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 9

FOR the briefest moment Diana met his gaze. For the briefest moment he saw something in her eyes that made him forget the powerful men who were waiting for him, forget his precious airline. All he felt was a rush of longing, an overwhelming need to stop Diana from driving away, climb back into the car beside her and take her somewhere quiet, intimate, where their separate worlds, his and hers, did not exist. But to what purpose?

For her smile? To watch it appear, despite every attempt she made to control it?

To listen to her, enjoy conversation that had no ulterior purpose. No agenda.

She might laugh, blush, even share a kiss, but with that swift return to ‘sir’ she had recognised the gulf between them even if he, in a moment of madness, had chosen to ignore it. She knew—they both knew—that in the end all they could ever share was a brief intimacy that had no future. Kind enough to take a step back, pretend that it had never happened, when a more calculating woman would have seen a world of possibilities.

Selling a kiss-and-tell sheikh-and-the-chauffeur story to one of the tabloids would have paid for her dream twice over. That sparkly pink taxi for weekdays and something really fancy for Sunday. And he knew all about dreams …

If she could do that for him, why was he finding it such a problem to do it for himself?

It wasn’t as if he was in the habit of losing his head, or his heart, over a sweet smile.

He might have a streak of recklessness when it came to business, even now be prepared to risk everything he’d achieved. But he’d been far more circumspect in his personal life, taking care to keep relationships on a superficial level, with women who played by the same rules he did—have fun, move on—who understood that his future was written, that there was no possibility of anything deeper, anything permanent between them. Who would not get hurt by a light-hearted flirtation.

Diana Metcalfe was not one of those women.

And he did not feel light-hearted.

Yet, even when he recognised the need for duty before pleasure, he still wanted to hear his name on her lips, wanted to carry her smile with him. Couldn’t rid himself of the scent of her skin, the sweet taste of her that lingered on his lips, a smile than went deeper the more he looked, a smile that faded to a touch of sadness.

He’d need all his wits about him this evening if he was going to pull off the biggest deal of his career to date and all he could think about was what had made the light go out of her eyes. Who had made the light go out of her eyes …

And, on an impulse, he lifted the card he was still holding, caught a trace of her scent. Nothing that came from a bottle, but something warm and womanly that was wholly Diana Metcalfe.

He stuffed it into his pocket, out of sight, dragged both hands through his hair, repeating his earlier attempt to erase the tormenting thoughts. He should call James right now and tell him to contact the hire company and ask them to provide another driver for tomorrow. Maybe, if she was out of sight, he could put her out of his mind.

But even that escape was denied him.

His first mistake, and it had been entirely his, was not to have kissed her, not even to have allowed himself to be distracted by her; he’d have to have been made of wood not to have been distracted by her. His first mistake had been to talk to her. Really talk to her.

He’d talked to Jack Lumley, for heaven’s sake, but he’d known no more about the man after a week in his company than he had on day one.

Diana didn’t do that kind of polite, empty conversation.

He’d said she was a ‘natural’, but she was more than that. Her kind of natural didn’t require quotation marks. Diana Metcalfe was utterly unaffected in her manner. Spoke first, thought second. There was no fawning to please. None of the schooled politeness that the Jack Lumleys of this world had down to a fine art.

He wouldn’t, couldn’t, ruin her big chance, send her back to the ‘school run’ when she’d done nothing wrong.

He was the one breaking all the rules and he was the one who’d have to suffer.

Maybe an evening brokering the kind of financial package required to launch an airline would have much the same effect as a cold shower, he thought as he watched the tail lights of the car disappear.

Or maybe he just needed to get a grip.

‘Excellency.’ The maître a” greeted him warmly as he led the way to a private dining room, booked for this very discreet dinner. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘And you, Georges.’

But as he followed him up the wide staircase he deliberately distanced himself from this international, cosmopolitan world. Reminded himself with every step of his own culture, his own future. Demonstrated it by enquiring after the man’s family, his wife, not as he’d learned to do in the west, but in the Arab manner, where to mention a man’s wife, his daughters, would be an insult.

‘How are your sons?’ he asked, just as his father, his grandfather would have done.

Diana drove back to the yard, filled in her log, wrapped the shattered remains of the snow globe in a load of newspaper before disposing of it. Vacuum cleaned the inside of the car.

Even managed a bite of the sandwich she’d picked up at the local eight-’til-late.

