An Ordinary Girl and a Sheikh. Nicola Marsh
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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