An Ordinary Girl and a Sheikh: The Sheikh's Unsuitable Bride / Rescued by the Sheikh / The Desert Prince's Proposal

He’d had to work hard to make that happen.

Until he’d got a grip on it, tourism had been considered little more than a sideshow alongside the oil industry. Only a few people had had the vision to see what it could become, which meant that neighbouring countries were already light years ahead of them.

Perhaps it was as well; unable to challenge the dominance of states quicker off the starting blocks, he’d been forced to think laterally, take a different path. Instead of high-rise apartments and hotels, he’d gone for low impact development using local materials and the traditional styles of building to create an air of luxury—something entirely different to tempt the jaded traveller.

Using the desert as an environmental spectacle, travelling on horseback and camel train, rather than as a rip-’em-up playground for sand-surfers and dune-racers. Re-opening long-ignored archaeological sites to attract a different kind of visitor fascinated by the rich history of the area.

And a change of attitude to international tourism in the last year or so had given him an edge in the market; suddenly he was the visionary, out in front.

Out in front and on his own.

‘… you don’t have children of your own …’

Well, when you were building an empire, something had to give. A situation that his mother was doing her best to change. Even as he sat in the back of this limousine, watching Metcalfe’s glossy chestnut hair unravel, she was sifting through the likely applicants for the vacant post of Mother-Of-His-Sons, eager to negotiate a marriage settlement with the lucky girl’s family.

Make his father happy with the gift of a grandson who would bear his name.

It was the way it had been done for a thousand years. In his culture there was no concept of romantic love as there was in the West; marriage was a contract, something to be arranged for the mutual benefit of two families. His wife would be a woman he could respect. She would run his home, bear his children—sons who would bring him honour, daughters who would bring him joy.

His gaze was drawn back to the young woman sitting in front of him, the soft curve of her cheek glimpsed in the reflection of the driving mirror. The suggestion of a dimple.

She had the kind of face that would always be on the point of a smile, he suspected, smiling himself as he reran the range of her expressions—everything from horror as she’d let slip a word that was definitely not in the Polite Chauffeur’s Handbook, through blushing confusion, in-your-face take-it-or-leave-it cheek and finally, touchingly, concern.

Glass. For a child. What on earth had he been thinking? What had James been thinking?

That was the point. They hadn’t been. He’d just ordered the most expensive, the most desirable version of the child’s wish and James had, as always, delivered.

A wife wouldn’t have made that mistake.

Metcalfe wouldn’t have made that mistake.

Nor would she settle for a relationship based on respect, he suspected. Not with that smile. But then she came from a different world. Lived a life unknown to the young virgins from among whom his mother would look for a suitable bride.

Very different from the sophisticated high-achieving career women who he met in the line of business, who lived their lives more like men than women, although what she lacked in gloss, sophistication, she more than made up for in entertainment value.

He dragged his fingers through his hair, as if to erase the unsettling thoughts. He didn’t have time for ‘entertainment’. And, with marriage very much on the agenda, he shouldn’t even be thinking about it.

As it was, he had to snatch this hour to celebrate a little girl’s birthday out of a crammed schedule when he should, instead, be concentrating on the reception for travel journalists and dinner with the men who had the financial power to make his airline a reality.

‘Are you a permanent fixture, Metcalfe?’ he asked. ‘Or will Jack Lumley be back on duty tomorrow?’

‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ she said, glancing up to look in the rear-view mirror, briefly meeting his gaze, before returning her attention to the road. ‘He was taken ill earlier today.’ Then, ‘I’m sure the company could find you someone else in the meantime, if you insisted.’

‘Someone with a beard?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Her dimple had disappeared. She wasn’t smiling now. Not even close. She thought he objected to a female chauffeur?

‘And if I did?’ something made him persist. ‘What would you be doing tomorrow?’

Her eyes flickered back to him. They were green, like the smudge of new leaves in an English hedgerow in April.

‘If I’m lucky I’ll be back at the wheel of a minibus, doing the school run.’

‘And if you’re unlucky?’

‘Back at the wheel of a minibus, doing the school run,’ she repeated, letting loose another of those smiles, albeit a somewhat wry one, as she pulled into the forecourt of a massive toy store. She slid from behind the wheel but he was out of the car before she could open the door for him and looking up at the façade of the store she’d chosen.

