the likely applicants for the vacant post of Mother-Of-His-Sons, eager to negotiate a marriage settlement with the lucky girl’s family.
Make his father happy with the gift of a grandson who would bear his name.
It was the way it had been done for a thousand years. In his culture there was no concept of romantic love as there was in the West; marriage was a contract, something to be arranged for the mutual benefit of two families. His wife would be a woman he could respect. She would run his home, bear his children—sons who would bring him honour, daughters who would bring him joy.
His gaze was drawn back to the young woman sitting in front of him, the soft curve of her cheek glimpsed in the reflection of the driving mirror. The suggestion of a dimple.
She had the kind of face that would always be on the point of a smile, he suspected, smiling himself as he reran the range of her expressions—everything from horror as she’d let slip a word that was definitely not in the Polite Chauffeur’s Handbook, through blushing confusion, in-your-face take-it-or-leave-it cheek and finally, touchingly, concern.
Glass. For a child. What on earth had he been thinking? What had James been thinking?
That was the point. They hadn’t been. He’d just ordered the most expensive, the most desirable version of the child’s wish and James had, as always, delivered.
A wife wouldn’t have made that mistake.
Metcalfe wouldn’t have made that mistake.
Nor would she settle for a relationship based on respect, he suspected. Not with that smile. But then she came from a different world. Lived a life unknown to the young virgins from among whom his mother would look for a suitable bride.
Very different from the sophisticated high-achieving career women who he met in the line of business, who lived their lives more like men than women, although what she lacked in gloss, sophistication, she more than made up for in entertainment value.
He dragged his fingers through his hair, as if to erase the unsettling thoughts. He didn’t have time for ‘entertainment’. And, with marriage very much on the agenda, he shouldn’t even be thinking about it.
As it was, he had to snatch this hour to celebrate a little girl’s birthday out of a crammed schedule when he should, instead, be concentrating on the reception for travel journalists and dinner with the men who had the financial power to make his airline a reality.
‘Are you a permanent fixture, Metcalfe?’ he asked. ‘Or will Jack Lumley be back on duty tomorrow?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ she said, glancing up to look in the rear-view mirror, briefly meeting his gaze, before returning her attention to the road. ‘He was taken ill earlier today.’ Then, ‘I’m sure the company could find you someone else in the meantime, if you insisted.’
‘Someone with a beard?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Her dimple had disappeared. She wasn’t smiling now. Not even close. She thought he objected to a female chauffeur?
‘And if I did?’ something made him persist. ‘What would you be doing tomorrow?’
Her eyes flickered back to him. They were green, like the smudge of new leaves in an English hedgerow in April.
‘If I’m lucky I’ll be back at the wheel of a minibus, doing the school run.’
‘And if you’re unlucky?’
‘Back at the wheel of a minibus, doing the school run,’ she repeated, letting loose another of those smiles, albeit a somewhat wry one, as she pulled into the forecourt of a massive toy store. She slid from behind the wheel but he was out of the car before she could open the door for him and looking up at the façade of the store she’d chosen.
It hadn’t occurred to him to dictate their destination. Jack
Lumley would have taken him to Harrods or Hamleys, having called ahead to check which of them had what he was looking for, ensuring that it would be gift-wrapped and waiting for him, charged to his account.
No waiting.
No effort.
Like an arranged marriage.
A gust of wind whipped across the vast forecourt of the store and Diana grabbed for her hat, clutching it to her head.
Sheikh Zahir had made no move to enter, but was staring up at the storefront and, heart sinking, she realised that she’d got it wrong.
Sadie was right. She wasn’t equipped for this …
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This isn’t what you expected.’
He glanced back at her. ‘I left the decision to you.’
True. And she’d made her best judgement …
‘I thought it would be quicker,’ she explained. ‘It’s certainly easier to park.’ Then, ‘And, to be honest, you don’t quite meet the Knightsbridge dress code.’
‘There’s a dress code?’ He turned to look at her. ‘For shopping?’
‘No bare feet. No sports shoes. No jeans. No backpacks.’ She faltered, realising just how foolish she must sound. As if anyone would turn him away for being inappropriately dressed. ‘Not that you’re carrying a backpack.’
‘But I tick all the rest of your boxes.’
‘I expect it’s different for royalty.’
‘Just as well not to risk it,’ Sheikh Zahir said gently. If he was laughing at her, he was being kind enough not to do it out loud.
On the point of congratulating herself that she wasn’t such a juggins after all, he said, ‘Okay. Let’s do this.’
Let’s. As in ‘let us’. We.
‘You want me to come in with you?’
‘Surely you were told that royalty never carries its own bags?’
Now she was quite sure he was laughing.
‘The rumour is that they don’t carry money either and you should know that I can’t help you there.’ Then, ‘Besides, I really shouldn’t leave the car.’
‘Are you refusing to come with me?’ he enquired, a faint edge beneath the chocolate silk of his unbelievably sexy accent. A reminder that she was there at his bidding. ‘The school run is that appealing?’
Maybe she’d been too quick to leap to judgement on the ‘kind’, she decided, locking the door and following him without another word.
Inside a store of aircraft hangar proportions, aisle upon aisle of shelves were stocked with everything a child—and quite a few grown-ups—could possibly desire.
Diana found herself staring at the shopping trolleys, the serve-yourself warehouse-style shelving, not through her own eyes, but