But keeping her hands busy did nothing to occupy her brain. That was away with the fairies and would keep reliving that moment when he’d kissed her and, for just a moment, she’d felt like a princess.

Zahir had wanted to send Diana away, had planned to call at eleven and tell her to go home, but somehow the moment had passed and when, leaving the restaurant, he saw her waiting for him, he knew that his subconscious had sabotaged his good intentions. And could not be anything but glad.

It wasn’t solitude he needed at this moment, but the company of someone with whom he could share his excitement. Someone who had a smile that reached deep inside him and heated him to the heart.

‘You’ve had a long day, Metcalfe. Can you spare another five minutes?’

‘Yes … Yes, of course. Where do you want to go?’

‘Nowhere. Will you walk around the square with me?’

Maybe he’d got the formula right this time, or maybe she caught something of the excitement he’d had to suppress in the presence of the financiers, but which was now fizzing off him. Whatever it was, she clicked the key fob to secure the car and fell in beside him.

‘There are no stars,’ he said, looking up. ‘The light pollution in London robs you of the sky. If we were in the desert the night would be black, the stars close enough to touch.’

‘It sounds awesome.’ Then, as he glanced at her, ‘I meant …’

‘I know what you meant,’ he said. She wasn’t using teenage slang, but using the word as it was meant to be used. ‘And you’re right. It’s empty. Cold. Clean. Silent but for the wind. It fills a man with awe. Reminds him how small he is. How insignificant.’

‘Did your meeting not go well?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Better than I could ever have imagined.’ A rare take-it-or-leave-it arrogance had carried him through dinner tonight. He’d cut through the waffle and, refusing to play the games of bluff and counter-bluff, had gone straight to the bottom line, had told them what he wanted, what he was prepared to offer. Maybe his passion had convinced them. ‘Beyond the four of us at dinner tonight, you are the first to know what the world will hear two days from now. That Ramal Hamrah is about to have its own airline.’

‘Oh.’ Then, ‘That is big.’

‘Every deal is big, only the numbers change.’ Then, looking down at her, ‘When you buy your pink taxi it will be huge.’

‘It’ll be a miracle,’ she said with feeling, ‘but, if it ever happens, I promise you that I’ll look up at the stars and remind myself not to get too big for my boots.’

He took her arm as they crossed the road and, when they reached the safety of the footpath, he tucked it safely beneath his before once more looking up at the reddish haze of the sky and said, ‘Not in London, Metcalfe.’ For a moment she’d frozen, but maybe his use of her surname reassured her and, as she relaxed, he moved on. ‘I suppose you could go to the Planetarium.’

‘Not necessary. In London you don’t look up to see the stars. You look down.’ He frowned and she laughed. ‘Didn’t you know that the streets of London aren’t paved with gold, they’re paved with stars.’

‘They are?’

He looked down and then sideways, at her. ‘Obviously I’m missing something.’

‘We’re in Berkeley Square?’ she prompted. ‘And?’

‘You’ve never heard the song?’ She shook her head. ‘Why would you? It’s ancient.’

Berkeley Square … Something snagged in his memory, a scratchy old record his grandfather used to play. ‘I thought it was about a nightingale.’

‘You do know it!

‘I remember the tune.’ He hummed a snatch of it and she smiled.

‘Almost,’ she said, laughing. ‘But it’s not just the nightingale. There’s a line in there about stars too.’ She lifted her shoulders in an awkward little shrug. ‘My dad used to sing it to my mum,’ she said, as if she felt she had to explain how she knew. ‘They used to dance around the kitchen …’

‘Really?’ He found the idea enchanting. ‘Like this?’ And as he turned his arm went naturally to her waist. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Sing …’ he commanded.

Diana could not believe this was happening. There were still people about—Zahir’s kind of people, men in dinner jackets, women in evening clothes—heading towards the fashionable nightclubs in the area to celebrate some special occasion. Laughing, joking, posing as someone took photographs with a camera phone.

Maybe if she’d been dressed in a glamorous gown she wouldn’t have felt so foolish. But in her uniform …

‘Don’t!’ she begged, but Zahir caught her hand and, humming, began to spin her along the footpath. ‘Zahir …’ Then, ‘For heaven’s sake, that’s not even the right tune!’

‘No? How does it go?’

