The Sheikh's Unsuitable Bride Part 9

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 bra.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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?

Oh, get a grip, Di! Why on earth would a man with a stunningly beautiful princess hanging off his arm even look at you?

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 sungla.s.ses 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 pa.s.sion.

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 pa.s.senger was still stuffing papers into his doc.u.ment case. Stepping out of the car, he handed it to her.

'Come with me, Metcalfe.'

What?

'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 b.u.t.toned. 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'.

Who was that?

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 unb.u.t.toned 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 sungla.s.ses. She pushed them firmly up her nose, locked the car and, taking a deep breath, tucked the folder under her arm and went after him.

Zahir, having reached the safe haven of the yacht club's entrance lobby, stopped to gather himself.

He could not believe he'd said that. Had no excuse, other than the build-up of tension, seeing Diana so close, knowing that she was out of reach.

When she'd done that not-quite-meeting-his-eyes thing, something inside him had snapped and, knowing that an invitation wouldn't bring her to him, he'd made it an order. And then had made a remark so blatantly personal that her shock had been palpable.

Maybe that was the answer, he thought, as he eased his shoulders. Maybe, if she thought he was some kind of s.e.xual predator, she wouldn't have to fight quite so hard to contain that tormenting little smile...

'Zahir! I saw you arrive and was beginning to think you'd forgotten the way. Come on up...'

As Diana stepped inside the yacht club, everything went suddenly dark and, with the utmost reluctance, she pushed the gla.s.ses up into her hair and looked around.

A receptionist, regarding her with a smile, said, 'They're upstairs.'

'Oh, right. Thanks.'

Upstairs proved to be not offices but a restaurant and bar where Zahir and another man, of about the same age but slighter and with his face weathered by sun and sea, were standing.

They both turned as she approached. Zahir hesitated for no more than a heartbeat as he took in her appearance, before extending a hand to draw her into their conversation.

'Metcalfe, this is Jeff Michaels. He's going to buy us lunch.'

Lunch?

Zahir didn't wait for her to protest. Didn't give her time to consider whether she wanted to protest. That was probably a good thing, since he'd put her in a situation where it was impossible for her to tell him that this was seriously inappropriate. At least not without making them both look stupid.

Taking full advantage of her stunned silence-probably realising that it wouldn't last-he turned to his companion and said, 'Jeff, Diana Metcalfe is one of my UK team.'

'Delighted to meet you, Diana,' he said, offering his hand as if she were a real person. Reacting on automatic pilot, she took it, doing her best to respond to his welcoming smile. 'Can I get you something to drink?'

Um...Um...Um...

The confusion lingered, but thankfully the gibbering 'ums' remained locked up inside her head-'team' members did not 'um'-and, gathering herself, she said, 'Water, thanks. Still.'

Jeff nodded to the barman, glanced around at the busy bar and said, 'It'll be quieter on the terrace.' Before Zahir could answer, he turned to her, 'That's if you'll be warm enough, Diana?'

A little too warm if the truth were told, although it wasn't the ambient temperature that was heating her up but the fact that Zahir had hijacked her without so much as a by-your-leave.

What was he thinking?

Hadn't he learned a thing from his little moonlighting jaunt as a waiter? Food, more specifically feeding a woman, could lead a man into all kinds of temptation. Lead a woman, for that matter.

She tried not to look at him, but couldn't help herself. His face, however, offered no help, no clue to his thoughts. She'd seen him do that before, she realised, in the toy store, with a smile that was no more than a disguise. A mask to cover any hint of what he was feeling.

Then, and later when James Pierce had joined them, he'd given her a glimpse behind the mask, had drawn her into his private world with a silent invitation to become his fellow conspirator.

There was no smile hidden in the depths of his cool grey eyes now. Even the sensuous droop of his lower lip had been jacked up into a straight line.

Whatever he was thinking, he was making d.a.m.n sure no one else knew. Including her. And tempting though it was to provoke some kind of a response she very much doubted he'd be amused if she excused herself on the grounds that today she'd had the forethought to provide herself with a packed lunch.

Played the thanks-but-no-thanks, see-you-later gambit.

Instead she gave Jeff one of her best smiles and said, 'I'll be perfectly warm enough, thank you.'

'This way, then.' He lifted an avuncular arm to usher her towards the terrace, then, obviously thinking better of it, let it drop, instead leading the way to a sheltered corner.

It was one of those perfect May days, the temperature in the mid-seventies, with just enough breeze at the coast to fill the sails of a flotilla of dinghies that were making a picture postcard scene of the estuary.

'Do you sail?' Jeff asked, following her gaze.

'No.' She sat down. Then, smiling up at him, 'Never had the opportunity.'

'Hopefully you will do soon," Jeff replied.

'As I said, Metcalfe is part of my UK team,' Zahir interposed smoothly. 'I'm in the process of setting up an office in London. If everything goes to plan, James will stay here and run it.'

'Expensive. I'd have thought it would be more cost effective to leave this end of things to specialist travel agents.'

'For the purely tourist end of the business, I agree.'

'You're expanding your business?'

'A business not expanding is a business in decline.'

'Right...'

The steward arrived with their drinks and the menu, and taking advantage of the distraction, Zahir looked across at her and their shared knowledge was like an electric spark leaping across a vacuum.

'It's just bar meals at lunchtime during the week, I'm afraid,' Jeff said, apologising to her rather than Zahir, then, apparently catching the intensity of the look that pa.s.sed between them, fell silent.

'A sandwich is the most I ever eat in the middle of the day,' Diana said, filling the gap, when Zahir remained silent. 'And I don't always get that.' Then, when Jeff had gone through to the bar to place their order, she whispered urgently, 'What are you doing? Why am I here?'

For a moment she thought he wasn't going to answer, then, with a lift of his shoulders, he said, 'To create a level playing field.'

'What?'

'I find you distracting, Metcalfe. It's not your fault-you can't help how you look-but if I'm to be distracted, it's only fair that Jeff should be similarly handicapped. It seems to be working. He can't keep his eyes off you.'

She stared at him.

In her uniform, flat shoes, absolute minimum of make-up, she was about as distracting as lukewarm soup in the middle of winter. 'What on earth are you talking about?'

He blinked slowly and without warning a hot surge of colour rushed to her cheeks. 'Oh, no...'