Forget
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?
Or maybe he was fooling himself. They both knew. Had both responded to that instant, unfathomable chemistry…
Maybe James was right after all. Lumley might be dull but he wasn’t distracting. He wouldn’t have given a moment’s thought about how he’d spend his time in the gaps between engagements. He certainly wouldn’t have asked him to come into the gallery, been eager to show him what he was doing. Talk about his plans…
‘Is your neutral energy target realistic, Sheikh Zahir?’ the woman prompted. ‘Really?’
‘We’re fortunate that solar energy is a year-round resource in Ramal Hamrah, Laura,’ he said, forcing himself to concentrate on the job in hand. He’d taken the time and trouble to memorize the names and faces of the people he was to meet. ‘I do hope you’ll come and see for yourself.’
‘Well, that’s the other problem, isn’t it? How can you justify expanding your tourist industry at a time when air travel is being cited as a major cause of carbon emission?’
‘By developing a new kind of airline?’ he offered with a smile. Then, remembering Metcalfe’s wry comment when he’d done the same thing in the toy store, regretted it. With a glance, he summoned James to his side. ‘James, Laura Sommerville is the Science Correspondent for
‘Laura…’ James smoothly gathered her up, enabling Zahir to excuse himself.
He tried not to look at his watch.
He was tiring of this kind of public relations exercise. His dreams were bigger these days. He was happier in the background, planning for the future. He had to find someone else to be the public face of this part of the business so that he could take a step back. Someone capable of fuelling the buzz of interest that would give his pet project wings.
Or maybe his desire to be somewhere else had less to do with ennui, more to do with wanting to be with someone else, he thought, doing his best not to snatch another glance out of the window. And failing.
Maybe it had everything to do with his unexpected, his unusual, his very lovely young chauffeur.
Distracted by a movement near the river, he saw that, far from being curled up with a book, Metcalfe was standing at the riverside railing, watching the lights come on across the river as dusk gathered. Hatless, her hair had been whipped loose by the breeze and, arms raised, she was attempting to twist it back into a knot…
A waitress paused in front of him with a tray, cutting off his view, and he moved to one side so that he did not lose sight of her as her jacket lifted, her shirt parted company with her waistband and she bared an inch of skin.
‘Canape, sir?’
‘Sorry?’
Then, registering what the waitress had said, he looked at her. Looked at the tray.
‘Thank you,’ he said and, having taken the tray, he headed for the door.
‘Some watchdog you are, Metcalfe. Anyone could have driven off with your precious car.’
Diana, who, despite all her best efforts, had been thinking about this extraordinarily beautiful man who’d invaded her thoughts, her life, jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice.
‘They could try,’ she said. ‘Of course, if they got past the locks and the alarm, there is still the global positioning gizmo.’
‘Those gizmos will get you every time,’ he said, joining her at the rail. Then, ‘So why didn’t you come into the gallery?’
‘Mr Pierce would not have approved,’ she said, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the north bank of the Thames. ‘Besides, this view is more interesting than a load of old paintings.’
‘“…all that mighty heart…”’ he prompted.
‘Wordsworth had it nailed, didn’t he?’ Unable to help herself, she glanced at him. ‘How many Englishmen could quote an Arabic poet, I wonder?’ Then, before he could embarrass them both by answering, ‘Did the party end prematurely?’
‘No, it’s in full swing.’
‘Oh.’ He’d come out to see her. She looked at the tray. He’d brought her food? ‘Does Mr Pierce know you’ve escaped?’
‘Escaped?’
‘You
‘On the contrary, the Nadira Resort is the star of the show. Besides, I distracted James with a serious young journalist who doubts my probity.’
‘Why?’
He offered her the tray. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’
She stared at it for a moment, then, with a little shake of her head, said, ‘No, why does she doubt your probity? Whatever that is.’
‘Maybe integrity is a better word.’ Then, ‘You know journalists. Natural cynics.’
‘That’s one word for it.’ Then, ‘Why would she believe James Pierce and not you?’
