on legs that felt as if they were walking on feathers. Handed the tray over to a waitress, taking care to look neither to left nor right as she headed for the ladies’ to wash her hands.
But when, a few minutes later, she emerged, the first person she saw, through a gap in the crowd, was Zahir. She could have just put her head down and scurried out, but there was not a chance in the world that he would notice her, flirt with her. His attention was totally engaged by a tall, elegant blonde, her long cream-coloured hair twisted up in a simple stylish twist. Not some foolish girl, but a beautiful woman. Not wearing a hideous uniform, but an exquisitely embroidered shalwar kameez, the kind that cost telephone numbers.
As Diana stood there, temporarily mesmerised, the woman smiled and touched his arm in a gesture of casual intimacy. There was a relaxed easiness between them and she didn’t doubt that they knew each other well.
It was as if she’d been slapped on the side of the head, given a reality check.
Sheikh Zahir was a man who would draw beautiful women to him like a magnet. Beautiful women in beautiful clothes, stunningly high-heeled designer shoes.
He’d kissed her because she was there. Because he could. It was what men did. They took what was on offer without a thought, nothing engaged but their hormones.
For heaven’s sake, she only had to look at him to see how it was. Remember the drooling reaction of the assistant in the toy store.
As for her, well, she was undoubtedly giving out all the same signals and he’d responded to them the same way he breathed. Instinctively.
It had happened to her once before and she knew it didn’t mean a thing. Not a thing, she thought, turning away and finding herself face to face with James Pierce.
He glanced across at his boss, then back at her, and, as if he’d known exactly what she was thinking, he gave her a pitying smile and said, ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’
‘Lovely,’ she managed. Then, unable to help herself, ‘Who is she?’
‘His partner.’ Then, while her brain was processing that piece of information, ‘You’d better get back to the car. Sheikh Zahir will be leaving in five minutes.’
She needed no encouragement to leave, escaping into the fresh air where she dragged in steadying breaths as she replaced her hat, her gloves, donning them as if they were armour.
She’d expected the blonde to be with him, but when, a few moments later, Zahir emerged, he was alone but for James Pierce.
‘I’ll leave you to mop up the stragglers, James. I want every one of these people to visit Nadira, experience it firsthand.’
‘I’ve got all but a couple of broadsheet journalists who want to be coaxed but the princess will have them eating out of her hands before they know it.’
The blonde was a princess? Why was she surprised?
‘No doubt. In my absence, will you see Lucy safely to her car?’
‘It will be my pleasure.’ Then, ‘I’ll be on call should Lord …’ James Pierce glanced at her, leaving the name unsaid, making it crystal clear that he doubted her discretion.
‘Thank you, James. I think I can handle any query Lord Radcliffe is likely to raise,’ Zahir replied, demonstrating that he had no such qualms.
Well, he’d kissed her. She was, presumably, at now his beck and call.
‘Berkeley Square, Diana?’ he prompted, as he stepped into the car. ‘Sir,’ she said.
‘Come back and collect me as soon as you’ve dropped off Sheikh Zahir, Metcalfe,’ James Pierce said sharply.
Sheikh Zahir held out a hand, stopping her from closing the door. ‘Take a taxi, James.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ Diana said quickly, not wanting to give the stuffed shirt any reason to complain to Sadie, determined to show him that nothing had changed. ‘I’ll only be sitting around, waiting.’ She summoned a smile, the polite variety, for James Pierce. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, Mr Pierce.’
She climbed behind the wheel, started the car and, using her wing mirrors, taxi-driver style, she made her way through London managing to avoid any possibility of eye-contact with her passenger.
And, since she was working strictly to the ‘don’t speak until spoken to’ rule, it was a silent journey since Sheikh Zahir said nothing.
He was probably angry because she’d had the temerity to intervene over his suggestion that James Pierce take a taxi. He probably wasn’t used to anyone arguing with him, although anyone with any sense could see that it had to be more sensible to be doing something, even transporting chisel-cheeks, than just hanging around waiting for him to talk his way through dinner. Or maybe, once kissed, she had joined his personal harem and was now his alone.
‘Tosh, Diana,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘One kiss and you’re losing it …’
And yet he didn’t move to get out of the car by himself when she’d eased around Berkeley Square and pulled up in front of the restaurant.
Was that his way of making the point that it had changed nothing? Or everything?
Apparently neither. He was so far lost in his thoughts as she opened the door that it was obvious he hadn’t even noticed that they’d stopped.
‘What time would you like me to pick you up, sir?’ she asked, taking no chances.
Zahir had spent the journey from the Riverside Gallery gathering his thoughts for the coming meeting. Trying to block out the image, the taste, the scent of the woman sitting in front of him. All it took was a word, a solemn enquiry, to undo all that effort.
‘If you’re not sure, maybe you could call me?’ She took a card from her jacket pocket and offered it to him. ‘When you’ve got to the coffee stage of the evening?’
It was a standard Capitol card. ‘Call you?’
‘That’s the car phone number printed on the front,’ she said. ‘I’ve printed my cellphone number on the back.’
He took the card, still warm from her body, and, to disguise the sudden shake of his fingers, he turned it over and looked at the neatly printed numbers. It was, had always been, his intention to walk back to his hotel. He knew he’d need a little time to clear his head, no matter what the outcome of his meeting. On the point of telling her that she could go home, that she could have gone now if she hadn’t insisted on picking up James, he stopped himself. Sending her home early might make him feel good, but he’d be doing her no favours. On the contrary, he’d be robbing her of three hours’ work at the highest evening rate.
‘Eleven-thirty should do it,’ he said. ‘If there’s a change of plan, I’ll give you a call.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The ‘sir’ jabbed at him. But it wasn’t just the ‘sir’. For the first time since she’d handed him the broken toy outside the airport, she wasn’t quite looking at him. She had her gaze firmly fixed on something just over his right shoulder and it occurred to him that Diana,
