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

‘I did it for you, Han. For you I would surrender my life.’

That finally brought a smile to his cousin’s face. ‘Surrendering your life is easy, Zahir. Take it from one who’s been there. It’s the living of it that takes effort.’

‘No one could accuse me of neglecting that duty.’ He worked hard, played hard, lived hard. ‘But it’s time to do something to show my feelings for him. Respect his wishes.’

‘If it’s written, insh’ Allah, whether it is your mother’s wish or your own, it will happen and I wish you happy of your bride.’

‘You believe in fate?’

Hanif sounded so certain, but then he’d seen for himself how fate had tossed the lovely Lucy Forrester into his cousin’s arms. Who could have foreseen that in his future?

Or that the deliciously curvy and delightfully offbeat Metcalfe would be at the wheel of his car today.

‘Can I borrow Ameerah for a moment? My driver found her the snowstorm when my original gift was broken. I’d like her to know that it was appreciated.’

‘Her?’ Hanif’s brow scarcely moved. But it moved.

Diana checked her watch. It was time to go and bring the car round to the front but, as she stood up, the sitting room door burst open and a lanky, olive-skinned, dark-haired girl launched herself through it.

‘Thank you!’ she exclaimed dramatically. ‘Thank you so much for finding me the snowstorm. I absolutely love it!’

Diana, taken aback by such an over-the-top performance, looked up, seeking a responsible adult.

What she got was Sheikh Zahir, leaning on the door frame. Oh. Right. This was his doing …

‘I’m very glad you like it, Princess Ameerah. Are you having a lovely party?’

‘Oh, we’re not having a party today. I had school and Mummy has to go out tonight. We’re going to take all my class out on Saturday. We’re going on a canal boat trip to the zoo and having a picnic. I begged Zahir to come but he said that it’s up to you.’

‘Me?’

‘You’re his driver!’ ‘Oh, I see.’

Diana glanced up at the man leaning casually against the door frame. His expression was giving nothing away and yet she had the strongest impression that he was making a point. Reassuring her that she wouldn’t be reduced to the minibus, perhaps?

‘I promise,’ she said, turning back to the child, ‘that, whoever is driving Sheikh Zahir, he’ll have absolutely no excuse not to be at your party.’

‘You see!’ Princess Ameerah, triumphant, swung round to face him. ‘I told you it would be all right.’

‘So you did.’ He ruffled her curls. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday, Trouble.’

She ran off, but Zahir remained. ‘Whoever is driving?’ he repeated.

‘Jack Lumley will be back at work long before Saturday.’ ‘But do I want him when you’re so much more entertaining?’

Entertaining!

‘Please,’ she begged, ‘whatever you do, don’t use that word if you speak to Sadie Redford. This is my big chance and I’m doing my best to be totally efficient, one hundred per cent VIP chauffeur material. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m not a “natural” and if you suggest that I’m “entertaining” I’ll be finished.’

‘I won’t say a word, Metcalfe, but it’s not true, you know. Natural is exactly what you are.’

She made a valiant effort to keep the groan silent. She wasn’t entirely successful.

‘I know what I am. Not the first driver you’d think of if you were looking for someone to take the wheel of the newest limousine in Capitol’s fleet.’

‘You’re doing just fine.’ Then, before she was overcome with gratitude, ‘Just promise that you won’t abandon me to the dull and efficient Jack Lumley and I won’t breathe a word about just how “natural” you can get to Sadie Redford.’

She swallowed. ‘You wouldn’t …’

‘Shall we go?’

Oh … sheikh …

‘I’m just going to bring the car round,’ she said and, aiming for Miss Efficiency, checked her watch—anything to avoid those dark, amused eyes that were inviting her to be ‘entertaining’. ‘Five minutes?’

‘Why don’t I just come out the back way with you?’ he replied, standing back and inviting her to lead the way. ‘It’ll save you having to drive round the block, wasting precious natural resources.’

Was there the slightest stress on the ‘natural’, or was she becoming paranoid?

Buttoning her lip, she fought down all and every quip that sprang to her mind and neither of them said another word until she pulled up at the entrance to his hotel, where a top hatted commissionaire opened the door.

‘Seven forty-five, Metcalfe,’ Sheikh Zahir said as he stepped out.

‘Yes, sir.’

Top Hat waved her into the parking bay reserved for the privileged few. ‘You can wait there.’

Her brain was saying, Me? Really?

Maybe it was shock, or maybe her lip was so firmly buttoned up that the words couldn’t escape. Instead, having managed a polite nod, she pulled over as if she’d expected nothing less.

It wasn’t, after all, personal, she reminded herself. The honour was being bestowed on her passenger. On the car, even. On her Capitol uniform. It had absolutely nothing to do with her.

She called Sadie to reassure her that everything was still going according to plan and updated her on the traffic situation. Then she climbed out, walked around the car, duster in hand, checking for the slightest smear on the immaculate dark red paintwork, the gleaming chrome.

A couple of other chauffeurs nodded, passed the time of day, admiring her car, querying its handling, apparently accepting that, despite the missing chromosome, if someone had entrusted her with such a beast, she was one of them.

Maybe, she thought, she was the only one who was stopping that from being a fact. Living down to her image—single mother, relying on her parents for a roof over her head, help with childcare—rather than living up to her aspirations.

Maybe she’d become so used to hearing what she couldn’t do, how limited her options were, that she’d begun to believe it.

Even the dream of owning her own taxi—where, as a teenager, she’d dreamed of owning a fleet of them, all pink, all with women drivers—had been reduced to little more than a family joke.

Next year you’ll be driving your own taxi, Di …

Ho, ho, ho.

SUMMONED by the commissionaire, Diana was waiting at the kerb as Sheikh Zahir emerged from the hotel. This time he was not alone, but accompanied by a chisel-featured younger man blessed with the kind of cheekbones that could slice cheese.

Since he was the one carrying the laptop, he was, presumably, like her, a member of the ‘bag-carrying’ classes. Although, by the cut of his suit—and his hair—he outranked her by a considerable distance.

There was no mishap this time, probably because Top Hat was on hand to do the honours with the door and no one—not even a small boy—would have dared get in the way of his impressive figure.

The minute her passengers were settled she eased smoothly into the traffic, heading for the South Bank, managing, for once in her life, to remain ‘politely anonymous’.

She had barely finished congratulating herself on this rare accomplishment when Sheikh Zahir said, ‘Metcalfe, this is James Pierce. He’s the man who makes everything work for me. You may, on occasion, be required to ferry him to appointments.’

‘Sir,’ she said, taking his tone from him. She was doing really well until, waiting for the lights to change, she made the mistake of glancing in the mirror and looking straight into his eyes. They did not match his voice. And his expression suggested that he wasn’t fooled for a minute by her lapse into formality and her traitorous mouth let her down and smiled at him. A mistake.