It hadn’t occurred to him to dictate their destination. Jack

Lumley would have taken him to Harrods or Hamleys, having called ahead to check which of them had what he was looking for, ensuring that it would be gift-wrapped and waiting for him, charged to his account.

No waiting.

No effort.

Like an arranged marriage.

A gust of wind whipped across the vast forecourt of the store and Diana grabbed for her hat, clutching it to her head.

Sheikh Zahir had made no move to enter, but was staring up at the storefront and, heart sinking, she realised that she’d got it wrong.

Sadie was right. She wasn’t equipped for this …

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This isn’t what you expected.’

He glanced back at her. ‘I left the decision to you.’

True. And she’d made her best judgement …

‘I thought it would be quicker,’ she explained. ‘It’s certainly easier to park.’ Then, ‘And, to be honest, you don’t quite meet the Knightsbridge dress code.’

‘There’s a dress code?’ He turned to look at her. ‘For shopping?’

‘No bare feet. No sports shoes. No jeans. No backpacks.’ She faltered, realising just how foolish she must sound. As if anyone would turn him away for being inappropriately dressed. ‘Not that you’re carrying a backpack.’

‘But I tick all the rest of your boxes.’

‘I expect it’s different for royalty.’

‘Just as well not to risk it,’ Sheikh Zahir said gently. If he was laughing at her, he was being kind enough not to do it out loud.

On the point of congratulating herself that she wasn’t such a juggins after all, he said, ‘Okay. Let’s do this.’

Let’s. As in ‘let us’. We.

‘You want me to come in with you?’

‘Surely you were told that royalty never carries its own bags?’

Now she was quite sure he was laughing.

‘The rumour is that they don’t carry money either and you should know that I can’t help you there.’ Then, ‘Besides, I really shouldn’t leave the car.’

‘Are you refusing to come with me?’ he enquired, a faint edge beneath the chocolate silk of his unbelievably sexy accent. A reminder that she was there at his bidding. ‘The school run is that appealing?’

Maybe she’d been too quick to leap to judgement on the ‘kind’, she decided, locking the door and following him without another word.

Inside a store of aircraft hangar proportions, aisle upon aisle of shelves were stocked with everything a child—and quite a few grown-ups—could possibly desire.

Diana found herself staring at the shopping trolleys, the serve-yourself warehouse-style shelving, not through her own eyes, but through the eyes of a man for whom ‘self-service’ was undoubtedly an unexplored concept.

It was most definitely another one of those ‘oh, sheikh’ moments.

‘So much for this being quicker,’ he said, looking around. ‘How on earth do you find what you’re looking for?’

‘With difficulty,’ she admitted, realising that at one of those Top People’s stores, someone would have found exactly what he was looking for in an instant. ‘The, um, idea is to get you to pass as many shelves as possible. That way you’re more likely to impulse buy.’ Then, ‘How many people, do you suppose, leave with the one item they came in to buy?’

He turned to look at her. ‘That sounds like the voice of experience.’

‘Isn’t that what I’m here for? My experience? You’re the one who bought something made of glass for a little girl.’ ‘Actually …’He stopped, shook his head. ‘I take your point, although I’m now beginning to think I’d be better advised to buy Ameerah shares in the company.’

‘Shares in a toy shop?’ she said, clutching her hands to her heart. ‘Now why didn’t my parents think of that?’

‘Because they’re not so much fun to play with, I imagine,’ he said seriously. ‘Not what a little girl imagines for her birthday surprise.’

‘True, but just think what I could do with them now.’ His brows rose slightly, inviting an explanation. ‘Instead of the five-minute gratification of a plastic car for my favourite doll, I could now afford to buy my own taxi. Be my own boss.’ Then, because his eyebrows lifted another millimetre, ‘I’d go for the fun version in sparkly pink, obviously …’

CHAPTER TWO

ZAHIR watched as Metcalfe swiftly turned and walked across to the enquiry desk, jolted out of his preconceived notion of who she was, what she was.

Not just an attractive young woman at the wheel of a car, but an attractive young woman with aspirations, dreams.

Not so long ago, he’d been there.

