An Ordinary Girl and a Sheikh. Nicola Marsh
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quick glance suggested that she was not fooled.
‘Sheikh Zahir al-Khatib is the nephew of the Emir of Ramal Hamrah, cousin of his country’s ambassador to London and a billionaire businessman who is single-handedly turning his country into the next über-fashionable get-away-from-it-all tourist destination.’
Diana instantly lost any inclination to sing. ‘He’s a genuine A-list VIP, then.’
‘You’ve got it. The Mercedes is at his disposal full-time while he’s in London. The hours will, inevitably, be unpredictable but if you can hold the fort for me today, I’ll have someone else lined up to take over tomorrow.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Diana said a touch fiercely, hoping to counteract the initial impression of irresponsibility. She might not be Jack Lumley, but her passengers were never short-changed. ‘I can handle it. At least until Jack has recovered.’
This was the chance she’d been waiting for, an opportunity to prove herself capable of taking on the big jobs, to move up from the no-frills end of the market—the school bus, the airport runs—to driving one of Capitol’s limousines and big money; she wasn’t about to meekly surrender the Mercedes to the first man to recover control of his stomach.
‘Give me a chance, Sadie. I won’t let you down.’
Sadie touched her shoulder, a gesture that said she understood. ‘Let’s see how it goes today, shall we?’
Okay. She got the message. This was her opportunity to show what she could do; it was up to her to make the most of it.
Diana responded to the challenge by peeling off the latex gloves she used for cleaning out the minibus with a decisive snap. Then she stepped out of her garage overalls and replaced them with well-pressed trousers, a fresh white shirt and, instead of her usual Capitol Cars sweatshirt, her rarely worn burgundy uniform jacket.
Sadie, consulting a sheet on the clipboard she was holding, said, ‘Sheikh Zahir is flying into the City Airport in his private jet, ETA seventeen-fifteen hours. Wait in the short-term parking area. The VIP hostess has the number of the car phone and she’ll give you a call when his plane touches down so that you can be at the kerb, waiting for him.’ ‘Got it.’
‘His first stop will be his country’s embassy in Belgravia. He’ll be there for an hour, then you’re to take him to his hotel in Park Lane before leaving at nineteen-forty-five hours for a reception at the Riverside Gallery on the South Bank, followed by dinner in Mayfair. All the addresses are on the worksheet.’
‘Belgravia, Mayfair …’ Diana, unable to help herself, grinned as she buttoned up her jacket. ‘Be still my beating heart. Is this a dream? Should I pinch myself?’
‘Don’t go all starry-eyed on me, Di. And keep in touch, okay? Any problems, I want to hear about them from you, not the client.’
Sheikh Zahir bin Ali al-Khatib was still working as the jet touched down and taxied to the terminal.
‘We’ve arrived, Zahir.’ James Pierce removed the laptop, passed it on to a secretary to deal with, and replaced it with a gift-wrapped package.
Zahir frowned, trying to recall what it was. Then, remembering, he looked up. ‘You managed to find exactly what she wanted?’ he demanded.
‘One of my staff located it via the Internet. Antique. Venetian. Very pretty. I’m sure the princess will be delighted.’ Then, ‘Your usual driver will be waiting at Arrivals but we’ve a very tight schedule this evening. You’ll need to leave the embassy no later than eighteen-forty-five hours if you’re going to make the reception on time.’
Diana pulled up at Arrivals, squashed the stupid little forage hat firmly into place, tugged down her uniform jacket, smoothed the fine leather gloves over the backs of her hands. Then, her head full of snowy robes, the whole Lawrence of Arabia thing, she stood by the rear door of the limousine, ready to leap into action the minute her passenger appeared.
There were no robes. No romantic headdress caught by the wind.
Sheikh Zahir al-Khatib had, it seemed, taken on board the dressing-for-comfort-when-travelling message. Not that she’d have had any trouble recognising him, even without his VIP escort.
The grey sweatshirt, soft jeans and deck shoes worn on bare feet might be casual but they were expensive. The man, tall and rangy, with dark hair that curled around his neck, might look more like a sports star than a tycoon, but his clothes, his head turning looks, did absolutely nothing to diminish an aura of careless arrogance, the aristocratic assurance of a man whose every wish had been someone else’s instant command from the day he had first drawn breath.
The very pink, thoroughly beribboned gift-wrapped package he was carrying provided no more than a counterpoint that underlined his authority—the kind of presence that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
Sheikh Zahir al-Khatib, it had to be admitted, was dangerously, slay-’em-in-the aisles, gorgeous.
He paused briefly in the doorway to thank his escort, giving Diana a moment to haul her chin off the ground—drooling was such a bad look—before affixing a polite smile to lips that she firmly compressed to contain the usual, ‘Did you have a good flight?’ chat as she opened the rear door of the car.
No chat.
This wasn’t a family party returning from a trip to Disney, eager to share their good time as they piled into the minibus, she reminded herself.
All that was required was a quiet, Good afternoon, sir …
It wasn’t easy. There were two things she was good at: driving and talking. They both came as naturally to her as breathing: one—just about—paid the bills, the other she did for free. Sort of like a hobby. A fact that had featured prominently in her end of year school reports.
Talking in class. Talking in Assembly. Talking herself into trouble.
Since she mostly got the kids and the hen parties—jobs where a bit of lip came in handy if things got rowdy—it wasn’t usually a problem, but she understood why Sadie would only give her a job like this if she were really desperate.
Why she’d reserved judgement on anything more than a fill-in role.
Well she would show Sadie. She would show them all, she promised herself—her parents, that older generation of neighbours who gave her that no-better-than-she-should-be look—and she began tidily enough.
Her smile was regulation polite as she opened the door smartly so that nothing would impede his progress.
‘Good afternoon—’
She didn’t get as far as the ‘sir’.
A small boy, skidding through the terminal doors in her passenger’s wake, dived through the closing gap between the car door and Sheikh Zahir, to hurl himself at the woman who’d just pulled up behind them. Before Diana could utter a warning or move, he went flying over her highly polished shoes and cannoned headlong into Sheikh Zahir, sending the fancy package flying.
The Sheikh’s reactions were lightning-fast and he caught the child by the back of his jacket before he hit the ground.
Diana, no slouch herself, leapt for the ribbons.
The package was arcing away from her, but those ribbons had their uses and she managed to grab one, bringing it to a halt.
‘Yes!’ she exclaimed triumphantly.
Too soon.
‘No-o-o-o!’
She held the ribbon, but the parcel kept travelling as the bow unravelled in a long pink stream until the gift hit the concrete with what sounded horribly like breaking glass.
At which point she let slip the word she’d promised Sadie that she would never, ever use in front of a client.
Maybe—please—Sheikh Zahir’s English wouldn’t be good enough to grasp her meaning.