Maybe his excitement, his joy, were infectious, but somehow, before she knew it, she was singing it to him, filling gaps in the words with ‘da-da-de-dum’s and he was humming and they were dancing around Berkeley Square to a song that was old when her parents had first danced to it. A song in which the magic of falling in love made the impossible happen. Made London a place where angels dined, where nightingales sang and where the streets were paved with stars.

Dancing as if they were alone in the universe and the streets truly were paved with stars.

It was only when she came to the end of the song that she realised they had stopped dancing, that they were standing by the car. That Zahir was simply holding her.

That what she wanted more than anything in the world was for him to kiss her again.

And as if reading her thoughts, he raised her hand to his lips, before tilting his head as if listening to something very faint.

‘Can you hear it?’ he murmured. ‘The nightingale.’

It was a question that asked more than whether she could, impossibly, hear a shy woodland bird singing in a London square.

It took every atom of common sense to ignore the soft touch of his breath against her cheek, his fingers still wrapped about hers, his hand warm against her waist. To ignore the magic of the nightingale’s sweet song filling her heart.

It took Freddy’s voice saying, ‘Will you be home before I go to bed, Mummy?’ The memory of her promise, ‘I’ll be there when you wake up.’

‘No, sir,’ she managed, her voice not quite her own. ‘I think you’ll find that’s a sparrow.’

And with that she shattered the fragile beauty of the moment and the danger passed. He took a step back and said, with the gravest of smiles, ‘I forgot, Metcalfe. You don’t believe in fairy stories.’

For a moment she wanted to deny it. Instead, she said, ‘Neither, sir, do you.’

‘No.’ He repeated the touch of his lips to her finger and, without a word, turned and began to walk away. What?

‘Sir!’ He did not seem to hear her. ‘Where are you going?’ Then, in desperation, ‘Zahir!’

Without stopping, without turning, he said, ‘Go home, Metcalfe. I’ll walk back to the hotel.’

‘But …’

He stopped. Looked up to a sky fogged with neon. But? But what? What was she thinking? As if in answer to her unspoken question, he turned and, as their eyes met, she knew ‘what’. She’d always known.

She’d been here before and the raw power of the heat-charged look that passed between them scared her witless.

She’d had the sense to take a step back and then, as if seized by a determination to destroy herself all over again, she’d undone it all with that ‘but’.

And she had no excuse. She wasn’t an eighteen-year-old with her head in the clouds and her brains in cold storage. At eighteen there was some excuse. At twenty-three, with her reputation rebuilt, responsibilities …

She was fooling herself.

This was desire at its most primitive. The atavistic urge that powered all of creation. Age, experience, counted for nothing. There was no immunity …

‘But?’ Zahir finally prompted, his voice as soft as thistledown.

Without thought she’d reached out to him. Her hand was still extended, as if imploring him to come back. Finish what he’d started.

Slowly, deliberately, she closed her hand, but somehow it stayed there and he took a step towards her.

Maybe the movement broke the spell. Maybe age did help, because she swung her arm wildly towards the far corner of the square. ‘You’re going the wrong way,’ she said. ‘You need Charles Street. Then, um, Queen Street. Then Curzon Street.’

‘That’s out of the taxi drivers’ handbook, is it?’

‘Yes. No …’ Her eyes were still locked on to his. She could scarcely breathe. ‘Queen Street is one-way. I’d … a taxi … would have to cut along Erfield Street.’

Zahir gently took her arm, opened the driver’s door of the car and said, ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Diana. Ten o’clock.’

Zahir stood back as she climbed into the limo, fumbled to get the key in the ignition and, after what seemed like an age, drove away. Only then did he let loose the breath he seemed to have been holding for ever.

He’d only met the woman a few hours ago and yet it was as if he’d been waiting for her all his life. She was the one who made him laugh, made him dance. Made him want to sing.

Walking through the quiet streets, he should have been concentrating on the future, plans that had been a year in the making. Instead it was Diana Metcalfe who filled his head, heated him to the heart, made nightingales sing in the heart of London.

Her father was dozing in front of the television, not conspicuously waiting for his little girl to come home, but he never went to bed until he knew she was safely in. As a teenager it had driven her mad. It still did but, a mother herself, these days Diana understood the need to know that your family was safe before you could rest. ‘Busy day?’ he asked.

‘Above average,’ she said, managing a grin as she peeled off her jacket. ‘An outbreak of food poisoning meant that I had the number one car and a sheikh.’ About whom the least said the better. Her father could read her like a book. ‘Did you manage okay?’ she asked, by way of diversion. ‘Freddy wasn’t too much for you?’

