthodontic work, and the considerable skill of cosmetic surgery.
Thirty, going on forty-five, married to a wealthy member of the aristocracy, and born to shop, Serena summarized, endeavoring not to be charitable.
"Sir Anderson."
Awareness arrowed through her body at the sound of that smooth, well-educated drawl, and she turned slowly to greet their host.
His shirt was of the finest cotton, his diner suit immaculately tailored to fit his broad frame, and this close she could sense the clean smell of soap mingling with the exclusive tones of his cologne.
Unbidden, her eyes were drawn to his mouth, and she briefly examined its curve and texture, stifling the involuntary query as to what it would be like to have that mouth possess her own. Heaven and hell, a silent voice taunted, dependent on his mood. There was a hint of cruelty apparent, a ruthlessness that both threatened and enticed. A man who held an undeniable attraction for women, she perceived, yet willing to be tamed by very few.
It was almost as if he was able to read her thoughts, for she glimpsed musing mockery in those dark blue eyes—a color that was in direct defiance of nature's genetics, and the only visible feature that gave evidence of his maternal ancestry.
"Miss Tsukino."
"Sheikh Shields," Serena acknowledged formally, aware that his gaze rested fractionally 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 Anderson.
"Amy is unwell, I understand?"
"She asks me to convey her apologies," Sir Anderson offered. "She is most disappointed not to be able to attend this evening."
Darien Shields 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?"
Serena 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 welcomed 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 Anderson queried. "Several of the guests seem to be converging on the buffet."
Serena 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 Anderson 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 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.
Serena took two slices of smoked salmon, added a small serving of three different salads, a scoop of caviar, 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 bother to try.
Sir Anderson 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, cherie? Such a crime."
The accent was unmistakably French, and she moved slightly to allow her view to encompass the tall frame of a man who smiling features bore a tinge of practiced 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.
Serena'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.
"Enchante, cherie." His eyes gleamed darkly as he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. "Seiya 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 holds in France."
"Really?"
He was an amusing diversion, and he was sufficiently astute to appreciate it. "I am quite serious."
"So am I, Seiya," she declared solemnly.
"You make not attempt to acquaint me with your name. Does that 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 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 patter 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," Serena 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 humor. "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 Anderson."
Seiya inclined his head and offered a teasing smile. "Au revoir, cherie."
Her food had remained almost untouched, and she handed the plate to a passing waitress, her appetite gone.
Sir Anderson wasn't difficult to find, although he appeared deep in conversation with a distinguished-looking guest and she was loath to interrupt them.
"Champagne?"
Serena 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' voice was calm as she drew Serena down a wide hallway and into a room that clinically functional. "If you'll remove you're dress I'll apply a cold compress to cool the skin."
Serena 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 organize a robe and have someone take care of your dress."
Minutes later Serena 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 Shields 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—right?
Her scalded flesh stung abominably, despite the hostess' ministration. A wide, raised welt of red skin encompassed much of her midriff and tapered off in the region of her stomach. Even she had been surprised that one cup of hot liquid was capable of covering such an area.
A sound alerted Serena's attention an instant before the door swung inwards. Her eyes widened measurable as Darien Shields stood momentarily in its aperture.
He held a white toweling robe, his features schooled into a fathomless mask, and she shivered, unable to control the slither of apprehension as he moved into the room and closed the door.
Its soft clunking sound was somehow significant, and her hands moved instinctively to cover her chest.
"I suggest you put this on. It would be unfortunate to compound your accident with a chill."
The room suddenly seemed much smaller, his height and breadth narrowing its confines to a degree where she felt stifled and painfully aware of the scarcity of her attire.
Reaching forward, she took the robe and quickly pushed her arms into the sleeves, then firmly belted the ties, only to wince and ease the knot. "Thank you."
"Ruby assures me the burn, while undoubtedly painful, is not serious enough to warrant professional medical attention. Your gown is silk and may not fare well when cleaned. Replace it and send me the bill."
"That won't be necessary," Serena said stiffly.
"I insist." His gaze was startlingly direct, and difficult for her to hold.
"It was a simple accident, and the responsibility is entirely mine," she declared, hating her body's reaction to his presence. It had been bad enough in a room full of people. Alone with him, it was much worse.
His eyes narrowed. "You decline the replacement of an expensive dress?"
"I don't seek an argument with you."
With easy economy of movement he slid one hand into a trouser pocket—an action which parted the superbly tailored dinner jacket and displayed an expanse of snowy white cotton shirt, beneath which it was all too easy to imaging a taut midriff and steel-muscled chest.
"What precisely is it that you do seek, Miss Tsukino?" The words were a quizzical drawl laced with cynicism.
There was an implication, thinly veiled, that succeeded in tightening the muscles supporting her spine. It also lifted her chin and brought a brightness to her eyes.
His smile was totally lacking in humor. "All evening I have been intrigued by the method you would choose to attract my attention." His mouth assumed a mocking slant. "No scenario I visualized included a self-infliction of injury."
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Hehe…one down, a good like 10-plus to go…haha. Soooo, whaddya think????