The Sheik's Unsuitable Bride

by Liz Fielding

  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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  S UMMONED 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.

  James Pierce, alerted by her response to the fact that she was not Jack Lumley, said, ‘This is outrageous.’ And he was looking at her when he said it.

  Actually it couldn’t just be the voice.

  She didn’t have one of those cut-glass BBC accents, but her mother had been a stickler for good diction and, apart from the occasional lapse, her speech could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be described as ‘outrageous’.

  It had to be the dimple, something she should have grown out of, along with the puppy fat. It was an embarrassment for anyone who expected to be taken seriously. Treated as a grown-up. Old enough to have a driving licence, let alone be behind the wheel of a limousine.

  ‘When I made the booking with Capitol Cars I specifically requested…’

  ‘Jack Lumley is sick,’ Sheikh Zahir said, cutting him short.

  ‘I’ll call Sadie. She mu
st have someone else available.’

  Diana couldn’t see James Pierce in the mirror, but from the moment he’d opened his mouth she did not like him and he wasn’t doing one thing to change her mind.

  His superior suit went with his attitude. She might be dumb enough to believe that they were on the same side, but he wasn’t buying it. But then a man ‘who makes everything work’ for a billionaire sheikh probably wasn’t.

  ‘Why would we need someone else?’ Sheikh Zahir intervened. ‘Metcalfe is a-’

  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?

  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 The Courier…’

  ‘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.