People assumed that because he had been born the grandson of the Emir of Ramal Hamrah life had fallen into his lap. Maybe they had a point. He’d been indulged, he knew that, with every benefit that life could bestow, including a privileged education in England, the freedom of post-graduate studies in America. But there was a price to pay.

Duty to his country, obedience to the family.

He’d spent two years in the desert, with his own life on hold, as companion to his grieving cousin. His reward had come when Hanif, seeing that his heart lay not with the slow-grinding wheels of government, but in the fast-moving world of big business, had given him his first chance. Had given his own precious time to convince his father that he should be allowed to tread his own path.

Had taken time to explain that what he was doing was as important for his country as playing the diplomat, the courtier, particularly when he would be such a reluctant one.

Even so, he’d had to go to the market for the money he’d needed to build his empire from the ground up, but, while his name could not guarantee success, he knew it had opened doors for him. People had been polite, inclined to listen, because of who he was, whereas even now he could see that his chauffeur was getting the most grudging attention from the assistant at the desk.

‘Do they have what we’re looking for?’ he asked, joining her.

‘Who knows?’

As she went to ask for help from an assistant, Diana was desperately wishing she’d gone for the obvious shopping destination instead of trying to be clever. In Knightsbridge she would have had to stay with the car to fend off the traffic warden while he ‘shopped’ all by himself.

‘If they have any they’ll be with the novelty items.’ Her imitation of the assistant’s couldn’t-be-bothered gesture, made without looking up from whatever she was finding so gripping in the magazine she was reading, was meant to be ironic. ‘Over there, apparently.’

Maybe Sheikh Zahir didn’t ‘get’ irony because he turned to the woman behind the desk and said, ‘We don’t have a great deal of time …’ he paused to check out her name tag ‘…Liza. Would you be kind enough to show us exactly where we can find what we’re looking for?’

She turned a page and said, ‘Sorry. I can’t leave my desk.’

Big mistake that, Diana thought, warmed by his ‘we’.

‘I can’t’, as she’d already discovered for herself, did not impress him one bit.

‘The sign above your desk says “Customer Service”,’ he pointed out and then, as she sighed and finally looked up, he smiled at her.

Diana watched, torn between outrage and amusement as, without another word, the assistant leapt to her feet and scurried round the desk.

‘This way,’ she said, switching on a smile of her own. One of the hundred watt variety.

‘We seem to have beaten the system, Metcalfe,’ Sheikh Zahir said as, with a gesture, he invited her to follow the woman.

‘Nice work,’ she said, ‘but somehow I don’t think that technique would work for me.’

That earned her a smile of her own. Rather less than he had used on the assistant, but at the same time more, she thought.

Less teeth. More eyes.

‘You use what you have,’ he said with a shrug.

Fortunately, before she was called upon to reply, they arrived at a shelf lined with a colourful selection of snow globes.

‘Cinderella. Snow White. The Princess and the Frog.’ The assistant, her attention now fully engaged by Sheikh Zahir, indicated the range on display. She couldn’t have been more enthusiastic if she’d made each one personally. By hand.

‘Thank you,’ Sheikh Zahir said as he picked up the Princess and the Frog.

‘If there’s anything else …?’ she offered, lingering, transformed by his smile into a candidate for Customer Services Assistant of the Year award.

‘I’ll be sure to come and find you.’

It was polite, but there was no doubt about it. She’d been dismissed. Diana almost felt sorry for her as she backed away, dragging her tongue after her. Almost.

‘The Princess and the Frog, Metcalfe?’ he asked, holding out the globe for an explanation.

He had beautiful hands. Not pampered or soft. There was an old scar running across his knuckles and, although his fingers were long, thin even, it was the slenderness of tensile steel.

‘I am not familiar with this fairy tale,’ he said.

‘I’m surprised you know any of them,’ she said, forcing herself to focus on the globe. It contained a scene in which a girl, wearing a small crown, and a frog were sitting on the edge of a well.

‘Disney has reached Ramal Hamrah.’

‘Has it?’ Of course it had. ‘Oh, right. Well, I suppose this must be one he decided to give a miss.’ She thought about it. ‘Actually, he was probably right. I’d stick with one of the others,’ she advised.

