A Dinner, A Date, A Desert Sheikh

by Jackie Braun

  “I know that smile.” Azeem laughed as he shifted the Mercedes into Drive and eased the vehicle into traffic. “A woman is behind it.”

  Madani grew serious. “You are mistaken, my friend.”

  “Am I?”

  “Those days are over.”

  “Why?” Azeem challenged.

  “You know why, even if you do not agree with my decision,” he said.

  “That is because it was not your decision,” Azeem shot back. “I cannot believe you are going through with an arranged marriage. You!”

  In Kashaqra, Madani was known for holding much more progressive views than his father, even though during the past three decades Sheikh Adil Hammad Tarim had ushered in much change.

  “You know my reasons.”

  “Your father’s health is fine, sadiqi,” Azeem said, using the Arabic word for friend. “The heart attack he suffered last fall was mild.”

  It hadn’t seemed mild at the time. Madani closed his eyes, recalling anew the way his father’s face had turned ashen just before he’d crumpled to the floor. They’d been arguing over this very matter. Arranged marriages were not set in stone. They could be nullified under a limited set of circumstances, none of which applied to Madani. Still, given Adil’s position, he could have voided it, but his father wouldn’t hear of it. His own union had been contracted and all had turned out well. He believed the same would hold true for his son.

  “My engagement to Nawar is his wish, his will.”

  Azeem shook his head. He didn’t understand. Madani didn’t expect him to.

  “Well, you are not engaged yet. There would be nothing wrong with a final…fling, I believe is the word the Americans use.”

  Madani gazed out the car’s tinted window and let the conversation lapse. He wasn’t officially engaged. That much was true. His betrothal to Nawar would be announced later in the summer. But he was not free. Indeed, in this regard, he never had been.

  Emily arrived home just before midnight. She felt exhausted and invigorated at the same time. In addition to the enigmatic Dan, two other guests of the Hendersons’ party had requested her business cards tonight. As it was, the Hendersons had paid her generously, per usual. Of course, she’d had to hire a couple of extra hands to pull off the meal and serving, but deducting for expenses, wages and other incidentals, she still had a decent sum to deposit into her savings account come Monday morning.

  It took her three trips to cart everything from the catering van to her fourth-floor apartment from which she also ran her business. Then she had to move the van to her spot at a paid lot half a block away. Once in her apartment she wanted to collapse on the couch, but she spent another twenty minutes putting away chafing dishes, serving utensils and other items before she finally propped her aching feet atop the coffee table in what passed for a living room.

  The stack of mail cushioning her heels drew her attention. She hadn’t had time for more than a cursory glance at the envelopes before leaving for the Hendersons that afternoon. Most contained bills. A few were junk mail. Only one was personal and would require a response. She pulled her feet to the floor and sifted through the pile until she found it. Even without opening the thick envelope she knew what was inside: an invitation to her younger sister’s wedding.

  On an oath, she ripped back the flap and pulled out a square of ivory vellum. The quality of the paper and the engraved lettering had cost their parents a fortune, but then nothing was ever too good for Elle.

  Emily’s younger sister could do no wrong. Even the fact that she was engaged to marry Emily’s ex-boyfriend, who had not yet been an ex when Elle first began seeing him, elicited no censure from their parents. Rather, Emily had been called on to be more “understanding” and, later, to be “happy” that her flighty baby sibling was finally settling down.

  Elle Lauren Merit and Reed David Benedict, together with their parents, request the honor of your presence at their wedding…

  Emily got no further than that before crumpling the invitation in her hand. Out of respect for the tree that had been chopped down to produce the paper, she decided to toss it in the recycling bin rather than the garbage. But she had no intention of honoring Elle and Reed with her presence as they exchanged I Dos, any more than she planned to give in to her mother’s urging that she don a bridesmaid gown and join the wedding party.

  It wasn’t that Emily couldn’t forgive them. She wanted to believe she was bigger than that despite their monumental betrayal. No, it was the fact that neither of them had ever so much as acknowledged the pain they’d caused her or offered an apology of any sort. Quite the opposite. Elle had manipulated her illicit affair with her older sister’s longtime beau into proof positive that true love could not be denied.

