An Ordinary Girl and a Sheikh. Nicola Marsh
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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,