‘One of my staff located it via the Internet. Antique. Venetian. Very pretty. I’m sure the princess will be delighted.’ Then, ‘Your usual driver will be waiting at Arrivals but we’ve a very tight schedule this evening. You’ll need to leave the embassy no later than eighteen-forty-five hours if you’re going to make the reception on time.’

Diana pulled up at Arrivals, squashed the stupid little forage hat firmly into place, tugged down her uniform jacket, smoothed the fine leather gloves over the backs of her hands. Then, her head full of snowy robes, the whole Lawrence of Arabia thing, she stood by the rear door of the limousine, ready to leap into action the minute her passenger appeared.

There were no robes. No romantic headdress caught by the wind.

Sheikh Zahir al-Khatib had, it seemed, taken on board the dressing-for-comfort-when-travelling message. Not that she’d have had any trouble recognising him, even without his VIP escort.

The grey sweatshirt, soft jeans and deck shoes worn on bare feet might be casual but they were expensive. The man, tall and rangy, with dark hair that curled around his neck, might look more like a sports star than a tycoon, but his clothes, his head turning looks, did absolutely nothing to diminish an aura of careless arrogance, the aristocratic assurance of a man whose every wish had been someone else’s instant command from the day he had first drawn breath.

The very pink, thoroughly beribboned gift-wrapped package he was carrying provided no more than a counterpoint that underlined his authority-the kind of presence that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

Sheikh Zahir al-Khatib, it had to be admitted, was dangerously, slay-’em-in-the aisles, gorgeous.

He paused briefly in the doorway to thank his escort, giving Diana a moment to haul her chin off the ground-drooling was such a bad look-before affixing a polite smile to lips that she firmly compressed to contain the usual, ‘Did you have a good flight?’ chat as she opened the rear door of the car.