is one of my UK team.’
‘Delighted to meet you, Diana,’ he said, offering his hand as if she were a real person. Reacting on automatic pilot, she took it, doing her best to respond to his welcoming smile. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’
Um … Um … Um …
The confusion lingered, but thankfully the gibbering ‘ums’ remained locked up inside her head—’team’ members did not ‘um’—and, gathering herself, she said, ‘Water, thanks. Still.’
Jeff nodded to the barman, glanced around at the busy bar and said, ‘It’ll be quieter on the terrace.’ Before Zahir could answer, he turned to her, ‘That’s if you’ll be warm enough, Diana?’
A little too warm if the truth were told, although it wasn’t the ambient temperature that was heating her up but the fact that Zahir had hijacked her without so much as a by-your-leave. What was he thinking?
Hadn’t he learned a thing from his little moonlighting jaunt as a waiter? Food, more specifically feeding a woman, could lead a man into all kinds of temptation. Lead a woman, for that matter.
She tried not to look at him, but couldn’t help herself. His face, however, offered no help, no clue to his thoughts. She’d seen him do that before, she realised, in the toy store, with a smile that was no more than a disguise. A mask to cover any hint of what he was feeling.
Then, and later when James Pierce had joined them, he’d given her a glimpse behind the mask, had drawn her into his private world with a silent invitation to become his fellow conspirator.
There was no smile hidden in the depths of his cool grey eyes now. Even the sensuous droop of his lower lip had been jacked up into a straight line.
Whatever he was thinking, he was making damn sure no one else knew. Including her. And tempting though it was to provoke some kind of a response she very much doubted he’d be amused if she excused herself on the grounds that today she’d had the forethought to provide herself with a packed lunch.
Played the thanks-but-no-thanks, see-you-later gambit.
Instead she gave Jeff one of her best smiles and said, ‘I’ll be perfectly warm enough, thank you.’
‘This way, then.’ He lifted an avuncular arm to usher her towards the terrace, then, obviously thinking better of it, let it drop, instead leading the way to a sheltered corner.
It was one of those perfect May days, the temperature in the mid-seventies, with just enough breeze at the coast to fill the sails of a flotilla of dinghies that were making a picture postcard scene of the estuary.
‘Do you sail?’ Jeff asked, following her gaze.
‘No.’ She sat down. Then, smiling up at him, ‘Never had the opportunity.’
‘Hopefully you will do soon,” Jeff replied.
‘As I said, Metcalfe is part of my UK team,’ Zahir interposed smoothly. ‘I’m in the process of setting up an office in London. If everything goes to plan, James will stay here and run it.’
‘Expensive. I’d have thought it would be more cost effective to leave this end of things to specialist travel agents.’
‘For the purely tourist end of the business, I agree.’
‘You’re expanding your business?’
‘A business not expanding is a business in decline.’
‘Right …’
The steward arrived with their drinks and the menu, and taking advantage of the distraction, Zahir looked across at her and their shared knowledge was like an electric spark leaping across a vacuum.
‘It’s just bar meals at lunchtime during the week, I’m afraid,’ Jeff said, apologising to her rather than Zahir, then, apparently catching the intensity of the look that passed between them, fell silent.
‘A sandwich is the most I ever eat in the middle of the day,’ Diana said, filling the gap, when Zahir remained silent. ‘And I don’t always get that.’ Then, when Jeff had gone through to the bar to place their order, she whispered urgently, ‘What are you doing? Why am I here?’
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer, then, with a lift of his shoulders, he said, ‘To create a level playing field.’
‘What?’
‘I find you distracting, Metcalfe. It’s not your fault—you can’t help how you look—but if I’m to be distracted, it’s only fair that Jeff should be similarly handicapped. It seems to be working. He can’t keep his eyes off you.’
She stared at him.
In her uniform, flat shoes, absolute minimum of make-up, she was about as distracting as lukewarm soup in the middle of winter. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
He blinked slowly and without warning a hot surge of colour rushed to her cheeks. ‘Oh, no …’
‘You distracted me when I should have been glad-handing journalists, although I have to say that the sheer effort of keeping you out of my head gave me a real edge over dinner last night. Those bankers didn’t know what had hit them.’
‘You did seem a little high last night. If you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Billion dollar deals tend to have that effect. Make me want to sing, to dance …’
‘Zahir!’
‘You see. You say my name and I can’t even decide what I want for lunch. Distracting.’
‘If that’s the case, then it would probably be a good thing if I left you to it and went for a walk,’ she said, getting to her feet.
And he got himself another driver for tomorrow.
‘Stay where you are, Diana.’ Before she could open her mouth to protest, he added, ‘Out of sight is not out of mind.’
‘This is outrageous.’ She glared at him. ‘You expect me to sit here and “distract” the man, while you pull your tycoon act and take him to the cleaners?’
‘Did I say that?’
‘What else could you possibly mean?’ she demanded. And she had the doubtful pleasure of seeing the impassive mask slip, feeling the heat from eyes that were—momentarily—anything but cool. ‘You’re quite mad, you know,’ she said, subsiding into her chair, not in obedience to his command but because her legs refused to keep her upright. ‘I’m not some femme fatale.’
‘No?’ Then, after a moment’s thought, ‘No.’
Dammit, he wasn’t supposed to agree with her! And this was definitely not the moment for him to smile. If that lip moved, sheikh or not, he was cats’ meat …
Maybe he recognised the danger because he managed to restrain himself, confine himself to an apparently careless shrug.
‘In
