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She watched him walk away. Still no flowing robes, just the standard male uniform of a dark suit, silk tie, although on Sheikh Zahir, she had to admit, it looked anything but standard.
Zahir.
She’d had the name in her head ever since Sadie had hauled her out of the minibus. Alone, she tried it on her tongue, her lips.
‘Zahir …’
Exotic.
Different.
Dangerous …
She shivered a little as the breeze came off the river, sweeping over the acres of concrete paving.
Snatches of jazz reached her from a party on boat cruising down the river and, despite the chill, she tugged off her gloves and hat and tossed them on to her seat. Then, having locked the car, she walked across to the railing that ran alongside the river, leaning her elbows on it, looking across at the familiar skyline, dominated by the dome of St Paul’s.
Focus, Diana, she told herself. Keep on your toes. This is not the time for playing dangerous games. No first name nonsense with the handsome prince. Fairy tales are for children.
This could be an opportunity to take a step up, earn enough to make your own dream into reality. Don’t mess it up just because the prince has a pair of dark eyes that look at you as if …
Forget if!
She’d done dark and dangerous and wasn’t making the same mistake again.
Freddy, her little boy, was her entire world. His future was in her hands, her duty was to him before anyone.
And, if that didn’t concentrate her mind, then all she’d have to do was remember the way the bank manager had looked at her when she’d done what their seductive advertisements on the television had encouraged her to do and had applied for a loan to buy a cab, start her own business. His four point response:
1 Single mother.
2 No bricks and mortar, not even ones mortgaged to the hilt as collateral.
3 No assets of any kind.
4 No thanks.
He might as well have patted her on the head and told her to run along. At the time she’d been so angry. Had promised herself she’d be back …
Two years later and she was still no closer to impressing him. And if she was idiot enough to lose her head over a sexy smile twice, then she’d only prove that he’d been right.
Zahir finished his brief presentation to the gathering of tour operators and travel journalists and was immediately buttonholed by the CEO of a top-of-the-range tour company, who was examining the display of photographs and the architect’s model of the Nadira Resort.
‘This is an interesting concept, Zahir. Different. Exactly the sort of thing our more discerning travellers are looking for. I imagine it’s going to be expensive?’
‘Reassuringly so,’ he said, knowing it was what the man wanted to hear. ‘Why don’t you talk to James? He’s organising a site visit and we’d love to show you what we’re offering.’
Zahir moved on, shaking hands, answering questions, issuing personal invitations to the hand-picked group of travel journalists and tour operators as he went.
Then the woman he was talking to moved to one side to let a waitress pass and he found himself looking straight out of one of the gallery’s tall, narrow windows. The car was still there, but Metcalfe was nowhere to be seen.
No doubt she was curled up on the back seat with her book. Maybe he could catch her out, watch as, blushing with confusion, she scrambled to straighten that ridiculous hat.
He’d enjoy that.
But she wouldn’t.
Metcalfe.
He’d offered his name, hoping for hers in return. She’d known it too and, wisely, had taken a step back from his implicit invitation to become something more than his driver. Well aware that, whatever ‘more’ he was offering, it wasn’t going to be something she would be interested in. And how could he tell her that she was wrong when he didn’t know himself what that was?
Or maybe he was fooling himself. They both knew. Had both responded to that instant, unfathomable chemistry …
Maybe James was right after all. Lumley might be dull but he wasn’t distracting. He wouldn’t have given a moment’s thought about how he’d spend his time in the gaps between engagements. He certainly wouldn’t have asked him to come into the gallery, been eager to show him what he was doing. Talk about his plans …
‘Is your neutral energy target realistic, Sheikh Zahir?’ the woman prompted. ‘Really?’
‘We’re fortunate that solar energy is a year-round resource in Ramal Hamrah, Laura,’ he said, forcing himself to concentrate on the job in hand. He’d taken the time and trouble to memorize the names and faces of the people he was to meet. ‘I do hope you’ll come and see for yourself.’
‘Well, that’s the other problem, isn’t it? How can you justify expanding your tourist industry at a time when air travel is being cited as a major cause of carbon emission?’
‘By developing a new kind of airline?’ he offered with a smile. Then, remembering Metcalfe’s wry comment when he’d done the same thing in the toy store, regretted it. With a glance, he summoned James to his side. ‘James, Laura Sommerville is the Science Correspondent for The Courier …’
‘Laura …’ James smoothly gathered her up, enabling Zahir to excuse himself.
He tried not to look at his watch.
He was tiring of this kind of public relations exercise. His dreams were bigger these days. He was happier in the background, planning for the future. He had to find someone else to be the public face of this part of the business so that he could take a step back. Someone capable of fuelling the buzz of interest that would give his pet project wings.
Or maybe his desire to be somewhere else had less to do with ennui, more to do with wanting to be with someone else, he thought, doing his best not to snatch another glance out of the window. And failing.
Maybe it had everything to do with his unexpected, his unusual, his very lovely young chauffeur.
Distracted by a movement near the river, he saw that, far from being curled up with a book, Metcalfe was standing at the riverside railing, watching the lights come on across the river as dusk gathered. Hatless, her hair had been whipped loose by the breeze and, arms raised, she was attempting to twist it back into a knot …
A waitress paused in front of him with a tray, cutting off his view, and he moved to one side so that he did not lose sight of her as her jacket lifted, her shirt parted company with her waistband and she bared an inch of skin.
