I sit in the back, Jeff, who’s watching us from his office window right now, might just get the impression that you’re no more than my chauffeur,’ he said in response to her obvious confusion. ‘You wouldn’t want that, would you?’
‘I don’t actually give a damn what he thinks,’ she replied. Definitely not a response out of the perfect chauffeur’s handbook, but then he wasn’t the perfect client. ‘But you’re the boss. If you want to sit in front, then sit in front.’
‘Thank you for that. I was beginning to wonder for a moment. About being the boss.’
‘Making me responsible for contract negotiation must have gone to my head,’ she replied, before replacing her sunglasses and sliding in beside him. Bumping shoulders as he leaned towards her as he pulled down the seat belt, so that she jumped. Smiling at her as he slid it home with a click.
He was much too close. It was more than the physical effect of his wide shoulders, overflowing the seat beside her. His presence was invading her space, along with some subtle male scent that made him impossible to ignore and, despite her determinedly spirited, in-your-face response, her hand was shaking as she attempted to programme the SatNav with their next destination.
Five years and she hadn’t once been tempted. Had never taken a second look at a man, no matter how gorgeous. Particularly if they were gorgeous.
Pete O’Hanlon had head-turning good looks. His only ‘good’ characteristic, but when you were eighteen and deep in lust you didn’t see that.
Since then, she’d never felt even a twinge of that lose-your-head, forget lose-your-heart—desire that she’d read about. Had heard her girlfriends talk about. Hadn’t understood it.
Not that she was taking any credit for that. Her life was complicated enough without making things even more difficult for herself. Motherhood, guilt had drained every scrap of emotion she’d had to spare. Add a full-time job and who had time?
And then … wham. Out of the blue there it was. The pumping heart, the racing pulse, something darker, more urgent, that was totally different, indescribably new, that she didn’t even want to think about.
Making a pretence of double checking the address, she said, ‘Do I get an explanation for what happened back there? The real reason you took me into your meeting with Jeff?’
He shook his head. ‘It was—nothing.’
‘Pretending that I was what? Your tame number-cruncher querying his figures? That was nothing?’
‘Jeff was always going to agree to those changes—they were fair, believe me—but, since you were there I realised I could cut short the haggling.’
‘Really?’ The question was rhetorical. Ironic.
‘Really. What man could resist flattering a pretty woman?’
‘Remind me never to do business with you.’
‘You wouldn’t have any reason to regret it, Diana.’
Was that a proposition?
She glanced at him and then just as quickly turned away as the tremor affecting her hand raced through the rest of her body so that she had to grip the steering wheel. It sounded horribly like one.
‘I’ve got nothing to offer you,’ she managed, ‘other than entertainment value and, just once, a short cut to a signature on the dotted line.’
‘Diana—’
‘I hope you both had a jolly good laugh when I snorted a mouthful of water down my nose.’
‘It was an interesting reaction to my invitation to visit Nadira.’
Without meaning to, she looked at him. He was not laughing. Far from it.
‘That was an invitation?’ she asked disparagingly, as she tore her gaze away from him.
‘You want a gold-edged card? Sheikh Zahir al-Khatib requests the pleasure …’
‘I want absolutely nothing,’ she said, furious with him. Furious with herself for letting him see that she cared. ‘I just want to do the job I’m paid for.’
‘It’s no big deal, Diana,’ he said carelessly. ‘There’ll be spare room on the media junket.’
‘Oh, right. Now I’m tempted.’
How dared he! How damn well dared he invite her to his fancy resort for a week of sex in the sand—including her as a tax write-off along with the freebie-demanding journalists—and say it was ‘no big deal’! That she would have no reason to regret it.
Too bad that the first man she had looked at since Freddy’s father was not only out of her reach, but a twenty-four carat … sheikh. Her judgement where men were concerned was still, it seemed, just as rotten …
Zahir had actually been congratulating himself on his self-control as he’d climbed out of the car on their arrival at Sweethaven.
There had been a difficult moment right at the beginning of the journey when he could have easily lost it. He only had to look at Diana Metcalfe for his mind to take off without him. But he’d got a grip, had jerked it back into line, forcing himself to concentrate on what had to be done. Ignore the possibilities of what he deeply, seriously, wanted to do …
Had managed, just about, to keep his tongue between his teeth and his head down—mostly—for nearly two hours and since, like him, Diana had, after that dangerous first exchange, taken avoiding action and hidden her expressive eyes behind dark glasses, they’d travelled from the heart of London to the coast in a silence broken only by the occasional interjection of the navigation system offering direction.
It should have made things easier but, without the oddly intimate exchanges through the rear-view mirror that were driving this unexpected, unlooked for, impossible connection, he’d found himself noticing other things.
The shape of her ear—small and slightly pointed at the tip.
A fine gold chain around her neck that was only visible when she leaned forward slightly to check that the road was clear at a junction.
The smooth curve of her cheek as she glanced sideways to check her wing mirrors. He’d found himself forgetting the document he was holding as he’d been captivated by the slow unwinding of a strand of hair.
It was scarcely surprising that when, on their arrival at Sweethaven he’d been confronted by her standing stiffly, almost to attention, as he’d stepped out of the car—he’d lost it so completely that he’d found himself issuing not an invitation, but an order for her to join him.
Actually, on reflection, he hadn’t got that bit wrong. The order part. An invitation would never have got her. An invitation offered her a choice which she would have had the good sense to decline.
She knew, they both knew, that there was, or at least should be, a barrier—a glass wall—between them. It had shattered, not when he’d kissed her, but with that ridiculous antique snow globe.
Diana, trapped in her role, was doing her best to
