The Sheik's Unsuitable Bride

by Liz Fielding

  Not exactly.

  ‘I’m afraid the way it looks is all people are interested in.’

  ‘No-o-o-o…’

  Sadie just sighed.

  ‘No. For what it’s worth, I believe you, but it makes no difference. It’s a good story and that’s all the tabloids care about. What does matter is that we’re under siege here.’

  ‘Siege?’

  ‘The hunters are out and you are the prey. Your name wasn’t in the paper but it didn’t take the sleaze-merchants long to find out which company is chauffeuring the Sheikh around London this week. I think we can safely assume that by now they have got not only your name but probably know the colour of the polish on your toenails.’

  ‘I’m not wearing polish on…’ She stopped. Sadie was speaking metaphorically. ‘Sadie, I am so sorry. I promise you it was all perfectly…’

  Innocent. She’d been going to say innocent. It wasn’t true.

  Innocent didn’t feel the way she’d felt last night when he’d kissed her. When he’d held her. Had raised her hand to his lips. She remembered the way her skin had warmed to his touch. How her lips had wanted more of him. The sweet liquid meltdown in the pit of her belly as he’d waltzed her around the Square. Made her feel like a princess.

  As for today…

  She had compared her foolishness to her moment of madness with Pete O’Hanlon. He had never looked at her the way Zahir had looked at her. Had never made her feel the way that Zahir…

  ‘Diana!’

  She jumped as Sadie shouted her name. Realised that she had been talking to her, expected some kind of response.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m in shock.’

  ‘Get a grip. You’ve got to keep your head. No doubt it’ll just be a nine-minute wonder-’

  ‘Less,’ she said, determined to reassure Sadie.

  It was already over.

  ‘Let’s hope so. I want you to take the rest of the week off. You’ve already got next week booked as leave for Freddy’s half term holiday and Sheikh Zahir will have left the country by then. And yes, before you ask, you’ll get paid. Your time will go on Sheikh Zahir’s account as a disruption expense. I hope he thinks one dance was worth it.’

  ‘No…’ That wasn’t fair. ‘Sadie…’

  But she was listening to the dialling tone. For a moment she sat there, numb with shock, then picked up her jacket and found her cellphone. She kept it switched off while she was driving, but the minute she thumbed it on she saw that she had more than a dozen voicemail messages.

  Several from Sadie. A terse ‘Call me’ from her mother. A couple from her father, who’d been getting calls from neighbours, newspapers. Three from tabloid journalists offering her money for her story-how on earth had they got this number?

  There were even two calls from gossip magazines offering sky’s-the-limit deals for her ‘Cinderella’ story, with pictures of her and her family in their ordinary little terraced house in Putney.

  They knew where she lived?

  And finally one from an infamous Public Relations guru warning her to say nothing, sign nothing, until she’d talked to him.

  It was like a verbal car wreck. Horrible, but so compelling that she couldn’t hit the ‘disconnect’ switch, and Sadie’s warning finally sank in.

  These people wouldn’t quit until they’d dredged up everything. How long would it be before someone was telling them that no one knew who Freddy’s father was? Implying that she didn’t know. That would really give them something to get their teeth into…

  ‘If you’ve finished calling your boyfriend?’ Zahir said, opening the rear door of the car. He’d removed his jacket and, as he tossed it into the back of the car the phone in her hand began to ring.

  Startled, she gave a little shriek and dropped it at her feet, where it continued to ring.

  ‘It’s not…’ she began, but her voice was shaking. Everything was shaking. ‘I wasn’t…’ The voicemail cut in and the phone finally stopped ringing.

  ‘Diana?’ Zahir’s soft query, no longer angry, just velvet concern, only made things worse. He opened the driver’s door, folded himself up so that he was on her level. ‘What on earth is the matter?’ Unable to speak, she just hung on to the steering wheel, her forehead against her hands. ‘Please…How can I help if you do not tell me?’

  She shook her head, her throat choked with rage and misery. At her feet, the phone began to ring again.