‘But this girl is a princess. Ameerah will like that.’

Just like the assistant, who’d faded away with no more than an envious glance in her direction, Diana recognised the imperative. He didn’t need words to issue an order. He could do it with a look from those dark eyes.

‘It’s not good,’ she warned him. ‘Cinderella is, admittedly, a bit wet, but at least she’s kind. And while Snow White is not exactly a female role model …’

‘I don’t have all day,’ he warned.

‘No, sir.’ She took the globe and gave it a little shake to start the snowstorm. ‘Okay, this is how it goes. Spoilt princess drops her precious golden ball in the well. The frog offers her a deal. If she takes him home with her, lets him eat from her plate, sleep on her pillow, kisses him goodnight …’ She hesitated as, distracted by the sensuous curve of his lower lip, she lost the thread of the story.

‘He’s a talking frog?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s a fairy tale. If you want reality you’re in the wrong place.’

He acknowledged the point with the slightest movement of his head. Then, ‘Kisses him goodnight,’ he prompted.

‘Mmm. If she promises all that,’ she said, ‘he’ll fetch her golden ball from the bottom of the well.’

‘A gentleman frog would have done it without strings attached.’

‘A girl with any gumption would have got it herself.’ ‘You would have climbed down the well, Metcalfe?’

‘I wouldn’t have kissed the damn frog!’ ‘You disapprove?’

‘There’s no such thing as a free golden ball,’ she said.

‘No, indeed.’ He did something with his eyes and, without warning, beneath the dark red uniform Diana suddenly felt very warm.

‘Anyway,’ she said quickly, running a finger under her collar to let in some cool air. ‘She, um, agrees. Actually, she’d have promised him the moon—she loved that ball—and the ungentlemanly frog dives into the well, gets the ball and hands it over, at which point the princess shows her gratitude by legging it.’

‘Legging it?’

‘Has it away on her toes. Scarpers. Runs back to the palace without him.’

He laid one of those beautiful hands against his heart. ‘I’m shocked.’

She’d been quite wrong about the irony. He ‘got’ it all right. He might not be laughing on the outside, but his eyes gleamed with amusement.

‘I imagine the frog doesn’t take that lying down?’

‘As you said. The frog is no gentleman. He hops all the way to the palace, rats on the princess to the King, who tells her that a princess must always keep her word.’

‘A princess shouldn’t have to be told.’

‘It might surprise you to know that holds good for common folk too.’ Then, ‘She isn’t happy about it but she doesn’t have much choice, so she lets him eat off her plate, but then she flounces off to bed without him.’

‘She learns her lesson hard, this princess. Does the frog quit?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think she’s going to be sharing her pillow with the frog.’ ‘Right. It takes him hours to hop all the way up the stairs, find her room, but he gets there in the end and once more reminds her of her promise. Finally, accepting that she’s beaten, the princess puts him on her pillow and even forces herself to kiss him goodnight.’

‘I can relate to this frog, but can this story have a happy ending?’

‘That rather depends on your point of view. When the princess wakes up next morning the frog has turned into a handsome prince.’

His brows rose a fraction.

‘That might take a bit of explaining.’

Diana, whose view of the scene had been fixed in childhood by a picture book image of said handsome prince, fully clothed in princely trappings, standing beside the princess’s bed as she woke, suddenly saw a very different reality and, quite stupidly, blushed.

‘Yes, well,’ she said quickly, ‘it’s that whole wicked-witch-cursing-the-handsome-prince thing. The princess had to have her arm twisted to breaking-point, but she did what was needed to break the spell. Da-da-de-da,’ she sang the wedding march. ‘And they all lived happily ever after.’

‘You mean that now he’s not a warty frog, but her equal, she marries him?’

‘I did warn you. The girl is as shallow as an August puddle. It’s why the prince married her that beats me.’

‘Maybe the King didn’t buy the “spell” story and produced a shotgun?’ he offered.

‘It’s a nice theory, but the fact is that in fairy stories the girl always gets the prince. It’s that love-at-first-sight, happy-ever-after thing.’

Zahir, hearing the scepticism in her voice, regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You appear to be unconvinced,’ he said.

‘Do I?’

