any further distractions from the rear of the car.
Sheikh Zahir, having teased her once, presumably in repayment for that ‘dancing’ remark, was apparently too absorbed by the paperwork he’d brought with him to bother once they were on their way.
Which should have been a relief.
But it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop.
First her shoulder muscles began to tighten up, then her neck stiffened with the effort of keeping her mouth shut. Would music disturb him?
She glanced in the mirror, saw that he was deep in concentration. Had, apparently, forgotten she was there. An example she’d do well to follow.
Zahir stared at the papers in front of him, doing his best to concentrate on the figures, trying not to think about the woman in front of him, the nape of her neck exposed by hair swept up under her cap. Hair that even now was escaping in soft tendrils that brushed against her pale skin.
Trying not to think about how that hair, that skin had felt against his hand. The way his hand had nestled so neatly into her waist. How her fingers had felt against his lips.
His sister’s email, annoying though it had been, had brought him firmly back to earth and he was resolute in his determination that this charming but, ultimately, foolish flirtation he’d begun without a thought for the consequences must go no further. Diana Metcalfe deserved better from him.
His family deserved better from him.
Today, he reminded himself, was all about the marina at Nadira Creek.
Lunch at the local yacht club with the CEO of the chandlery with whom he was negotiating a contract to run the dockside services for him. Then a tour of the Sweethaven Marina to take a look at the facilities offered at the top end of the business, which would also give him a chance to check out the latest in state-of-the-art sailing dinghies, diving equipment, windsurfers.
Last, but definitely not least, a visit to the boatyard to look at the yacht he’d commissioned more than a year ago and was now ready for his pre-delivery inspection.
And that was the only indulgence he would permit himself on this trip; the silk finish of polished mahogany and gleaming brass were a great deal safer than the touch of soft ivory skin. Warm lips.
Finalising the details of a contract was considerably less dangerous than teasing Diana Metcalfe in the hope of another glimpse of an errant dimple that appeared at the corner of her mouth when she was battling not to smile. And losing.
Safer all round than provoking her into forgetting to be polite, to just be herself. And then kissing her. Waltzing her along London streets…
He took out the folder detailing the management fees, working through the list of queries James had detailed, equally firm in his resolve not to catch her eye in the mirror.
Not to ask about her family. Why it was her father ‘used’ to sing to her mother. And, presumably, didn’t now. Her life.
Ask her why, when she wasn’t smiling, she sometimes looked a little…lost.
Diana checked the mirror as she approached a roundabout, joined the motorway. Sheikh Zahir was working, concentrating on the file he was holding, and yet she had the strongest feeling that, a split second before she’d glanced up, he’d been looking not at his papers, but at her, waiting for that moment when she’d checked the mirror, met his gaze.
Or maybe that was what she wanted to believe.
She was clearly going crazy.
It wasn’t that she doubted his readiness to flirt; he’d already proved himself to be world class in the subject and she’d promised herself that today she wouldn’t be drawn in, but keep her cool. Be a professional. Not because she knew James Pierce would rat on her to Sadie in a heartbeat if he suspected she’d stepped over some invisible, but definite, line in the sand. No matter how great the temptation. And she had been tempted; admitting to it made resistance easier.
Not because of her job, but because, to Sheikh Zahir, it would be no more than a diversion.
Probably.
No! Absolutely.
Utterly meaningless.
In which case, why would he think twice about snagging her attention? If it meant nothing, he’d do it. Wouldn’t he?
Good question. He had looked, looked again and then he’d touched, danced…
Maybe he couldn’t help himself. If the newspapers were anything to go by, powerful men often couldn’t. Help themselves. And power was, or so she’d heard, an aphrodisiac. Women probably threw themselves at him all the time. Maybe he considered her, as his female driver, to be fair game. A perk of the job.
A little squeak of distress escaped her and she caught a movement in the mirror as he looked up. Then, after a moment, looked away.
No. That was wrong.
Zahir wasn’t like that.
He hadn’t kissed her like that.
It hadn’t been a grope. It had been the sweetest kiss. And if he’d expected more, he would never have left her last night, walked away.
Nevertheless, she took her sunglasses from the dashboard, flicked them open and put them on. A personal safety barrier against further eye-contact in the mirror, accidental or not.
A long, silent hour later, she pulled into the car park on the quay at Sweethaven, once a small fishing port but now the playground for well-heeled yachting types with all the money in the world to indulge their passion.
Tucked into folds of the Downs, where the river widened into an estuary before running into the sea, the small, picture-perfect town was well served with expensive shops and attractive restaurants.
The whole place positively shouted money; or was that the sound of ropes, or sheets, or whatever they were called, clanging against the masts of the flotilla of expensive yachts moored in the marina?
She opened the rear door while her passenger was still stuffing papers into his document case. Stepping out of the car, he handed it to her.
‘Come with me, Metcalfe.’
‘Um…’
He glanced back. ‘Lose the hat.’
Her hand flew, in a protective gesture, to her head.
‘You don’t like it?’ she demanded, completely forgetting her determination to keep her lip buttoned. Or that she loathed the thing herself.
Drawing attention to herself was a mistake. He stopped, turned, taking a slow tour of her appearance, from sensible shoes, via trousers cut for comfort, a slightly fitted collarless jacket that was cut short above her hips until, finally, his gaze came to rest on that hat.
‘I don’t like anything you’re wearing. Be grateful it’s only the hat I want you to take off.’
For a moment she stood open-mouthed, but he’d already turned away and was walking towards a two-storey stone building with a sign that read ‘Sweethaven Yacht Club’.
And what had he done with the Sheikh Zahir she’d danced with last night?
To think she’d been giving him the benefit of…
‘Grateful!’ She tossed the hat, along with her driving gloves, into the car. Then, on an impulse, she unbuttoned her jacket and added it to the pile and pulled out one of Capitol’s burgundy sweatshirts that she’d stowed in case of emergencies-you wouldn’t want to change a wheel in your best uniform jacket-and knotted it around her shoulders. Pulled a face at her reflection in the wing mirror. ‘At least the man has taste.’
There was, she reminded herself, the beautiful princess as prima facie evidence of the fact. Which was maybe why, having removed her jacket, she clung to the safety barrier of the sunglasses. She pushed them firmly up her