‘He was as good as gold. He’s spark out, bless him.’ He eased himself to his feet, limped into the kitchen, turning on the tap with his left hand, then holding the kettle beneath it. She wanted to say, Sit down … let me … but understood that his self-esteem was involved. Knew that the more he did, the better it was for his mobility. Her need, his determination, to look after Freddy for her had done more for his recovery from the stroke than all the months of phsyio. Had given him a reason to push himself to be mobile. ‘What’ll you have? Tea, chocolate?’

All she wanted was to get to her room, shut the door, be on her own so that she could unravel the emotional tangle she’d got herself in, get her head around it, but her father looked forward to hearing about her day. ‘Chocolate, if you’ll have some with me. Has Mum gone up?’

‘Hours ago. She was rushed off her feet at the shop today, doing the flowers for some fancy society wedding. She looked whacked out.’

‘She could do with a holiday,’ Diana said, trying not to envy all those journalists and tour operators, being whisked away, first class on Sheikh Zahir’s magic carpet. ‘Maybe we could all go somewhere when school breaks up.’

‘You should be going on holiday with people your own age,’ he said, then looked away.

‘I don’t think Freddy would fit in with an eighteen-thirty package, do you?’ she joked, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

‘We’d look after him. You need to get out more. Get a life.’

‘Freddy is my life,’ she said.

‘Di—’

‘How’s the Test Match going?’ she asked.

Once launched on the safer subject of cricket, her father’s passion, all she had to do was say ‘absolutely’ in all the appropriate places while he gave her chapter and verse on the weaknesses in the England team, the poor eyesight of the umpires, the quality of the wicket, while she drank her chocolate. Then, having rinsed her mug, she dropped a kiss on his balding head.

‘Tell Mum that I’ll see to Freddy in the morning. I don’t have to go in until nine. Don’t stay up too late,’ she chided, playing up to the pretence that he’d stayed up to watch something he wanted to see on the television, rather than because he was waiting for her to come home.

She looked in on Freddy, straightened the cover that had slipped from his shoulders, lightly touching his dark curls. Five years old and already a heartbreaker, just like the man who’d fathered him.

‘Night, angel,’ she murmured, picking up the snowstorm that sat on his bookshelf. The snowflakes stirred, but she didn’t shake it, just returned it to its place. ‘Sleep tight.’

Safe in her own room, she sat on the bed, opened the drawer of her night table and took out the little box in which she kept her treasures. At the bottom was a photograph taken at a party. Just a bunch of people turning as someone had called out ‘smile’. It was mere chance that she’d been on the same picture as Pete O’Hanlon, that someone had given it to her.

All she had of Freddy’s father.

The only reason she kept it was because, one day, Freddy would insist on knowing who his father was. By then, hopefully, memories, like the photograph, would have faded, people would have moved away and his name would have been forgotten. And Freddy would be valued for himself as a decent young man.

The only reason she looked at it now was because five years had, without her noticing it, dulled her sense of danger. Because she needed to remind herself how much damage falling in lust could do.

Eventually she closed the box, put it away. Hung up her uniform, laid out a clean shirt and underwear for the morning.

Brushed her teeth. Finally crawled into the same single bed that she’d slept in all her life. And discovered that she’d been working on the wrong memory because the moment she closed her eyes she was confronted with Sheikh Zahir’s smile.

The one that barely showed on the surface, was no more than a warmth behind his eyes.

Felt his long fingers cradling her head, the touch of his breath on her cheek, his mouth …

Diana finally dropped off, but her sleep was disturbed by dreams in which she was driving a sparkly pink taxi around and around the inside a snow globe. She was constantly being hailed by Sheikh Zahir who, when she stopped, didn’t get in the back but just looked at her and said, ‘Kiss me, I’m a prince.’

Then, when she did, he turned into a frog.

She woke with a start, her heart pounding, her mouth dry, for a moment unsure where she was.

The low, insistent peeping of the alarm finally broke through the fug of sleep and, with a groan, she killed the sound, rolled over and got out of bed in one movement. It was still early and her eyes were heavy, but she didn’t want to risk closing them and having that dream start up again.

Pulling on her dressing gown, she went across the landing to Freddy’s room to be there, as promised, when he woke and give her mother an extra half an hour in bed. Make the most of the luxury of an unusually late start since she wasn’t due to pick up Zahir from the hotel until ten o’clock.