‘Canapé, sir?’
‘Sorry?’
Then, registering what the waitress had said, he looked at her. Looked at the tray.
‘Thank you,’ he said and, having taken the tray, he headed for the door.
‘Some watchdog you are, Metcalfe. Anyone could have driven off with your precious car.’
Diana, who, despite all her best efforts, had been thinking about this extraordinarily beautiful man who’d invaded her thoughts, her life, jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice.
‘They could try,’ she said. ‘Of course, if they got past the locks and the alarm, there is still the global positioning gizmo.’
‘Those gizmos will get you every time,’ he said, joining her at the rail. Then, ‘So why didn’t you come into the gallery?’
‘Mr Pierce would not have approved,’ she said, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the north bank of the Thames. ‘Besides, this view is more interesting than a load of old paintings.’
‘“… all that mighty heart …”’ he prompted.
‘Wordsworth had it nailed, didn’t he?’ Unable to help herself, she glanced at him. ‘How many Englishmen could quote an Arabic poet, I wonder?’ Then, before he could embarrass them both by answering, ‘Did the party end prematurely?’
‘No, it’s in full swing.’
‘Oh.’ He’d come out to see her. She looked at the tray. He’d brought her food? ‘Does Mr Pierce know you’ve escaped?’ ‘Escaped?’
‘You are the star attraction?’
‘On the contrary, the Nadira Resort is the star of the show. Besides, I distracted James with a serious young journalist who doubts my probity.’
‘Why?’
He offered her the tray. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’
She stared at it for a moment, then, with a little shake of her head, said, ‘No, why does she doubt your probity? Whatever that is.’
‘Maybe integrity is a better word.’ Then, ‘You know journalists. Natural cynics.’
‘That’s one word for it.’ Then, ‘Why would she believe James Pierce and not you?’
‘She won’t. His job is to persuade her to come to Nadira and see the resort for herself.’
A smile from him would have been enough, she thought. One of his smiles could get him anything he wanted …
‘Cynicism pays, then. Nice work …’ she said, pushing the thought away. Not anything. Not her snow globe. Not her. ‘If you’d said you were handing out free holidays, even I might have been …’
Tempted.
She left the word unspoken, but they both knew what she had been going to say. Embarrassed, she focused on the selection of canapés laid out on the tray—all the temptation she was prepared to indulge in.
‘These look good enough to eat,’ she said.
‘Help yourself.’
The words sounded … loaded. An invitation to do more than take one of the exquisite little savouries. She forced herself to take the words literally. She wasn’t hungry, but filling her mouth with food would at least prevent her from saying anything she’d regret.
Saying anything.
The small pastry she took exploded in her mouth, leaving a soft, warm centre of cheese. She wasn’t totally acting when she groaned with pleasure.
‘Have you tried one of those?’
‘Should I?’ Zahir asked seriously.
‘Yes … No! Definitely not. You should leave them all for me and go back to your party.’
He took one, tried it for himself. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said, sucking a dribble of cheese from the pad of his thumb, leaving a crumb clinging to his lower lip, drawing quite unnecessary attention to it.
It was all she could do to stop herself from reaching up and wiping it away with her fingers.
Nothing in the world could prevent her from imagining doing it.
‘Why don’t we take this over to that bench?’ he suggested. ‘If we’re going to do this justice we need to sit down.’ Then, ‘I should have brought us something to drink.’
‘Us? Excuse me, but won’t you be missed?’
‘You want all this for yourself, is that it?’ The words were serious, his expression anything but, and she laughed. It was so easy to laugh when he looked at her like that.
‘You’ve got me bang to rights, guv,’ she said.
‘Help yourself. I’ve still got dinner to get through.’
He didn’t sound particularly excited by the prospect of dining at one of London’s most exclusive restaurants.
‘I wouldn’t have thought that was exactly a strain.’
‘Fine food ruined by high finance. A recipe for indigestion.’
‘That’s what you get for mixing business with pleasure.’
‘How wise you are, Metcalfe. What a pity the money men aren’t as sensible.’
‘I guess they take the view that time is money, so doing two things at once is earning them twice as much.’
‘Especially if they’re not paying for dinner.’
‘Good point.’
He set the tray down, waited for her to sit and, having apparently debated with himself for a moment, sat on the far side of it so that it was between them. She couldn’t decide if she was relieved or disappointed …
‘I love this view, don’t you?’ Zahir said, saving her from having to admit to disappointment. ‘So much history packed into every square metre.’
‘You’ve spent a lot of time in London?’
‘Too much,’ he admitted cheerfully as he leaned back and stretched out his long legs. ‘I was at school just up the river.’
‘Really? Me, too.’ Then, catching on to exactly which school ‘up the river’ he was talking about, she said, ‘Obviously, in my case, it wasn’t Eton, but the local comprehensive. In Putney.’
‘Is that where you live now?’
‘Mmm.’ She stuffed in another taste sensation—this time something involving smoked salmon and sour cream—and shrugged. ‘Twenty-three years old and still living at home,’ she said, brushing the crumbs from her fingers. ‘How sad can you get?’
