An Ordinary Girl and a Sheikh. Nicola Marsh

been congratulating himself on his self-control as he’d climbed out of the car on their arrival at Sweethaven.

      There had been a difficult moment right at the beginning of the journey when he could have easily lost it. He only had to look at Diana Metcalfe for his mind to take off without him. But he’d got a grip, had jerked it back into line, forcing himself to concentrate on what had to be done. Ignore the possibilities of what he deeply, seriously, wanted to do …

      Had managed, just about, to keep his tongue between his teeth and his head down—mostly—for nearly two hours and since, like him, Diana had, after that dangerous first exchange, taken avoiding action and hidden her expressive eyes behind dark glasses, they’d travelled from the heart of London to the coast in a silence broken only by the occasional interjection of the navigation system offering direction.

      It should have made things easier but, without the oddly intimate exchanges through the rear-view mirror that were driving this unexpected, unlooked for, impossible connection, he’d found himself noticing other things.

      The shape of her ear—small and slightly pointed at the tip.

      A fine gold chain around her neck that was only visible when she leaned forward slightly to check that the road was clear at a junction.

      The smooth curve of her cheek as she glanced sideways to check her wing mirrors. He’d found himself forgetting the document he was holding as he’d been captivated by the slow unwinding of a strand of hair.

      It was scarcely surprising that when, on their arrival at Sweethaven he’d been confronted by her standing stiffly, almost to attention, as he’d stepped out of the car—he’d lost it so completely that he’d found himself issuing not an invitation, but an order for her to join him.

      Actually, on reflection, he hadn’t got that bit wrong. The order part. An invitation would never have got her. An invitation offered her a choice which she would have had the good sense to decline.

      She knew, they both knew, that there was, or at least should be, a barrier—a glass wall—between them. It had shattered, not when he’d kissed her, but with that ridiculous antique snow globe.

      Diana, trapped in her role, was doing her best to repair the damage and he knew that nothing other than a direct order would have brought her into the yacht club. If he’d left it at that it might, just, have been okay, but he’d had to throw in that comment about her hat … And he refused to fool himself about the reason for it.

      He’d wanted to see her hair again, the way it had been last night, when she’d stood by the river with the breeze tugging strands loose from her pins. Softly curled chestnut silk that had brushed against her neck, her cheek, his hand …

      And it had been downhill all the way from there.

      He’d stepped way beyond anything that could be considered acceptable behaviour when she’d challenged him and first his body, and then his mouth, had bypassed his brain.

      He knew it would be a mistake to look at her now.

      Could not stop himself.

      She was staring straight ahead, the only movement the flicker of her eyes as she checked the mirror. If he’d been bright enough to sit in the back, he could have used that to catch her attention …

      But then he’d have missed this profile. Missed her stubborn little chin, her mouth set firm, almost as if she were fighting to keep it shut. There was not a sign of that sweet dimple, just a flush to her cheeks that gave a whole new meaning to the old ‘you look magnificent when you’re angry’ cliché.

      The strange thing was, he couldn’t remember ever having made a woman angry before. But then he’d never felt like this about any woman and maybe that was the point. To feel passionately, it had to matter. To her as well as to him.

      Maybe that was why he was angry with himself. He didn’t do this. Had never, in all his thirty years, lost his head over a woman, no matter how beautiful, elegant, clever. His detachment—and theirs—had been a safety net, an acknowledgement that no matter how enjoyable the relationship, it was superficial, fleeting. Because, even though he’d deferred the inevitable, putting it off for as long as possible, he’d always known that his future was, as his cousin had suggested, written.

      That his choice of bride was not his alone, but part of a tradition that went back through the ages as a way of strengthening tribal bonds.

      His head understood, accepted that kind of power-broking, but then he’d walked out of the airport into the sunlight of a May morning and, in an instant, or so it seemed now, he’d been possessed by a girl who had nothing to commend her but an hourglass figure, a dimple and a total inability to keep her mouth shut.

      And it was that mouth, her complete lack of control over it, rather than her luscious figure, that had hooked his attention. Had somehow enchanted him.

      Diana slowed, signalled, turned into the boatyard. Gravel crunched beneath the tyres for a moment and then she drew up in the lee of a boathouse and the silence returned.

      She made no move to get out, open the door for him, but remained with her hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead. He unclipped his seatbelt, half turned towards her and when that didn’t get her attention either, he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

      He found the rarely used words unexpectedly easy to say. Maybe because he meant them. He was sorry. Wished he could start the day over. Start from where they’d left off last night.

      If it hadn’t been for that damned email, reminding him that, while he’d escaped one future, there were some duties he could not escape …

      Diana’s breath caught on a little sigh, her lips softened, but still she didn’t look at him, still held herself aloof, at a distance.

      ‘If I promise that I will never embarrass you in that way again, do you think you might just deign to come down off your high horse and talk to me?’

      ‘High horse!’ She swung round and glared at him. ‘I’m not on any high horse!’

      Indignant was better than silent. Indignant, her eyes flashed green. Indignant might so easily spill over into laughter. She laughed so easily. Made him want to laugh as no woman ever had …

      ‘Eighteen hands at the very least,’ he said, pushing it. She shrugged, spread her hands in an ‘and that means?’ gesture.

      He responded by raising a hand above his shoulder.

      She swallowed. ‘Good grief, we’re talking carthorse, here.’ Then, when he didn’t respond with anything more than a twitch of his eyebrows, ‘I might—might—just admit to a slightly overgrown Shetland pony.’

      ‘One of those small, plump creatures with the uncontrollable manes?’ he enquired, encouraged by the fleeting appearance of that dimple.

      ‘They’re the ones,’ she admitted, doing her best to swallow down the smile that was trying very hard to break through. Then, having, against all the odds, succeeded, she added, ‘Much more my style than some long-legged thoroughbred, wouldn’t you say?’

      ‘A perfect match,’ he said.

      For once she had no swift comeback and for the longest moment they just looked at each other, neither of them saying a word. But smiling was the furthest thing from either of their minds.