Читать книгу An Ordinary Girl and a Sheikh: The Sheikh's Unsuitable Bride / Rescued by the Sheikh / The Desert Prince's Proposal - Nicola Marsh, Barbara McMahon - Страница 8

SUMMONED by the commissionaire, Diana was waiting at the kerb as Sheikh Zahir emerged from the hotel. This time he was not alone, but accompanied by a chisel-featured younger man blessed with the kind of cheekbones that could slice cheese.

Since he was the one carrying the laptop, he was, presumably, like her, a member of the ‘bag-carrying’ classes. Although, by the cut of his suit—and his hair—he outranked her by a considerable distance.

There was no mishap this time, probably because Top Hat was on hand to do the honours with the door and no one—not even a small boy—would have dared get in the way of his impressive figure.

The minute her passengers were settled she eased smoothly into the traffic, heading for the South Bank, managing, for once in her life, to remain ‘politely anonymous’.

She had barely finished congratulating herself on this rare accomplishment when Sheikh Zahir said, ‘Metcalfe, this is James Pierce. He’s the man who makes everything work for me. You may, on occasion, be required to ferry him to appointments.’

‘Sir,’ she said, taking his tone from him. She was doing really well until, waiting for the lights to change, she made the mistake of glancing in the mirror and looking straight into his eyes. They did not match his voice. And his expression suggested that he wasn’t fooled for a minute by her lapse into formality and her traitorous mouth let her down and smiled at him. A mistake.

James Pierce, alerted by her response to the fact that she was not Jack Lumley, said, ‘This is outrageous.’ And he was looking at her when he said it.

Actually it couldn’t just be the voice.

She didn’t have one of those cut-glass BBC accents, but her mother had been a stickler for good diction and, apart from the occasional lapse, her speech could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be described as ‘outrageous’.

It had to be the dimple, something she should have grown out of, along with the puppy fat. It was an embarrassment for anyone who expected to be taken seriously. Treated as a grown-up. Old enough to have a driving licence, let alone be behind the wheel of a limousine.

‘When I made the booking with Capitol Cars I specifically requested …’

‘Jack Lumley is sick,’ Sheikh Zahir said, cutting him short.

‘I’ll call Sadie. She must have someone else available.’

Diana couldn’t see James Pierce in the mirror, but from the moment he’d opened his mouth she did not like him and he wasn’t doing one thing to change her mind.

His superior suit went with his attitude. She might be dumb enough to believe that they were on the same side, but he wasn’t buying it. But then a man ‘who makes everything work’ for a billionaire sheikh probably wasn’t.

‘Why would we need someone else?’ Sheikh Zahir intervened. ‘Metcalfe is a—’

Please, please not ‘natural’ she begged silently, as the lights began to change and she had no choice but to check the mirror. He was still looking at her. Only his eyes changed, the rest of his face remained grave; the smile, she realised, was for her alone.

‘—thoroughly competent driver.’

He knew, she thought. He knew exactly what she was thinking and he was teasing her, making her complicit in an intimate conspiracy against the stuffed shirt.

Without warning a warmth, starting somewhere around her abdomen, seeped through every cell of her body until she felt her cheeks begin to flush.

Fortunately, Sheikh Zahir had turned away.

‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those dinosaurs who feel emasculated when driven by a woman, James,’ he said, teasing him a little too.

‘No …’ His reply was unconvincing. ‘No, of course not.’

‘I’m very glad to hear that. As a lawyer, even if your field is corporate law, I know you wouldn’t want to give Metcalfe an excuse to sue the pants off you for sexual discrimination.’

‘I just thought—’

‘I know what you thought, James, but as you are well aware, it’s not a problem.’

He didn’t wait for an answer, but immediately turned his attention to business, launching into some complex legal question regarding a lease.

It was an example she’d be wise to follow, she decided. Flirting through the rear-view mirror with a passenger was definitely not the action of a ‘thoroughly, competent driver’. Quite the contrary.

Someone who was entertaining now …

Oh, stop it!

