said as he stepped out.
‘Yes, sir.’
Top Hat waved her into the parking bay reserved for the privileged few. ‘You can wait there.’
Her brain was saying, Me? Really?
Maybe it was shock, or maybe her lip was so firmly buttoned up that the words couldn’t escape. Instead, having managed a polite nod, she pulled over as if she’d expected nothing less.
It wasn’t, after all, personal, she reminded herself. The honour was being bestowed on her passenger. On the car, even. On her Capitol uniform. It had absolutely nothing to do with her.
She called Sadie to reassure her that everything was still going according to plan and updated her on the traffic situation. Then she climbed out, walked around the car, duster in hand, checking for the slightest smear on the immaculate dark red paintwork, the gleaming chrome.
A couple of other chauffeurs nodded, passed the time of day, admiring her car, querying its handling, apparently accepting that, despite the missing chromosome, if someone had entrusted her with such a beast, she was one of them.
Maybe, she thought, she was the only one who was stopping that from being a fact. Living down to her image—single mother, relying on her parents for a roof over her head, help with childcare—rather than living up to her aspirations.
Maybe she’d become so used to hearing what she couldn’t do, how limited her options were, that she’d begun to believe it.
Even the dream of owning her own taxi—where, as a teenager, she’d dreamed of owning a fleet of them, all pink, all with women drivers—had been reduced to little more than a family joke.
Next year you’ll be driving your own taxi, Di …
Ho, ho, ho.
CHAPTER THREE
SUMMONED by the commissionaire, Diana was waiting at the kerb as Sheikh Zahir emerged from the hotel. This time he was not alone, but accompanied by a chisel-featured younger man blessed with the kind of cheekbones that could slice cheese.
Since he was the one carrying the laptop, he was, presumably, like her, a member of the ‘bag-carrying’ classes. Although, by the cut of his suit—and his hair—he outranked her by a considerable distance.
There was no mishap this time, probably because Top Hat was on hand to do the honours with the door and no one—not even a small boy—would have dared get in the way of his impressive figure.
The minute her passengers were settled she eased smoothly into the traffic, heading for the South Bank, managing, for once in her life, to remain ‘politely anonymous’.
She had barely finished congratulating herself on this rare accomplishment when Sheikh Zahir said, ‘Metcalfe, this is James Pierce. He’s the man who makes everything work for me. You may, on occasion, be required to ferry him to appointments.’
‘Sir,’ she said, taking his tone from him. She was doing really well until, waiting for the lights to change, she made the mistake of glancing in the mirror and looking straight into his eyes. They did not match his voice. And his expression suggested that he wasn’t fooled for a minute by her lapse into formality and her traitorous mouth let her down and smiled at him. A mistake.
James Pierce, alerted by her response to the fact that she was not Jack Lumley, said, ‘This is outrageous.’ And he was looking at her when he said it.
Actually it couldn’t just be the voice.
She didn’t have one of those cut-glass BBC accents, but her mother had been a stickler for good diction and, apart from the occasional lapse, her speech could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be described as ‘outrageous’.
It had to be the dimple, something she should have grown out of, along with the puppy fat. It was an embarrassment for anyone who expected to be taken seriously. Treated as a grown-up. Old enough to have a driving licence, let alone be behind the wheel of a limousine.
‘When I made the booking with Capitol Cars I specifically requested …’
‘Jack Lumley is sick,’ Sheikh Zahir said, cutting him short.
‘I’ll call Sadie. She must have someone else available.’
Diana couldn’t see James Pierce in the mirror, but from the moment he’d opened his mouth she did not like him and he wasn’t doing one thing to change her mind.
His superior suit went with his attitude. She might be dumb enough to believe that they were on the same side, but he wasn’t buying it. But then a man ‘who makes everything work’ for a billionaire sheikh probably wasn’t.
‘Why would we need someone else?’ Sheikh Zahir intervened. ‘Metcalfe is a—’
Please, please not ‘natural’ she begged silently, as the lights began to change and she had no choice but to check the mirror. He was still looking at her. Only his eyes changed, the rest of his face remained grave; the smile, she realised, was for her alone.
‘—thoroughly competent driver.’
He knew, she thought. He knew exactly what she was thinking and he was teasing her, making her complicit in an intimate conspiracy against the stuffed shirt.
Without warning a warmth, starting somewhere around her abdomen, seeped through every cell of her body until she felt her cheeks begin to flush.
Fortunately, Sheikh Zahir had turned away.
‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those dinosaurs who feel emasculated when driven by a woman, James,’ he said, teasing him a little too.
‘No …’ His reply was unconvincing. ‘No, of course not.’
‘I’m very glad to hear that. As a lawyer, even if your field is corporate law, I know you wouldn’t want to give Metcalfe an excuse to sue the pants off you for sexual discrimination.’
‘I just thought—’
‘I know what you thought, James, but as you are well aware, it’s not a problem.’
He didn’t wait for an answer, but immediately turned his attention to business, launching into some complex legal question regarding a lease.
It was an example she’d be wise to follow, she decided. Flirting through the rear-view mirror with a passenger was definitely not the action of a ‘thoroughly, competent driver’. Quite the contrary.
Someone who was entertaining now …
Oh, stop it!
At the entrance to the Riverside Gallery, she climbed out and opened the door, keeping her eyes front and centre.
James Pierce stepped out of the car and walked past her without a word or a look. The word ‘miffed’ crossed her mind—one of her mother’s favourite words to describe someone who’d had their nose put out of joint.
Sheikh Zahir paused and, realising
