Liz Fielding - The Sheik's Unsuitable Bride

Please, please not ‘natural’ she begged silently, as the lights began to change and she had no choice but to check the mirror. He was still looking at her. Only his eyes changed, the rest of his face remained grave; the smile, she realised, was for her alone.

‘-thoroughly competent driver.’

He knew, she thought. He knew exactly what she was thinking and he was teasing her, making her complicit in an intimate conspiracy against the stuffed shirt.

Without warning a warmth, starting somewhere around her abdomen, seeped through every cell of her body until she felt her cheeks begin to flush.

Fortunately, Sheikh Zahir had turned away.

‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those dinosaurs who feel emasculated when driven by a woman, James,’ he said, teasing him a little too.

‘No…’ His reply was unconvincing. ‘No, of course not.’

‘I’m very glad to hear that. As a lawyer, even if your field is corporate law, I know you wouldn’t want to give Metcalfe an excuse to sue the pants off you for sexual discrimination.’

‘I just thought-’

‘I know what you thought, James, but as you are well aware, it’s not a problem.’

He didn’t wait for an answer, but immediately turned his attention to business, launching into some complex legal question regarding a lease.

It was an example she’d be wise to follow, she decided. Flirting through the rear-view mirror with a passenger was definitely not the action of a ‘thoroughly, competent driver’. Quite the contrary.

Someone who was entertaining now…

Oh, stop it!

At the entrance to the Riverside Gallery, she climbed out and opened the door, keeping her eyes front and centre.

James Pierce stepped out of the car and walked past her without a word or a look. The word ‘miffed’ crossed her mind-one of her mother’s favourite words to describe someone who’d had their nose put out of joint.

Sheikh Zahir paused and, realising that she was grinning, she swiftly straightened her face.

‘What will you do until you pick us up, Metcalfe?’

‘I’ve got a book,’ she said quickly. Her message- competent chauffeurs were used to waiting around. They were ready for it.

Not actually true-the kind of jobs she was usually assigned didn’t leave a lot of spare time to catch up on her reading-but he was just being polite and she’d make sure she had one with her tomorrow. Always assuming there was a tomorrow.

Maybe it was time to start brushing up on her Blue Book-the taxi drivers’ bible that listed the shortest runs from a given point to any destination, the ‘Knowledge’ which had to be passed before a “cabbie” could get a licence.

Still he lingered. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t come into the gallery. Have something to eat. You could look at the pictures if the presentation bores you.’

Jolted out of her firm resolve not to make eye contact, she looked up. Swallowed. His smile had progressed to his mouth, tugging at one corner, lifting it a fraction, and something in the region below her ribcage flickered in response, taking her by surprise.

She covered the little gasp with a breathy, ‘Th-thank you.’ Then, firmly resisting the temptation to be led astray for the second time that day-he had chisel-cheeks to carry his bags, after all-she said, ‘I really should…’

‘Stay with the car?’ he finished for her, saving her from wavering.

‘It’s advisable.’ She gave an apologetic little shrug, then nodded in the direction of the gallery, cleared her throat and said, ‘Mr Pierce is waiting for you, sir.’

‘Zahir.’

‘Sir?’

‘Everyone who works for me calls me Zahir. It’s the modern way, I’m told. It’s not a mile away from “sir”, so maybe, if you tried very hard, you might manage it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The smile fading, he nodded, ‘Enjoy your book, Metcalfe.’

She watched him walk away. Still no flowing robes, just the standard male uniform of a dark suit, silk tie, although on Sheikh Zahir, she had to admit, it looked anything but standard.

Zahir.

She’d had the name in her head ever since Sadie had hauled her out of the minibus. Alone, she tried it on her tongue, her lips.

‘Zahir…’

Exotic.

Different.

Dangerous…

She shivered a little as the breeze came off the river, sweeping over the acres of concrete paving.

Snatches of jazz reached her from a party on boat cruising down the river and, despite the chill, she tugged off her gloves and hat and tossed them on to her seat. Then, having locked the car, she walked across to the railing that ran alongside the river, leaning her elbows on it, looking across at the familiar skyline, dominated by the dome of St Paul’s.

Focus, Diana, she told herself. Keep on your toes. This is not the time for playing dangerous games. No first name nonsense with the handsome prince. Fairy tales are for children.

This could be an opportunity to take a step up, earn enough to make your own dream into reality. Don’t mess it up just because the prince has a pair of dark eyes that look at you as if…

Forget if !

She’d done dark and dangerous and wasn’t making the same mistake again.

Freddy, her little boy, was her entire world. His future was in her hands, her duty was to him before anyone.

And, if that didn’t concentrate her mind, then all she’d have to do was remember the way the bank manager had looked at her when she’d done what their seductive advertisements on the television had encouraged her to do and had applied for a loan to buy a cab, start her own business. His four point response:

1. Single mother.

2. No bricks and mortar, not even ones mortgaged to the hilt as collateral.

3. No assets of any kind.

4. No thanks.

He might as well have patted her on the head and told her to run along. At the time she’d been so angry. Had promised herself she’d be back…

Two years later and she was still no closer to impressing him. And if she was idiot enough to lose her head over a sexy smile twice, then she’d only prove that he’d been right.

Zahir finished his brief presentation to the gathering of tour operators and travel journalists and was immediately buttonholed by the CEO of a top-of-the-range tour company, who was examining the display of photographs and the architect’s model of the Nadira Resort.

‘This is an interesting concept, Zahir. Different. Exactly the sort of thing our more discerning travellers are looking for. I imagine it’s going to be expensive?’

‘Reassuringly so,’ he said, knowing it was what the man wanted to hear. ‘Why don’t you talk to James? He’s organising a site visit and we’d love to show you what we’re offering.’

Zahir moved on, shaking hands, answering questions, issuing personal invitations to the hand-picked group of travel journalists and tour operators as he went.

Then the woman he was talking to moved to one side to let a waitress pass and he found himself looking straight out of one of the gallery’s tall, narrow windows. The car was still there, but Metcalfe was nowhere to be seen.

No doubt she was curled up on the back seat with her book. Maybe he could catch her out, watch as, blushing with confusion, she scrambled to straighten that ridiculous hat.

He’d enjoy that.

But she wouldn’t.

Metcalfe.

He’d offered his name, hoping for hers in return. She’d known it too and, wisely, had taken a step back from his implicit invitation to become something more than his driver. Well aware that, whatever ‘more’ he was offering, it wasn’t going to be something she would be interested in. And how could he tell her that she was wrong when he didn’t know himself what that was?