At the entrance to the Riverside Gallery, she climbed out and opened the door, keeping her eyes front and centre.

James Pierce stepped out of the car and walked past her without a word or a look. The word ‘miffed’ crossed her mind—one of her mother’s favourite words to describe someone who’d had their nose put out of joint.

Sheikh Zahir paused and, realising that she was grinning, she swiftly straightened her face.

‘What will you do until you pick us up, Metcalfe?’

‘I’ve got a book,’ she said quickly. Her message—competent chauffeurs were used to waiting around. They were ready for it.

Not actually true—the kind of jobs she was usually assigned didn’t leave a lot of spare time to catch up on her reading—but he was just being polite and she’d make sure she had one with her tomorrow. Always assuming there was a tomorrow.

Maybe it was time to start brushing up on her Blue Book—the taxi drivers’ bible that listed the shortest runs from a given point to any destination, the ‘Knowledge’ which had to be passed before a “cabbie” could get a licence.

Still he lingered. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t come into the gallery. Have something to eat. You could look at the pictures if the presentation bores you.’

Jolted out of her firm resolve not to make eye contact, she looked up. Swallowed. His smile had progressed to his mouth, tugging at one corner, lifting it a fraction, and something in the region below her ribcage flickered in response, taking her by surprise.

She covered the little gasp with a breathy, ‘Th-thank you.’ Then, firmly resisting the temptation to be led astray for the second time that day—he had chisel-cheeks to carry his bags, after all—she said, ‘I really should …’

‘Stay with the car?’ he finished for her, saving her from wavering.

‘It’s advisable.’ She gave an apologetic little shrug, then nodded in the direction of the gallery, cleared her throat and said, ‘Mr Pierce is waiting for you, sir.’

‘Zahir.’

‘Sir?’

‘Everyone who works for me calls me Zahir. It’s the modern way, I’m told. It’s not a mile away from “sir”, so maybe, if you tried very hard, you might manage it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The smile fading, he nodded, ‘Enjoy your book, Metcalfe.’

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?’

‘Sad?’

‘Pathetic. Dull.’

‘On the contrary. It is the way it should be. Women in my country live under the protection of their families until they’re married.’

Not if they had a five-year-old son and no husband they didn’t, Diana thought as, for a moment, they just looked at one another, confronting the gulf between them.

Zahir knew he should move. Stop this—whatever this was. While he was sitting here flirting with his chauffeur, wanting to do much more, his mother, his sisters, were sifting through the Ramal Hamrah equivalent of the ‘girls in pearls’ to choose his perfect bride …

Even as he urged himself to move, a gust of wind tugged at Metcalfe’s hair, whipping a strand across her face and, acting purely on instinct, he reached out to capture it.

Silk, he thought, as it tangled in his fingers, brushed against his wrist. Chestnut-coloured silk, a perfect counter to the bronze-flecked green of eyes that widened, darkened as he looked down at her, and the temptation to wrap it round his fist and draw her closer almost overwhelmed him. Almost. He was not so lost …

Slowly, taking care not to touch her cheek, he gathered it, then was left with no alternative but to tuck it behind her ear. Her ear, the smooth, fine skin of her neck, undid all his best intentions. The warmth drew him in, held him captive, and he spread his hand to cradle her head.

Until the last second she watched him, eyes wide as a fawn, but the second before his lips met hers she slammed them shut, caught her breath and, for the longest moment in his life, she was rigid, unmoving. Then she melted and kissed him back.

It was the crash of the tray that brought them both to their senses.

Metcalfe jerked away with a little gasp, looking at him for a moment, eyes wide, mouth full and dark, cheeks flushed, everything she was feeling on display. As if she knew, she looked away, glancing down at the tray.

‘Pigeon heaven,’ she said, breaking the silence, as the birds began to snatch at the scattered food.

He wanted to say something, but what? He couldn’t even say her name. Metcalfe wouldn’t do …

‘I have to get back to the gallery,’ he said, getting to his feet.

She nodded. ‘I’ll bring back the tray.’ Then, when he still didn’t make a move, she looked up at him and said, ‘Diana. My name is Diana Metcalfe.’

