second before she’d glanced up, he’d been looking not at his papers, but at her, waiting for that moment when she’d checked the mirror, met his gaze.
Or maybe that was what she wanted to believe.
She was clearly going crazy.
It wasn’t that she doubted his readiness to flirt; he’d already proved himself to be world class in the subject and she’d promised herself that today she wouldn’t be drawn in, but keep her cool. Be a professional. Not because she knew James Pierce would rat on her to Sadie in a heartbeat if he suspected she’d stepped over some invisible, but definite, line in the sand. No matter how great the temptation. And she had been tempted; admitting to it made resistance easier.
Not because of her job, but because, to Sheikh Zahir, it would be no more than a diversion.
Probably.
No! Absolutely.
Utterly meaningless.
In which case, why would he think twice about snagging her attention? If it meant nothing, he’d do it. Wouldn’t he?
Oh, get a grip, Di! Why on earth would a man with a stunningly beautiful princess hanging off his arm even look at you?
Good question. He had looked, looked again and then he’d touched, danced …
Maybe he couldn’t help himself. If the newspapers were anything to go by, powerful men often couldn’t. Help themselves. And power was, or so she’d heard, an aphrodisiac. Women probably threw themselves at him all the time. Maybe he considered her, as his female driver, to be fair game. A perk of the job.
A little squeak of distress escaped her and she caught a movement in the mirror as he looked up. Then, after a moment, looked away.
No. That was wrong.
Zahir wasn’t like that.
He hadn’t kissed her like that.
It hadn’t been a grope. It had been the sweetest kiss. And if he’d expected more, he would never have left her last night, walked away.
Nevertheless, she took her sunglasses from the dashboard, flicked them open and put them on. A personal safety barrier against further eye-contact in the mirror, accidental or not.
A long, silent hour later, she pulled into the car park on the quay at Sweethaven, once a small fishing port but now the playground for well-heeled yachting types with all the money in the world to indulge their passion.
Tucked into folds of the Downs, where the river widened into an estuary before running into the sea, the small, picture-perfect town was well served with expensive shops and attractive restaurants.
The whole place positively shouted money; or was that the sound of ropes, or sheets, or whatever they were called, clanging against the masts of the flotilla of expensive yachts moored in the marina?
She opened the rear door while her passenger was still stuffing papers into his document case. Stepping out of the car, he handed it to her.
‘Come with me, Metcalfe.’
What?
‘Um …’
He glanced back. ‘Lose the hat.’
Her hand flew, in a protective gesture, to her head.
‘You don’t like it?’ she demanded, completely forgetting her determination to keep her lip buttoned. Or that she loathed the thing herself.
Drawing attention to herself was a mistake. He stopped, turned, taking a slow tour of her appearance, from sensible shoes, via trousers cut for comfort, a slightly fitted collarless jacket that was cut short above her hips until, finally, his gaze came to rest on that hat.
‘I don’t like anything you’re wearing. Be grateful it’s only the hat I want you to take off.’
For a moment she stood open-mouthed, but he’d already turned away and was walking towards a two-storey stone building with a sign that read ‘Sweethaven Yacht Club’.
Who was that?
And what had he done with the Sheikh Zahir she’d danced with last night?
To think she’d been giving him the benefit of …
‘Grateful!’ She tossed the hat, along with her driving gloves, into the car. Then, on an impulse, she unbuttoned her jacket and added it to the pile and pulled out one of Capitol’s burgundy sweatshirts that she’d stowed in case of emergencies—you wouldn’t want to change a wheel in your best uniform jacket—and knotted it around her shoulders. Pulled a face at her reflection in the wing mirror. ‘At least the man has taste.’
There was, she reminded herself, the beautiful princess as prima facie evidence of the fact. Which was maybe why, having removed her jacket, she clung to the safety barrier of the sunglasses. She pushed them firmly up her nose, locked the car and, taking a deep breath, tucked the folder under her arm and went after him.
Zahir, having reached the safe haven of the yacht club’s entrance lobby, stopped to gather himself.
He could not believe he’d said that. Had no excuse, other than the build-up of tension, seeing Diana so close, knowing that she was out of reach.
When she’d done that not-quite-meeting-his-eyes thing, something inside him had snapped and, knowing that an invitation wouldn’t bring her to him, he’d made it an order. And then had made a remark so blatantly personal that her shock had been palpable.
Maybe that was the answer, he thought, as he eased his shoulders. Maybe, if she thought he was some kind of sexual predator, she wouldn’t have to fight quite so hard to contain that tormenting little smile …
‘Zahir! I saw you arrive and was beginning to think you’d forgotten the way. Come on up …’
As Diana stepped inside the yacht club, everything went suddenly dark and, with the utmost reluctance, she pushed the glasses up into her hair and looked around.
A receptionist, regarding her with a smile, said, ‘They’re upstairs.’
‘Oh, right. Thanks.’
Upstairs proved to be not offices but a restaurant and bar where Zahir and another man, of about the same age but slighter and with his face weathered by sun and sea, were standing.
They both turned as she approached. Zahir hesitated for no more than a heartbeat as he took in her appearance, before extending a hand to draw her into their conversation.
‘Metcalfe, this is Jeff Michaels. He’s going to buy us lunch.’
Lunch?
Zahir didn’t wait for her to protest. Didn’t give her time to consider whether she wanted to protest. That was probably a good thing, since he’d put her in a situation where it was impossible for her to tell him that this was seriously