  Zahir reached in, picked it up and answered the call with an abrupt, ‘Yes?’ then listened for a moment before disconnecting the call without speaking again. Then he turned it off and placed it in his pocket.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Someone from a magazine called Hot Gossip. The woman addressed me by name?’ It was a question, one that required an answer, but all she could manage was a groan.

  How useless was that? How pitiful? As if sitting here drowning in the unfairness of it all was going to help.

  He had to know.

  She had to tell him.

  And, making an effort, she sat back, scrubbed at her cheeks with her hands and said, ‘The office have been trying to get in touch with me ever since our nightingale two-step became public knowledge at midday.’ She turned to face him, wanting to be sure that he understood. ‘That was when The Courier hit the streets.’ When he didn’t immediately respond, ‘I imagine Mr Pierce has been calling you too.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I imagine he has. But he can wait. I’m more concerned about you. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘You?’ She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing either of us can do except get on with life. It’s all we can ever do. Get on with it. And to do that I have to get home.’ Then, seeing his doubtful expression, ‘Don’t worry, it’s all been sorted.’ She began to explain the arrangements that Sadie and James had made but he brushed them aside.

  ‘You can’t go home, Diana. The paparazzi will have already staked out your house. It will be bedlam.’

  She’d seen such things on the television news. Politicians caught with their pants down, being door-stepped by the media. It wouldn’t be like that. This wasn’t the kind of story that made the nine o’clock news, but she had no doubt it would be uncomfortable and her father was there on his own.

  She glanced at her watch, checking the time. No, not on his own. He’d have been forced to confront them to fetch Freddy from school…

  She groaned. ‘Please, Zahir, get in. I have to get home right now!’

  He didn’t move. ‘I’m so sorry, Diana.’

  ‘Don’t…’ She shook her head. ‘This is my fault. You were just happy. If I’d behaved like a professional…’

  ‘Don’t be selfish with the guilt, ya habibati,’ he said, taking her hands, easing her to her feet, forcing her to look at him. ‘There’s always enough of that to go around.’ Then, ‘Call your family. Tell them that James will come and pick up your passport, an overnight bag. I can’t stop this, but I can get you away until it’s blown over…’

  ‘What?’

  What had he called her? A fool, an idiot, no doubt. Well, he had every right and he hadn’t done it unkindly, but almost tenderly. She shook her head. As if it mattered…

  ‘You expect me to run away and leave my family, the people I love, to face this on their own?’

  ‘If you’re not there…’

  ‘What? The journalists will just go away? They won’t ring endlessly, harass my parents? The neighbours? Freddy…’

  The horror of it hit her full force and, as her knees sagged, he released one hand to catch her, hold her close. And for a moment she leaned against him, clinging to him for support, for his strength, as the awfulness of it swept over her.

  It wouldn’t just be at the yard. It would be at her home, at school.

  And how long would it be before someone was gossiping about Freddy? Saw the possibilities of making a little hard cash out of old photographs, speculating on just who his father might be?

  She didn’t care about h
erself. She had protected Freddy then. Had outfaced her mother’s threats, her father’s tears, had even told the Child Support Agency where they could stick their money. It would take more than a bunch of journalists to shake it out of her. But it would make her visible, make Freddy visible. Drag it all up again, the gossip. And he was getting older, his face was firming up; if people started to look again, what might they see?

  No.

  Who would ever believe that Pete O’Hanlon would have even looked at the last virgin in the sixth form? But it would still be a total nightmare for her parents.

  Terrifying for a little boy.

  Zahir was right. Her home, the place where she could hold out against the world, knowing that her parents would support her, whatever she did, whatever it cost them, was no longer a haven.

  As she straightened, stood on her own two feet, she shivered. ‘It doesn’t matter about me, Zahir, but I can’t leave my family to deal with this on their own. I have to get my parents and Freddy out of there too.’

  Freddy.