‘Like the princess?’

‘I’m afraid so. My mother was a fan.’

‘Diana was also a goddess.’

‘I know. It’s really rather more of a name than one very ordinary girl could ever hope to live up to.’ She swallowed. ‘Most people just call me Di.’

‘There’s no such thing as an ordinary girl, Diana. Each person is unique, individual.’ Then, with a touch of anger, ‘The world is full of people ready to keep you in what they perceive to be your place. Don’t give them a head start by doing it to yourself.’

Diana stared at him for a moment, but he hadn’t waited for her answer. With something that was more than a nod, less than a bow, he turned and walked quickly away.

Was he angry with her?

He needn’t bother. Give her a moment to gather her wits, forget a touch that had stirred her to the core, waking feelings, desires she had thought stone dead, and she’d be angry enough for both of them.

As for that stuff about her ‘place’. Easy to say, when your own place in the world was so far above ordinary that you probably needed an oxygen mask.

What did he know about her life?

Single mother at eighteen. And then, just as she might have turned her life around, her father had been disabled by a stroke, leaving her and her mother having to work full-time, run as fast as they could just to keep in the same place. All dreams on hold for the duration.

Tomorrow she’d bring sandwiches and a flask of tea as well as her standard bottle of water—the full ‘chauffeur’ kit—she promised herself, picking up the tray and tossing the remainder of the canapés to the pigeons.

Always assuming Zahir hadn’t given James Pierce the nod to do what he’d wanted from the moment he’d set eyes on her and organise another driver. For both their sakes.

‘Great start, Diana,’ she said to herself. ‘Professional, eh? Well, that’s a joke.’ Cheek and chat were one thing, but kissing the client? ‘Failed on every count.’

Even if he didn’t pull the plug, she knew she should phone Sadie right now and do it for him. But she didn’t. Instead she walked across to the gallery on legs that felt as if they were walking on feathers. Handed the tray over to a waitress, taking care to look neither to left nor right as she headed for the ladies’ to wash her hands.

But when, a few minutes later, she emerged, the first person she saw, through a gap in the crowd, was Zahir. She could have just put her head down and scurried out, but there was not a chance in the world that he would notice her, flirt with her. His attention was totally engaged by a tall, elegant blonde, her long cream-coloured hair twisted up in a simple stylish twist. Not some foolish girl, but a beautiful woman. Not wearing a hideous uniform, but an exquisitely embroidered shalwar kameez, the kind that cost telephone numbers.

As Diana stood there, temporarily mesmerised, the woman smiled and touched his arm in a gesture of casual intimacy. There was a relaxed easiness between them and she didn’t doubt that they knew each other well.

It was as if she’d been slapped on the side of the head, given a reality check.

Sheikh Zahir was a man who would draw beautiful women to him like a magnet. Beautiful women in beautiful clothes, stunningly high-heeled designer shoes.

He’d kissed her because she was there. Because he could. It was what men did. They took what was on offer without a thought, nothing engaged but their hormones.

For heaven’s sake, she only had to look at him to see how it was. Remember the drooling reaction of the assistant in the toy store.

As for her, well, she was undoubtedly giving out all the same signals and he’d responded to them the same way he breathed. Instinctively.

It had happened to her once before and she knew it didn’t mean a thing. Not a thing, she thought, turning away and finding herself face to face with James Pierce.

He glanced across at his boss, then back at her, and, as if he’d known exactly what she was thinking, he gave her a pitying smile and said, ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’

‘Lovely,’ she managed. Then, unable to help herself, ‘Who is she?’

‘His partner.’ Then, while her brain was processing that piece of information, ‘You’d better get back to the car. Sheikh Zahir will be leaving in five minutes.’

She needed no encouragement to leave, escaping into the fresh air where she dragged in steadying breaths as she replaced her hat, her gloves, donning them as if they were armour.

She’d expected the blonde to be with him, but when, a few moments later, Zahir emerged, he was alone but for James Pierce.

‘I’ll leave you to mop up the stragglers, James. I want every one of these people to visit Nadira, experience it firsthand.’

