brought us something to drink.’
‘Us? Excuse me, but won’t you be missed?’
‘You want all this for yourself, is that it?’ The words were serious, his expression anything but, and she laughed. It was so easy to laugh when he looked at her like that.
‘You’ve got me bang to rights, guv,’ she said.
‘Help yourself. I’ve still got dinner to get through.’
He didn’t sound particularly excited by the prospect of dining at one of London’s most exclusive restaurants.
‘I wouldn’t have thought that was exactly a strain.’
‘Fine food ruined by high finance. A recipe for indigestion.’
‘That’s what you get for mixing business with pleasure.’
‘How wise you are, Metcalfe. What a pity the money men aren’t as sensible.’
‘I guess they take the view that time is money, so doing two things at once is earning them twice as much.’
‘Especially if they’re not paying for dinner.’
‘Good point.’
He set the tray down, waited for her to sit and, having apparently debated with himself for a moment, sat on the far side of it so that it was between them. She couldn’t decide if she was relieved or disappointed …
‘I love this view, don’t you?’ Zahir said, saving her from having to admit to disappointment. ‘So much history packed into every square metre.’
‘You’ve spent a lot of time in London?’
‘Too much,’ he admitted cheerfully as he leaned back and stretched out his long legs. ‘I was at school just up the river.’
‘Really? Me, too.’ Then, catching on to exactly which school ‘up the river’ he was talking about, she said, ‘Obviously, in my case, it wasn’t Eton, but the local comprehensive. In Putney.’
‘Is that where you live now?’
‘Mmm.’ She stuffed in another taste sensation—this time something involving smoked salmon and sour cream—and shrugged. ‘Twenty-three years old and still living at home,’ she said, brushing the crumbs from her fingers. ‘How sad can you get?’
‘Sad?’
‘Pathetic. Dull.’
‘On the contrary. It is the way it should be. Women in my country live under the protection of their families until they’re married.’
Not if they had a five-year-old son and no husband they didn’t, Diana thought as, for a moment, they just looked at one another, confronting the gulf between them.
Zahir knew he should move. Stop this—whatever this was. While he was sitting here flirting with his chauffeur, wanting to do much more, his mother, his sisters, were sifting through the Ramal Hamrah equivalent of the ‘girls in pearls’ to choose his perfect bride …
Even as he urged himself to move, a gust of wind tugged at Metcalfe’s hair, whipping a strand across her face and, acting purely on instinct, he reached out to capture it.
Silk, he thought, as it tangled in his fingers, brushed against his wrist. Chestnut-coloured silk, a perfect counter to the bronze-flecked green of eyes that widened, darkened as he looked down at her, and the temptation to wrap it round his fist and draw her closer almost overwhelmed him. Almost. He was not so lost …
Slowly, taking care not to touch her cheek, he gathered it, then was left with no alternative but to tuck it behind her ear. Her ear, the smooth, fine skin of her neck, undid all his best intentions. The warmth drew him in, held him captive, and he spread his hand to cradle her head.
Until the last second she watched him, eyes wide as a fawn, but the second before his lips met hers she slammed them shut, caught her breath and, for the longest moment in his life, she was rigid, unmoving. Then she melted and kissed him back.
It was the crash of the tray that brought them both to their senses.
Metcalfe jerked away with a little gasp, looking at him for a moment, eyes wide, mouth full and dark, cheeks flushed, everything she was feeling on display. As if she knew, she looked away, glancing down at the tray.
‘Pigeon heaven,’ she said, breaking the silence, as the birds began to snatch at the scattered food.
He wanted to say something, but what? He couldn’t even say her name. Metcalfe wouldn’t do …
‘I have to get back to the gallery,’ he said, getting to his feet.
She nodded. ‘I’ll bring back the tray.’ Then, when he still didn’t make a move, she looked up at him and said, ‘Diana. My name is Diana Metcalfe.’
‘Like the princess?’
‘I’m afraid so. My mother was a fan.’
‘Diana was also a goddess.’
‘I know. It’s really rather more of a name than one very ordinary girl could ever hope to live up to.’ She swallowed. ‘Most people just call me Di.’
‘There’s no such thing as an ordinary girl, Diana. Each person is unique, individual.’ Then, with a touch of anger, ‘The world is full of people ready to keep you in what they perceive to be your place. Don’t give them a head start by doing it to yourself.’
Diana stared at him for a moment, but he hadn’t waited for her answer. With something that was more than a nod, less than a bow, he turned and walked quickly away.
Was he angry with her?
He needn’t bother. Give her a moment to gather her wits, forget a touch that had stirred her to the core, waking feelings, desires she had thought stone dead, and she’d be angry enough for both of them.
As for that stuff about her ‘place’. Easy to say, when your own place in the world was so far above ordinary that you probably needed an oxygen mask.
What did he know about her life?
Single mother at eighteen. And then, just as she might have turned her life around, her father had been disabled by a stroke, leaving her and her mother having to work full-time, run as fast as they could just to keep in the same place. All dreams on hold for the duration.
Tomorrow she’d bring sandwiches and a flask of tea as well as her standard bottle of water—the full ‘chauffeur’ kit—she promised herself, picking up the tray and tossing the remainder of the canapés to the pigeons.
Always assuming Zahir hadn’t given James Pierce the nod to do what he’d wanted from the moment he’d set eyes on her and organise another driver. For both their sakes.
‘Great start, Diana,’ she said to herself. ‘Professional, eh? Well, that’s a joke.’ Cheek and chat were one thing, but kissing the client? ‘Failed on every count.’