  There it was. Zahir had known. He’d heard this man’s name on her lips, and seen her face as she’d spoken of him, but even while his head had understood what she was telling him, his heart had refused to believe it. Had clung to some forlorn hope…

  It was his heart that had called her his beloved.

  That she could never return his feelings, that he would never be her habibi, made no difference. She had made the nightingale sing for him, her smile had made the stars shine beneath his feet. She had given him a moment that he would carry with him always, but in doing so had brought this horror crashing about her. The least he could do in return was offer his protection to her and to all those she loved.

  Even now, as she looked up at him, as he felt the flutter of her pulse against his palm, he could scarcely believe that she loved another man. Her eyes seemed to tell him that all she wanted was for him to hold her against his heart, enfold her in his arms. Keep her from harm.

  ‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Call them and tell them to be ready.’

  She had mockingly called him ‘Galahad’ and she was right to mock. Even now, when there were a dozen things he had to do to make this happen, he wanted nothing more than to hold her, promise her his world.

  ‘Zahir…’ His name on her lips was so sweet, but he did not look at her as he stepped back.

  Did not dare look. What he was feeling meant nothing. He wasn’t Galahad offering her a pure heart. There was no fairy tale, no romance here.

  Worse, no honour.

  All he’d had to offer Diana Metcalfe was one night in his bed and, in making that offer, he’d broken the cardinal rules on which he’d so prided himself. Never to become involved with anyone who might get hurt. There wasn’t a thing he could do to prevent that now, other than give her sanctuary.

  ‘Call your family while I talk to James and make the necessary arrangements so that we can leave before someone uses your cellphone to track us here.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Not we. Never we. He could not go with her…

  ‘You and your family…’he could not bring himself to say her lover’s name ‘…will be my guests at Nadira Creek for as long as you need a refuge. And I promise you that, while you are there, it will be off limits to journalists.’

  Off limits to him.

  Zahir retrieved his jacket from the rear of the car, dug out his own phone and, leaving Diana to call home, he rang James Pierce.

  ‘Just listen,’ he said, cutting him off before he could start. ‘I want a private jet ready to leave Farnborough airfield early this evening.’ He checked his watch. ‘No later than seven o’clock. As soon as that’s arranged, call Sadie Redford and tell her to send someone she trusts with her life to pick up a party of three and their luggage from Diana’s home…’

  He opened the car door.

  ‘…I’m sorry, Freddy. Please, sweetie…’ Diana paused with the endearment on her lips, looked up. Her eyes were full of tears but there was nothing he could do. No comfort he could offer her. No comfort for him…

  ‘I need your address,’ he said. She blinked, not quite with him. Never with him…‘For James.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Then, ‘Actually, it might be better if they leave the house by the back way through Aunt Alice’s. Her garden backs on to ours. Ninety-two, Prince Albert Street.’

  ‘Aunt Alice’s,’ he repeated. ‘Will she be coming too?’

  She almost smiled but the dimple didn’t quite make it. ‘No, Zahir. She’s not a real aunt, just my mother’s best friend.’

  He nodded, walking away from the car as he gave James the details. ‘Tell Sadie Redford the change in plans. Tell her…Tell her I’ll bring the Mercedes back to London when I’ve dropped Diana at the airport. She can have someone pick it up at the hotel.’

  ‘You’re not going with her, then?’

  There was something in James’s tone that put an edge in his voice. He ignored it. ‘Why would I do that when I’m a guest at the Mansion House tonight? Something you might mention to any journalist you encounter who expresses an interest in my immediate plans. But you’ll have to cancel the Paris trip. I’m bringing forward the announcement of Ramal Hamrah Airways to tomorrow morning and I’ll be going home straight after that.’

  Ameerah would not forgive him for missing her party, but neither would Hanif and Lucy appreciate a Pied Piper trail of journalists invading their children’s party.

  At least he would make his mother happy. Hopefully give his father the grandson he desired. He owed them that.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I T WAS a nightmare.