‘I’ve got all but a couple of broadsheet journalists who want to be coaxed but the princess will have them eating out of her hands before they know it.’

The blonde was a princess? Why was she surprised?

‘No doubt. In my absence, will you see Lucy safely to her car?’

‘It will be my pleasure.’ Then, ‘I’ll be on call should Lord …’ James Pierce glanced at her, leaving the name unsaid, making it crystal clear that he doubted her discretion.

‘Thank you, James. I think I can handle any query Lord Radcliffe is likely to raise,’ Zahir replied, demonstrating that he had no such qualms.

Well, he’d kissed her. She was, presumably, at now his beck and call.

‘Berkeley Square, Diana?’ he prompted, as he stepped into the car. ‘Sir,’ she said.

‘Come back and collect me as soon as you’ve dropped off Sheikh Zahir, Metcalfe,’ James Pierce said sharply.

Sheikh Zahir held out a hand, stopping her from closing the door. ‘Take a taxi, James.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Diana said quickly, not wanting to give the stuffed shirt any reason to complain to Sadie, determined to show him that nothing had changed. ‘I’ll only be sitting around, waiting.’ She summoned a smile, the polite variety, for James Pierce. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, Mr Pierce.’

She climbed behind the wheel, started the car and, using her wing mirrors, taxi-driver style, she made her way through London managing to avoid any possibility of eye-contact with her passenger.

And, since she was working strictly to the ‘don’t speak until spoken to’ rule, it was a silent journey since Sheikh Zahir said nothing.

He was probably angry because she’d had the temerity to intervene over his suggestion that James Pierce take a taxi. He probably wasn’t used to anyone arguing with him, although anyone with any sense could see that it had to be more sensible to be doing something, even transporting chisel-cheeks, than just hanging around waiting for him to talk his way through dinner. Or maybe, once kissed, she had joined his personal harem and was now his alone.

‘Tosh, Diana,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘One kiss and you’re losing it …’

And yet he didn’t move to get out of the car by himself when she’d eased around Berkeley Square and pulled up in front of the restaurant.

Was that his way of making the point that it had changed nothing? Or everything?

Apparently neither. He was so far lost in his thoughts as she opened the door that it was obvious he hadn’t even noticed that they’d stopped.

‘What time would you like me to pick you up, sir?’ she asked, taking no chances.

Zahir had spent the journey from the Riverside Gallery gathering his thoughts for the coming meeting. Trying to block out the image, the taste, the scent of the woman sitting in front of him. All it took was a word, a solemn enquiry, to undo all that effort.

‘If you’re not sure, maybe you could call me?’ She took a card from her jacket pocket and offered it to him. ‘When you’ve got to the coffee stage of the evening?’

It was a standard Capitol card. ‘Call you?’

‘That’s the car phone number printed on the front,’ she said. ‘I’ve printed my cellphone number on the back.’

He took the card, still warm from her body, and, to disguise the sudden shake of his fingers, he turned it over and looked at the neatly printed numbers. It was, had always been, his intention to walk back to his hotel. He knew he’d need a little time to clear his head, no matter what the outcome of his meeting. On the point of telling her that she could go home, that she could have gone now if she hadn’t insisted on picking up James, he stopped himself. Sending her home early might make him feel good, but he’d be doing her no favours. On the contrary, he’d be robbing her of three hours’ work at the highest evening rate.

‘Eleven-thirty should do it,’ he said. ‘If there’s a change of plan, I’ll give you a call.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The ‘sir’ jabbed at him. But it wasn’t just the ‘sir’. For the first time since she’d handed him the broken toy outside the airport, she wasn’t quite looking at him. She had her gaze firmly fixed on something just over his right shoulder and it occurred to him that Diana, with considerable grace, was telling him that she understood that his kiss had meant nothing. Giving him—giving them both—the chance to step back. Go back to the beginning. To the moment before an excited child had altered everything.

He could do no less. Acknowledging her tact with the slightest of bows, he said, ‘Thank you, Metcalfe.’