Liz Fielding - The Sheik's Unsuitable Bride

There were even two calls from gossip magazines offering sky’s-the-limit deals for her ‘Cinderella’ story, with pictures of her and her family in their ordinary little terraced house in Putney.

They knew where she lived?

And finally one from an infamous Public Relations guru warning her to say nothing, sign nothing, until she’d talked to him.

It was like a verbal car wreck. Horrible, but so compelling that she couldn’t hit the ‘disconnect’ switch, and Sadie’s warning finally sank in.

These people wouldn’t quit until they’d dredged up everything. How long would it be before someone was telling them that no one knew who Freddy’s father was? Implying that she didn’t know. That would really give them something to get their teeth into…

‘If you’ve finished calling your boyfriend?’ Zahir said, opening the rear door of the car. He’d removed his jacket and, as he tossed it into the back of the car the phone in her hand began to ring.

Startled, she gave a little shriek and dropped it at her feet, where it continued to ring.

‘It’s not…’ she began, but her voice was shaking. Everything was shaking. ‘I wasn’t…’ The voicemail cut in and the phone finally stopped ringing.

‘Diana?’ Zahir’s soft query, no longer angry, just velvet concern, only made things worse. He opened the driver’s door, folded himself up so that he was on her level. ‘What on earth is the matter?’ Unable to speak, she just hung on to the steering wheel, her forehead against her hands. ‘Please…How can I help if you do not tell me?’

She shook her head, her throat choked with rage and misery. At her feet, the phone began to ring again.

Zahir reached in, picked it up and answered the call with an abrupt, ‘Yes?’ then listened for a moment before disconnecting the call without speaking again. Then he turned it off and placed it in his pocket.

‘Who was it?’

‘Someone from a magazine called Hot Gossip . The woman addressed me by name?’ It was a question, one that required an answer, but all she could manage was a groan.

How useless was that? How pitiful? As if sitting here drowning in the unfairness of it all was going to help.

He had to know.

She had to tell him.

And, making an effort, she sat back, scrubbed at her cheeks with her hands and said, ‘The office have been trying to get in touch with me ever since our nightingale two-step became public knowledge at midday.’ She turned to face him, wanting to be sure that he understood. ‘That was when The Courier hit the streets.’ When he didn’t immediately respond, ‘I imagine Mr Pierce has been calling you too.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I imagine he has. But he can wait. I’m more concerned about you. What do you want me to do?’

‘You?’ She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing either of us can do except get on with life. It’s all we can ever do. Get on with it. And to do that I have to get home.’ Then, seeing his doubtful expression, ‘Don’t worry, it’s all been sorted.’ She began to explain the arrangements that Sadie and James had made but he brushed them aside.

‘You can’t go home, Diana. The paparazzi will have already staked out your house. It will be bedlam.’

She’d seen such things on the television news. Politicians caught with their pants down, being door-stepped by the media. It wouldn’t be like that. This wasn’t the kind of story that made the nine o’clock news, but she had no doubt it would be uncomfortable and her father was there on his own.

She glanced at her watch, checking the time. No, not on his own. He’d have been forced to confront them to fetch Freddy from school…

She groaned. ‘Please, Zahir, get in. I have to get home right now!’

He didn’t move. ‘I’m so sorry, Diana.’

‘Don’t…’ She shook her head. ‘This is my fault. You were just happy. If I’d behaved like a professional…’

‘Don’t be selfish with the guilt, ya habibati ,’ he said, taking her hands, easing her to her feet, forcing her to look at him. ‘There’s always enough of that to go around.’ Then, ‘Call your family. Tell them that James will come and pick up your passport, an overnight bag. I can’t stop this, but I can get you away until it’s blown over…’

‘What?’

What had he called her? A fool, an idiot, no doubt. Well, he had every right and he hadn’t done it unkindly, but almost tenderly. She shook her head. As if it mattered…

‘You expect me to run away and leave my family, the people I love, to face this on their own?’

‘If you’re not there…’

‘What? The journalists will just go away? They won’t ring endlessly, harass my parents? The neighbours? Freddy…’

The horror of it hit her full force and, as her knees sagged, he released one hand to catch her, hold her close. And for a moment she leaned against him, clinging to him for support, for his strength, as the awfulness of it swept over her.

It wouldn’t just be at the yard. It would be at her home, at school.

And how long would it be before someone was gossiping about Freddy? Saw the possibilities of making a little hard cash out of old photographs, speculating on just who his father might be?

She didn’t care about herself. She had protected Freddy then. Had outfaced her mother’s threats, her father’s tears, had even told the Child Support Agency where they could stick their money. It would take more than a bunch of journalists to shake it out of her. But it would make her visible, make Freddy visible. Drag it all up again, the gossip. And he was getting older, his face was firming up; if people started to look again, what might they see?

No.

Who would ever believe that Pete O’Hanlon would have even looked at the last virgin in the sixth form? But it would still be a total nightmare for her parents.

Terrifying for a little boy.

Zahir was right. Her home, the place where she could hold out against the world, knowing that her parents would support her, whatever she did, whatever it cost them, was no longer a haven.

As she straightened, stood on her own two feet, she shivered. ‘It doesn’t matter about me, Zahir, but I can’t leave my family to deal with this on their own. I have to get my parents and Freddy out of there too.’

Freddy.

There it was. Zahir had known. He’d heard this man’s name on her lips, and seen her face as she’d spoken of him, but even while his head had understood what she was telling him, his heart had refused to believe it. Had clung to some forlorn hope…

It was his heart that had called her his beloved.

That she could never return his feelings, that he would never be her habibi , made no difference. She had made the nightingale sing for him, her smile had made the stars shine beneath his feet. She had given him a moment that he would carry with him always, but in doing so had brought this horror crashing about her. The least he could do in return was offer his protection to her and to all those she loved.

Even now, as she looked up at him, as he felt the flutter of her pulse against his palm, he could scarcely believe that she loved another man. Her eyes seemed to tell him that all she wanted was for him to hold her against his heart, enfold her in his arms. Keep her from harm.

‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Call them and tell them to be ready.’

She had mockingly called him ‘Galahad’ and she was right to mock. Even now, when there were a dozen things he had to do to make this happen, he wanted nothing more than to hold her, promise her his world.

‘Zahir…’ His name on her lips was so sweet, but he did not look at her as he stepped back.

Did not dare look. What he was feeling meant nothing. He wasn’t Galahad offering her a pure heart. There was no fairy tale, no romance here.