Assuming, of course, that Jack was still laid low.

Say what she liked about him, Jack Lumley wouldn’t malinger; he’d be back at work today if it was humanly possible. Or even if it wasn’t. Inspecting his precious car for the slightest mark, the smallest bit of dust and heaven help her if he found any.

Let him look.

He’d never be able to tell his car had been out of the yard. Well, not unless he tried to sit in it. She’d had to pull the seat forward to accommodate her shorter legs and hadn’t thought to put it back.

‘Bad girl, Diana,’ she said, grinning as she gave her wrist a light tap. ‘Write out one hundred times, “I must always return the seat to its original position.”’

‘Mummy?’

Freddy blinked, then, wide awake in an instant, bounced out of bed, grabbing his ‘good work’ sticker and holding it up for her to see.

‘Look!’

‘Shh …’ she said, putting her finger to her lips. ‘It’s early. Don’t wake Grandma and Grandpa.’

‘Look, Mummy!’ he whispered, holding it right in front of her face.

‘Terrific!’ she whispered back, scooping him up and carrying him downstairs, treasuring this precious time when, for once, she could share breakfast with him, watch over him as he cleaned his teeth. Walk him to school so that her mother wouldn’t have to go out of her way but could go straight to the bus stop.

Her dad was right, she thought, as all three of them muddled together in the hall, gathering their belongings, making sure that Freddy had everything he needed for the day, her mother was looking tired and, on an impulse, she gave her a hug.

‘What’s that for?’ she demanded in her don’t-be-daft voice.

‘Nothing. Everything.’ Then, sideswiped by the unexpected sting of tears, she turned quickly away, calling back to her father in the kitchen, ‘I’ll give you a call later, Dad, let you know what’s happening.’

‘Don’t worry about us,’ he said, coming to the door. ‘I’ll be waiting when Freddy comes out of school. Maybe we’ll have a look at the river, eh? What do you say, son?’

‘Can we?’ Freddy’s face lit up and, smiling at her dad, Diana reached for her little boy’s hand.

Her mother coughed meaningfully, shaking her head. Then, ‘You don’t have to walk all the way to the gate. I leave him at the corner and he walks the rest of the way all by himself.’

‘He does?’ she squeaked. Then, doing her best to smile, ‘You do?’

Freddy nodded.

‘I watch him every step of the way,’ her mother mouthed in silent reassurance.

‘Well …’it was only a few steps from the corner to the school gate, but Diana still had to swallow hard ‘… that is grown up!’

Her little boy was growing up much too fast. Making giant leaps while she was too busy working to notice. To be a fulltime mother.

But what choice did she have if she was going to make a life for him? She couldn’t rely on her parents for ever. She’d put them through so much already. Could never quite get away from the fear that she’d caused her father’s stroke.

‘Don’t forget that you’ve got parents’ evening tonight,’ her dad called after her.

‘It’s engraved in my brain,’ she promised, turning to wave from the gate.

At the corner nearest to the school she managed to restrain herself from kissing Freddy, stuffing her hands into her pockets so that she wouldn’t be tempted to do anything as embarrassing as wave. Watched him as he ran away from her and was swallowed up by the mass of children in the playground and waited to make sure that he was absorbed, accepted.

Why wouldn’t he be?

Half the children in his class were living in one parent families. But at least most of them had a father—even if an absent one—somewhere.

She turned and, blinking furiously, walked quickly down the road to the Capitol Cars garage.

Zahir had not slept.

He and James had worked through most of the night, putting the finishing touches to details that had been a year in the planning.

It wasn’t lack of sleep that blackened his early morning mood, however, but an email from Atiya, his youngest sister.

She’d written, full of excitement, about his forthcoming wedding, eager to let him know what she thought of each of the bridal prospects on their mother’s ‘shortlist’, which was awaiting his return. Since Atiya knew them all and was evidently thrilled to the core at the prospect of him marrying one of her dearest friends, she had taken immense pleasure in describing each of them in detail so that he would have something other than their mother’s opinion—what, after all, did mothers know?—on which to make his choice.

This one, apparently, had beautiful hair. That one a stunning figure. A third wasn’t so pretty but had the loveliest smile and a truly sweet nature.

It had, he thought, all the charm of a cattle show, with him as the prize bull. It was, however, a timely reminder of who he was. What was expected of him.

Which did not include dancing in the street with his enchanting chauffeur.