Whatever Diana had been doing, his actions had been far worse…

‘Whatever it was, she’s over it now,’ Alan said, watching her walk swiftly down the jetty until she rounded the building and was out of sight.

‘So it would seem.’ Uncapping his pen, he began to sign a stack of documents. He would do well to follow her example.

Enough. Diana slumped behind the wheel, staring at the car phone. At eighteen years old, mired in a world of guilt as her mother had threatened, her father had looked at her as if he didn’t know her, she’d sworn never again.

She’d got lazy. Complacent.

It was easy to hold off the attentions of boys, men, when there was no attraction, no temptation, desire. Pete O’Hanlon had seen her looking at him as if he were something in a sweetshop window and he’d used that. But she wasn’t blaming him. She’d wanted him, had seized the moment without a thought for the morrow and she had to live with that.

Her solace, her joy, was Freddy and she’d been content. But it had taken just one look from Zahir’s slate-grey eyes, one smile, to let her know what she was missing. Melt the ice-wall she’d built around her heart.

She caught her breath, shaking her head as if to clear away all that romantic nonsense.

Not her heart. Nothing that noble.

What Sheikh Zahir al-Khatib had done with a single look was jump-start a hunger, a need that was so far beyond her experience that she hadn’t recognised the danger until it was too late.

Until she was experiencing feelings that were so strong that for a moment she had been in danger of repeating history…

No. This had to stop now. Now, before she wavered and did something really stupid and told him that Freddy was five years old. That her date was a classroom visit. Because, if she told him that, he’d know…

She reached out to hit the fast dial on the car phone to call Sadie, ask her to take her off this job-what excuse she’d make she didn’t know, but she’d think of something. The phone rang before her finger made contact, making her jump nearly out of her skin, the caller ID warning her that Sadie had got in first. She was no doubt calling to update her on who would be driving Sheikh Zahir this evening so that she could pass on the good news.

She jabbed ‘receive’, but, before she could speak, Sadie said, ‘Diana! At last! I’ve been calling you for the best part of an hour on this phone and your cellphone.’

‘Have you?’ She frowned, rubbing her hands over her pockets. No cellphone. ‘I must have left it in my jacket…’

‘I don’t care where you left it! Where, in heaven’s name, have you been?’

‘Well…’

‘No, don’t bother to answer that. I can guess,’ she said cuttingly.

What?

Diana straightened. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but Sheikh Zahir…’

‘Please! I don’t want to know. I just want you to listen to me. You are not to come back to the yard. You will be met at the car park outside The King’s Head in Little Markham by Michael Jenkins. He’ll drive the Mercedes back from there. Sheikh Zahir’s personal assistant has arranged for another car to be on hand to take him back to the hotel. You…’

‘Whoa! Back up, Sadie. What on earth has happened?’

‘You have to ask?’

Confused, miserable, she wasn’t in the mood for games. ‘Apparently I do,’ she snapped back with uncharacteristic sharpness.

‘You’d like me to read you the diary column from the midday edition of The Courier?’

‘What?’

‘Maybe it will jog your memory if I tell you that the headline is “The Sheikh and the Chauffeur”? Or do you want all the gory details of how Sheikh Zahir al-Khatib was seen gazing into the eyes of his pretty chauffeur as he waltzed her around Berkeley Square at midnight?’

‘How on earth-?’

‘For heaven’s sake, everyone with a camera phone is an amateur paparazzo these days, Di! Even if the snapper didn’t recognise Sheikh Zahir, a man dancing with his chauffeur made it a story. The fact that he looks lost to the world makes it the kind of story that The Courier was always going to run in its diary column. I don’t imagine it took them more than two minutes to identify Sheikh Zahir. He’s not exactly a stranger to the gossip pages.’

‘He isn’t?’

‘He’s a billionaire bachelor, Diana, what do you think?’

Think?

Who was thinking?

‘Oh-’

‘Don’t say it!’

‘I wasn’t going to.’ She swallowed. ‘I was going to say that it’s not the way it must look.’

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 herself. 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?