Metcalfe widened her eyes as if thinking about it. They weren’t just green, he realised, but flecked with bronze.

‘Maybe I am. You soon learn that it takes more than a handsome prince to provide a happy ending …’

He saw exactly the moment when it occurred to her that she might be heading for a foot-in-mouth moment. A reprise of the faint blush that had seared her cheek’s a moment or two before. The nervous movement of her throat, as if trying to swallow down the words.

It was a refreshing change for someone to utterly forget who he was—say the first thing that came into her head without thinking it through.

‘You’ll get no argument from me,’ he said, taking the globe from her, staring at her ringless fingers for a moment. No handsome prince, no happy ending for her. Although something warned him that it had been a lesson hard learned. ‘In my country we do not pander to the sentimental Western view of marriage. Families arrange such things.’

‘I can see how that would cut out an awful lot of emotional angst,’ she said seriously. Then the dimple put in an appearance. ‘Tough on frogs, though.’

‘Indeed.’ Turning swiftly to the display before the conversation became seriously out of hand, he said, ‘So which of these heroines, in your opinion, is likely to provide the best role model for a modern princess? The “wet” one who stays at home and waits for a fairy godmother to wave a magic wand? The one who cleans up after a bunch of men who can’t believe their luck? Or the princess who takes one look at the frog and takes to her heels?’

‘Actually, I’m with you on this one. Forget the princess. That frog goes for what he wants and never gives up,’ she said. ‘He’s a worthy role model for any child …’

He waited, certain that there was more.

‘Any adult,’ she added briskly.

‘The frog it is. Shall we go and find that eager-to-please assistant? I have a feeling that she’s panting to get busy with the gift-wrap and pink ribbons.’

Diana resisted the temptation to make a quick dash home while Sheikh Zahir delivered the birthday gift to Princess Ameerah.

All things being equal, there should have been time to make it there and back, and all that talk of happy-ever-after had left her in desperate need of a hug from Freddy before his grandma put him to bed.

But the last hour or so had been a bit of a roller-coaster ride—rather more down than up if she was brutally honest. Which was why, since ‘equal’ and London traffic had absolutely nothing in common, she didn’t dare risk it, gladly accepting the footman’s invitation to park in the mews behind the embassy and wait for the Sheikh in the comfort of the staff sitting room.

Fingers crossed, she’d managed to deliver the Sheikh to the embassy on an up; the schedule had allowed plenty of time for traffic hold-ups and, despite the delay for shopping and story-telling, her knowledge of the short cuts had meant that they’d only lost ten minutes.

But, despite his relaxed attitude, his inclination to dally over fairy tales, once he’d made a decision and headed for the cash desk, he’d appeared to forget she was there, saving all his charm for the assistant who’d gone to town with the ribbons, making it abundantly clear that he could have her gift-wrapped too. All he had to do was say the word.

No doubt it was an everyday occurrence for him since he had not, apparently, been tempted by the offer—a warning, not that she’d needed one, that it would be a mistake to take him, or his dangerous charm, seriously.

After they’d left the store he’d only spoken to her to confirm that he would be leaving the embassy at a quarter to seven. Exactly what she’d expect, in fact.

Stupid to take it personally.

This was a job, nothing more, and, left alone with a pot of tea, a sandwich and a choice of cake, she concentrated on her own life and used her cellphone to call home.

‘Mummy!’ Freddy’s voice was full of excitement. ‘I got a “good work” sticker for reading today!’

‘Wow! I am so impressed.’

‘I wanted to show you. Will you be home soon?’

Diana swallowed. It was so hard not to be there when he came out of school, to have him sharing these special moments with her parents instead of her. Not always being there to read him a story at bedtime.

But that was reality for all working mothers, not just the single ones. Sadie might have a nanny, but in every other way their situation was much the same—not enough hours in the day.

Even so, she knew she was luckier than most … Her parents might have been tight-lipped and angry when she’d got pregnant but they had supported her. And they loved Freddy.

‘Will you?’ he demanded.

‘I’ve got to work this evening,’ she said.

‘O-o-h …’ Then, ‘Will you be home before I go to bed, Mummy?’

‘I’ll be there when you wake up,’ she promised. ‘Be good for Grandma and Grandpa, won’t you?’