An Ordinary Girl and a Sheikh. Nicola Marsh
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‘The seaside?’
Sadie handed over the paperwork. ‘Sheikh Zahir is visiting a boatyard and marina, apparently.’
‘Really?’ Obviously her idea of non-stop work and Sheikh Zahir’s idea of it did not coincide. ‘Well, great,’ she said, taking the worksheet to check out where they were going, wishing it was Freddy she was taking for a day on the beach. Somehow she couldn’t see James Pierce taking off his shoes, rolling up his trouser legs and going for a paddle.
Zahir, on the other hand …
She refused to go with that image. No more of that, my girl, she told herself. Behave yourself. Just concentrate on all the extra hours it will mean. The extra money. She might be able to manage something a bit special for her and Freddy in the half-term holiday. A short break at Disney-land Paris, perhaps, if she was lucky enough to grab a cheap last-minute deal.
Or maybe she’d be better advised putting the money in her savings account for his future. Except, of course that children didn’t understand the concept of the ‘future’. For them there was only now.
‘Okay?’ Sadie asked, when she didn’t move.
‘Fine. I was just wondering if you wanted me to bring you back a stick of rock,’ she joked.
‘I’ll pass, thanks,’ Sadie said with a grin. ‘Besides, I doubt the kind of marina that a sheikh would patronize has much call for bright pink candy, do you?’
A timely reminder, should she need one, that he lived in a different world from the one she’d been born into. A reminder she’d do well to keep front and centre next time he looked at her. Smiled at her. Murmured something in that seductive voice.
Maybe she should invest in a pair of earplugs …
Sheikh Zahir was standing on the footpath talking to James Pierce when she pulled in to the front of the hotel three minutes before ten.
He was dressed casually in a cream linen jacket, softly pleated chinos, a dark brown band-collar shirt left open at the neck, with a slim leather document case hanging loosely from one hand. James Pierce, on the other hand, was giving no quarter to a day by the sea. He was dressed in a pinstripe suit with a sober silk tie—full city-slicker gear—with the laptop which never seemed to leave his side clamped firmly in his fist.
She groaned.
James Pierce had had it in for her from the moment he’d set eyes on her and would no doubt have some sarcastic remark all lined up to deliver on the subject of having been kept waiting; she was sure the fact that they were early would cut no ice with him.
He’d grumbled about being kept waiting last night; anyone would think she’d loitered, had stopped for a burger or something, instead of taking a straight there-and-back run from Mayfair.
But as Zahir caught sight of her—no smile of any kind—he said something to the other man, then, as Top Hat opened the door, stepped into the back of the car.
Alone.
James Pierce, having taken a moment to give her what could only be described as a ‘look’—what was his problem?—turned and walked back into the hotel.
Which meant that they were going to spend the entire day alone together?
Be careful what you wish for …
‘In your own time, Metcalfe,’ Zahir said, when she didn’t immediately pull away.
‘Isn’t Mr Pierce coming with us?’ she asked a touch desperately.
‘He can’t spare the time. He has contracts, leases to sign. A lawyer’s work is never done.’ Unable to help herself, she checked the mirror. He was waiting for her, his look thoughtful. ‘Disappointed, Metcalfe? Did you manage to break the ice and make friends when you picked him up last night?’
‘We didn’t dance, if that’s what you mean,’ she said. So much for keeping her distance. Being professional. ‘I didn’t want to drive off and leave him if he’d just gone back inside to collect something he’d forgotten,’ she said in an attempt to retrieve the situation.
‘Forgotten?’ Zahir marginally raised a single brow. ‘Are you suggesting that he’s fallible?’
‘Oh … No …’
Too late she realised that he was being ironic.
Oh, Lord …
She pulled out into Park Lane, glad of the turmoil of the London traffic to keep her occupied, not that there were any further distractions from the rear of the car.
Sheikh Zahir, having teased her once, presumably in repayment for that ‘dancing’ remark, was apparently too absorbed by the paperwork he’d brought with him to bother once they were on their way.
Which should have been a relief.
But it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop.
First her shoulder muscles began to tighten up, then her neck stiffened with the effort of keeping her mouth shut. Would music disturb him?
She glanced in the mirror, saw that he was deep in concentration. Had, apparently, forgotten she was there. An example she’d do well to follow.
Zahir stared at the papers in front of him, doing his best to concentrate on the figures, trying not to think about the woman in front of him, the nape of her neck exposed by hair swept up under her cap. Hair that even now was escaping in soft tendrils that brushed against her pale skin.
Trying not to think about how that hair, that skin had felt against his hand. The way his hand had nestled so neatly into her waist. How her fingers had felt against his lips.
His sister’s email, annoying though it had been, had brought him firmly back to earth and he was resolute in his determination that this charming but, ultimately, foolish flirtation he’d begun without a thought for the consequences must go no further. Diana Metcalfe deserved better from him.
His family deserved better from him.
Today, he reminded himself, was all about the marina at Nadira Creek.
Lunch at the local yacht club with the CEO of the chandlery with whom he was negotiating a contract to run the dockside services for him. Then a tour of the Sweethaven Marina to take a look at the facilities offered at the top end of the business, which would also give him a chance to check out the latest in state-of-the-art sailing dinghies, diving equipment, windsurfers.
Last, but definitely not least, a visit to the boatyard to look at the yacht he’d commissioned more than a year ago and was now ready for his pre-delivery inspection.
And that was the only indulgence he would permit himself on this trip; the silk finish of polished mahogany and gleaming brass were a great deal safer than the touch of soft ivory skin. Warm lips.
Finalising the details of a contract was considerably less dangerous than teasing Diana Metcalfe in the hope of another glimpse of an errant dimple that appeared at the corner of her mouth when she was battling not to smile. And losing.
Safer all round than provoking her into forgetting to be polite, to just be herself. And then kissing her. Waltzing her along London streets …
He took out the folder detailing the management fees, working through the list of queries James had detailed, equally firm in his resolve not to catch her eye in the mirror.
Not to ask about her family. Why it was her father ‘used’ to sing to her mother. And, presumably, didn’t now. Her life.
Ask her why, when she wasn’t smiling, she sometimes looked a little … lost.
Diana checked the mirror as she approached a roundabout, joined the motorway. Sheikh Zahir was working, concentrating on the file he was holding, and yet she had the strongest feeling that, a split second before she’d glanced up, he’d been looking not at his papers,