Jolted out of her firm resolve not to make eye contact, she looked up. Swallowed. His smile had progressed to his mouth, tugging at one corner, lifting it a fraction, and something in the region below her ribcage flickered in response, taking her by surprise.

She covered the little gasp with a breathy, ‘Th-thank you.’ Then, firmly resisting the temptation to be led astray for the second time that day-he had chisel-cheeks to carry his bags, after all-she said, ‘I really should…’

‘Stay with the car?’ he finished for her, saving her from wavering.

‘It’s advisable.’ She gave an apologetic little shrug, then nodded in the direction of the gallery, cleared her throat and said, ‘Mr Pierce is waiting for you, sir.’

‘Zahir.’

‘Sir?’

‘Everyone who works for me calls me Zahir. It’s the modern way, I’m told. It’s not a mile away from “sir”, so maybe, if you tried very hard, you might manage it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The smile fading, he nodded, ‘Enjoy your book, Metcalfe.’

She watched him walk away. Still no flowing robes, just the standard male uniform of a dark suit, silk tie, although on Sheikh Zahir, she had to admit, it looked anything but standard.

Zahir.

She’d had the name in her head ever since Sadie had hauled her out of the minibus. Alone, she tried it on her tongue, her lips.

‘Zahir…’

Exotic.

Different.

Dangerous…

She shivered a little as the breeze came off the river, sweeping over the acres of concrete paving.

Snatches of jazz reached her from a party on boat cruising down the river and, despite the chill, she tugged off her gloves and hat and tossed them on to her seat. Then, having locked the car, she walked across to the railing that ran alongside the river, leaning her elbows on it, looking across at the familiar skyline, dominated by the dome of St Paul’s.