Nicola Marsh - An Ordinary Girl and a Sheikh - The Sheikh's Unsuitable Bride / Rescued by the Sheikh / The Desert Prince's Proposal

Diana Metcalfe was not one of those women.

And he did not feel light-hearted.

Yet, even when he recognised the need for duty before pleasure, he still wanted to hear his name on her lips, wanted to carry her smile with him. Couldn’t rid himself of the scent of her skin, the sweet taste of her that lingered on his lips, a smile than went deeper the more he looked, a smile that faded to a touch of sadness.

He’d need all his wits about him this evening if he was going to pull off the biggest deal of his career to date and all he could think about was what had made the light go out of her eyes. Who had made the light go out of her eyes …

And, on an impulse, he lifted the card he was still holding, caught a trace of her scent. Nothing that came from a bottle, but something warm and womanly that was wholly Diana Metcalfe.

He stuffed it into his pocket, out of sight, dragged both hands through his hair, repeating his earlier attempt to erase the tormenting thoughts. He should call James right now and tell him to contact the hire company and ask them to provide another driver for tomorrow. Maybe, if she was out of sight, he could put her out of his mind.

But even that escape was denied him.

His first mistake, and it had been entirely his, was not to have kissed her, not even to have allowed himself to be distracted by her; he’d have to have been made of wood not to have been distracted by her. His first mistake had been to talk to her. Really talk to her.

He’d talked to Jack Lumley, for heaven’s sake, but he’d known no more about the man after a week in his company than he had on day one.

Diana didn’t do that kind of polite, empty conversation.

He’d said she was a ‘natural’, but she was more than that. Her kind of natural didn’t require quotation marks. Diana Metcalfe was utterly unaffected in her manner. Spoke first, thought second. There was no fawning to please. None of the schooled politeness that the Jack Lumleys of this world had down to a fine art.

He wouldn’t, couldn’t, ruin her big chance, send her back to the ‘school run’ when she’d done nothing wrong.

He was the one breaking all the rules and he was the one who’d have to suffer.

Maybe an evening brokering the kind of financial package required to launch an airline would have much the same effect as a cold shower, he thought as he watched the tail lights of the car disappear.

Or maybe he just needed to get a grip.

‘Excellency.’ The maître a” greeted him warmly as he led the way to a private dining room, booked for this very discreet dinner. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘And you, Georges.’

But as he followed him up the wide staircase he deliberately distanced himself from this international, cosmopolitan world. Reminded himself with every step of his own culture, his own future. Demonstrated it by enquiring after the man’s family, his wife, not as he’d learned to do in the west, but in the Arab manner, where to mention a man’s wife, his daughters, would be an insult.

‘How are your sons?’ he asked, just as his father, his grandfather would have done.

Diana drove back to the yard, filled in her log, wrapped the shattered remains of the snow globe in a load of newspaper before disposing of it. Vacuum cleaned the inside of the car.

Even managed a bite of the sandwich she’d picked up at the local eight-’til-late.

But keeping her hands busy did nothing to occupy her brain. That was away with the fairies and would keep reliving that moment when he’d kissed her and, for just a moment, she’d felt like a princess.

Zahir had wanted to send Diana away, had planned to call at eleven and tell her to go home, but somehow the moment had passed and when, leaving the restaurant, he saw her waiting for him, he knew that his subconscious had sabotaged his good intentions. And could not be anything but glad.

It wasn’t solitude he needed at this moment, but the company of someone with whom he could share his excitement. Someone who had a smile that reached deep inside him and heated him to the heart.

‘You’ve had a long day, Metcalfe. Can you spare another five minutes?’

‘Yes … Yes, of course. Where do you want to go?’

‘Nowhere. Will you walk around the square with me?’

Maybe he’d got the formula right this time, or maybe she caught something of the excitement he’d had to suppress in the presence of the financiers, but which was now fizzing off him. Whatever it was, she clicked the key fob to secure the car and fell in beside him.

‘There are no stars,’ he said, looking up. ‘The light pollution in London robs you of the sky. If we were in the desert the night would be black, the stars close enough to touch.’

‘It sounds awesome.’ Then, as he glanced at her, ‘I meant …’

‘I know what you meant,’ he said. She wasn’t using teenage slang, but using the word as it was meant to be used. ‘And you’re right. It’s empty. Cold. Clean. Silent but for the wind. It fills a man with awe. Reminds him how small he is. How insignificant.’

‘Did your meeting not go well?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Better than I could ever have imagined.’ A rare take-it-or-leave-it arrogance had carried him through dinner tonight. He’d cut through the waffle and, refusing to play the games of bluff and counter-bluff, had gone straight to the bottom line, had told them what he wanted, what he was prepared to offer. Maybe his passion had convinced them. ‘Beyond the four of us at dinner tonight, you are the first to know what the world will hear two days from now. That Ramal Hamrah is about to have its own airline.’

‘Oh.’ Then, ‘That is big.’

‘Every deal is big, only the numbers change.’ Then, looking down at her, ‘When you buy your pink taxi it will be huge.’

‘It’ll be a miracle,’ she said with feeling, ‘but, if it ever happens, I promise you that I’ll look up at the stars and remind myself not to get too big for my boots.’

He took her arm as they crossed the road and, when they reached the safety of the footpath, he tucked it safely beneath his before once more looking up at the reddish haze of the sky and said, ‘Not in London, Metcalfe.’ For a moment she’d frozen, but maybe his use of her surname reassured her and, as she relaxed, he moved on. ‘I suppose you could go to the Planetarium.’

‘Not necessary. In London you don’t look up to see the stars. You look down.’ He frowned and she laughed. ‘Didn’t you know that the streets of London aren’t paved with gold, they’re paved with stars.’

‘They are?’

He looked down and then sideways, at her. ‘Obviously I’m missing something.’

‘We’re in Berkeley Square?’ she prompted. ‘And?’

‘You’ve never heard the song?’ She shook her head. ‘Why would you? It’s ancient.’

Berkeley Square … Something snagged in his memory, a scratchy old record his grandfather used to play. ‘I thought it was about a nightingale.’

‘You do know it!

‘I remember the tune.’ He hummed a snatch of it and she smiled.

‘Almost,’ she said, laughing. ‘But it’s not just the nightingale. There’s a line in there about stars too.’ She lifted her shoulders in an awkward little shrug. ‘My dad used to sing it to my mum,’ she said, as if she felt she had to explain how she knew. ‘They used to dance around the kitchen …’

‘Really?’ He found the idea enchanting. ‘Like this?’ And as he turned his arm went naturally to her waist. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Sing …’ he commanded.

Diana could not believe this was happening. There were still people about—Zahir’s kind of people, men in dinner jackets, women in evening clothes—heading towards the fashionable nightclubs in the area to celebrate some special occasion. Laughing, joking, posing as someone took photographs with a camera phone.