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.’