  Zahir insisted on driving-and he was right, she was in no fit state to handle the big car-pushing the speed limit all the way to Farnborough. He’d been kind, gentle with her, but it didn’t take a genius to see that he couldn’t wait to rid himself of her.

  Who could blame him?

  The moment they arrived at the airfield-one favoured by the kind of men for whom the private jet was the standard form of transport and ironically a regular run for the limo drivers-he made his excuses.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said as, with one of the VIP hostesses standing by to whisk her away, he made a formal little bow. ‘Your family will be with you very shortly.’

  ‘You’d better get a move on,’ she said, forcing herself to look at her watch, to look away from his beautiful face, even though she knew it would be the last time she’d see him. Doing her best to keep it light. ‘It won’t do to keep the Prime Minister waiting.’ For heaven’s sake, she barely knew the man. Why then, did it feel like the end of the world? ‘But try not to get a speeding ticket or that’ll be another black mark against my name.’

  ‘I’ll take care, but if I miss the dinner the press will leap to the conclusion that we are…’ He faltered, a gesture filling the gap.

  He was protecting her? Or was he protecting himself?

  It didn’t matter!

  ‘You don’t have to draw a picture, Zahir. Go. Now. I’ll be fine.’

  And with another bow he turned and walked away from her. It was odd. He was wearing a casual suit, and yet in her mind he was wearing robes…

  ‘Would you like to freshen up while you’re waiting, Miss Metcalfe?’ The hostess, who had been standing at a discreet distance while Zahir had been with her, tactfully eased her into the sanctuary of a luxurious washroom where she offered a box of tissues.

  ‘I’ll come and fetch you when the rest of your party arrive.’

  It was only then that she realised that tears were pouring down her face, dripping on to her shirt, soaking it.

  Try as she might to forget, all she could think about was Zahir dismissing the dinner as unimportant when he was suggesting they sail across to France in his yacht. But for a freak wave they might even now be putting into some quaint Normandy harbour where she’d be waking in his arms to a French dawn, unaware of the furore…

  She shook her head. It would, in the end,
only have made things worse. She’d done the right thing. Even if it meant that Zahir thought she was…

  Well, he must have a pretty low opinion of a woman who’d responded so fervently to the kisses of someone who was practically a stranger when she was involved with another man.

  Had wanted him to do more than kiss her.

  No wonder he’d dropped her and run.

  She made an effort to stem the flow of tears she had no business shedding. Tidied herself up, directed the hand-drier at her shirt-as shirt days went, this was having a bad one-to dry herself off.

  Putting on a front before her mother arrived.

  Some hope.

  She must have broken some kind of record with her packing, because Diana was still struggling to put on lipstick with a shaky hand when the hostess came for her.

  Sadie’s father, Daniel Redford, the man who owned Capitol Cars but now left the day-to-day business to his daughter, had brought her family to the airfield in the back of the old black London cab that he used as a town car. Clever of Sadie. Far less noticeable than one of the burgundy Capitol cars. And kind too, to call on her father to help out an employee who’d given her such a headache.

  ‘I’m so grateful, Mr Redford…’ Oh, damn, the tears were threatening again.

  ‘It was no trouble. I enjoyed the cloak-and-dagger. We got away clean as a whistle,’ he said. Such a sweet man. ‘And don’t worry about the yard,’ he added, a reassuring hand to her elbow. The hacks are getting short shrift there. It’ll be nothing but a nine-minute wonder, you’ll see.’

  Her mother, who’d apparently rushed home from work when the phone calls had started, was not sweet.

  On the contrary, she was livid, and it was only Freddy’s presence that kept her from speaking her mind. Her father, painfully, seemed unable to look at her. Even Freddy-normally the sweetest-natured of boys-had turned sulky because she’d missed the parents’ evening at school.

  So much for putting him first…

  Maybe it was a good thing that Zahir hadn’t stayed to witness the fact that not one member of her family was talking to her. The ‘not again…’ looks her mother was giving her. At least until they were ushered aboard the private jet, at which point she was too distracted by the kind of luxury that only the super-rich could afford to keep it up.