‘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?’

‘Okay.’

‘Big hug.’

‘Oh, Mum!’

Make that dumb Mum, she thought as she drank the tea, bit into one of the sandwiches that had been brought for her-who knew when she’d get another chance?-going through every idiot thing she’d said and done since she’d collected Sheikh Zahir from the airport.

So much for ‘politely invisible’.

What had she been thinking?

Huh! No prizes for getting that one right.

She hadn’t been thinking at all. The only thing that had been working from the moment Sheikh Zahir had stepped through the arrivals hall door had been her mouth.

Okay, so he’d made it easy for her, had encouraged her even, but that didn’t mean she had to dive in and make a total fool of herself.

Would she ever learn to think first? Speak…sparingly?

Not in this life, apparently…

At this rate she’d be bumping along on the bottom of the food-chain for ever instead of doing the job she was born for. Not driving a limousine, lovely though it was, but following in her dad’s footsteps, driving a London Black Cab, where chat was all part of the job. Except that hers, as she’d so confidingly told Sheikh Zahir al Khatib, would not be boringly black, but pink.

She groaned.

That would be the same colour as her cheeks.

The discreet burble of her cellphone might have been a welcome distraction, except that the caller ID warned her that it was Sadie.

So much for talking herself out of trouble.

His Sheikhness had, presumably, called the office-or, more likely, got someone else to do it for him-to demand a driver with a proper peaked cap and a set of male chromosomes the minute she’d dropped him at the front door of the embassy. Someone who knew his place, understood the shopping requirements of the VIP and, more importantly, didn’t talk the hind leg off a donkey given the slightest encouragement.

And he had encouraged her.

‘Di?’

‘Mmm…Yes. Sorry. I’m grabbing a sandwich…’ She began to choke as she tried to swallow and talk at the same time. She’d let the boss down, had let herself down…

She’d promised to be good. Had promised that Sadie would hear about any problems from her. Who was she to criticize a princess who had run out on a frog?

‘Okay, just listen. Apparently there’s a broken water main in Grosvenor Place,’ Sadie said, not waiting for her to gather herself, confess all. ‘You’ll need to cut down to Sloane Street to avoid it.’

What?

Sadie was calling to give her a traffic update? Not to demand an explanation for a priceless gift smashed beyond repair. Non-stop backchat. The shopping fiasco.

‘Right,’ she said, forcing down the egg and cress along with the lump in her throat. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

‘I was expecting you to call me. I did ask you to keep in touch.’

‘Every time I stop?’ she asked, surprised. ‘Does Jack have to check in every time he parks up?’

‘You’re not Jack.’

That was true. ‘There’s an up side to everything.’

‘What’s the down side?’ Sadie said, instantly on to any suggestion of a problem.

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. Then, ‘Absolutely nothing.’ And she allowed herself a small smile. The Sheikh hadn’t split on her…‘We’re running a bit late, that’s all. Sheikh Zahir needed to shop.’

‘Really?’ Sadie instantly morphed from boss to woman at the “S” word. ‘Where did you go? Aspreys? Garrard?’

‘The Toy Warehouse.’

She didn’t add that it had been her choice-probably just as well because there was a long pause before Sadie said, ‘O-kaaay,’ the last syllable stretched to breaking point. ‘Well, I suppose that even a sheikh has ankle-biters to keep happy.’

‘Not his,’ she said quickly. Although, actually he hadn’t confirmed or denied whether he had any children of his own. ‘He wanted something for the Ambassador’s daughter. It’s her birthday.’

‘As long as you kept him happy.’

‘You’ll have to ask him that.’

‘I’m sure I’ll hear soon enough if he’s not.’ Then, ‘I called your father, by the way. He said he had it covered.’

On the point of reassuring Sadie that she’d already called home, she realised that she might not appreciate her priorities and left it at, ‘Thank you.’

‘You seem distracted, Zahir.’ Hanif had drawn him to one side, away from the excitement of Ameerah as she showed her five-year-old brother and her little sister her new toy. Metcalfe had been right about the glass. It would not have done at all. ‘Are there problems with the Nadira Creek project? Or the airline you’re so keen to get off the ground?’

Zahir smiled. ‘Business is never a problem, Han. Lucy’s charities will not suffer.’

‘Then it must be family. How is your father?’

‘Pushing his pacemaker to the limits. He’s in the Sudan this week, doing his best to broker peace…’He lifted his hand in a helpless gesture. ‘I cannot help but feel guilty. It should be me.’

‘No, Zahir. Your talents lie elsewhere.’

‘Maybe.’

‘There’s something else?’

Zahir looked across the room to where the five-year-old Jamal was watching Ameerah, entranced by the snowstorm. Then, turning back to Hanif, he said, ‘He’s impatient for a grandson to bear his name. Impatient with me for denying him that joy. I’m afraid I’ve been a disappointment to him in every aspect of my life.’ He managed a smile. ‘But not for much longer, it would seem. My mother has taken it upon herself to find me a bride.’