  “It’s destiny, Em. The answer to my prayers. Reed and I were made for one another,” she’d had the gall to claim. As if Emily was supposed to feel so much better knowing her sister had been hot for her boyfriend from the very beginning.

  Reed had been neither romantic nor idyllic. Rather, he shifted the blame for his infidelity squarely to Emily.

  “If you weren’t always so busy catering parties you might have noticed how unhappy I was,” he’d told her when she’d learned of the affair.

  His remark had landed like a sucker punch. “I have a business, Reed.” A business he’d been only too happy to help her create and grow when it had been convenient for him.

  “Don’t remind me.” He’d snorted in disgust. “You’re very much in demand these days.”

  “Am I supposed to apologize for being successful?”

  “No, but you shouldn’t act so surprised that with so much free time on my hands I found someone else.”

  “That someone else is my sister!” she’d shouted.

  He’d merely shrugged. “Elle understands me. She’s not interested in having a demanding career and working long hours. She wants to be supportive of me so that I can advance in mine.”

  Gaping at him, Emily wondered if Reed had always been so chauvinistic or if her growing success had brought it out. Regardless, his attitude had her blood boiling.

  “So, women can’t have a demanding job or pursue their dreams without expecting the men they’re involved with to stray. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying no man wants to place second to a woman’s ambitions.”

  While Reed clearly felt a woman should be thrilled to place second to a man’s, his parting shot contained enough truth that Emily had decided if she was only entitled to one true love, it was safer for her heart to choose cooking.

  Sighing now, Emily rose and, peeling off her stained chef’s coat, headed in the direction of the bedroom that, a year ago—a lifetime ago—she’d shared with the man who would soon make her sister his wife.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EVEN though she had retired late, Emily rose just before eight o’clock, as was her practice. She was a morning person, even though these days her career often demanded late nights. Caffeine—and lots of it—helped her stay on her feet.

  Her East Village apartment measured barely seven hundred square feet and offered an uninspiring view of the alley from its two hazy, south-facing windows. In addition to the one small bedroom where she’d passed the night, it contained a hopelessly outdated bathroom and a cramped living room that doubled as her business office. Its kitchen, however, was a work of art.

  When she and Reed had moved in a few years earlier, splitting the down payment and monthly expenses, the kitchen had been horrendous while the other rooms hadn’t been quite as space-challenged. The major renovation she’d treated herself to after he’d packed up his belongings and gone was responsible for that. As far as trades went, Emily figured she’d come out way ahead.

  Gone was the galley that had barely allowed room for an under-counter refrigerator and persnickety electric stove. A wall had been knocked out, new wiring and plumbing installed. The new kitchen, which took up the space of the other three rooms combined, had a m
ulti-burner gas cooktop, double ovens and a commercial grade refrigerator. It also offered plenty of counter space for food preparation and ample storage for her extensive collection of pots, pans, gadgets and appliances.

  At this point in Emily’s life, her surroundings reflected her priorities perfectly, and she would make no apologies for that.

  One of the perks of working from home was that her morning commute could be accomplished in a dozen steps while wearing her pajamas. Emily was seated at her computer, tweaking the ingredients in a recipe for roast duck, when she heard a knock at the door. A glance through the peephole had her cursing.

  It was Dan.

  He appeared freshly shaved and was wearing a tie. Despite the limited view, she was sure he looked every bit as polished and sophisticated as he had when she’d met him at the Hendersons’ the evening before. Meanwhile, she was clad in wrinkled drawstring pants and a snug white T-shirt that couldn’t camouflage the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. God only knew what her hair was doing.

  To think she’d been concerned about her appearance last night! When she’d told him to call, she should have been more clear that she meant on the phone. And why, she wondered now, had she ever thought it a good idea to put her address on her business card?

  Emily debated not answering his knock. She could get his number from Babs and contact him later in the day. But what if she couldn’t? What if she failed to reach him and he decided not to hire her despite the interest he’d expressed the prior evening?

  Okay, she had an overactive imagination, but this much she knew: It never paid to be rude to a client.

  So, after running her fingers through her hair in the hope of taming it, she flipped the dead bolt and unlatched the security chain. As she opened the door, she maneuvered her body behind it, using it as a shield so that only her head and one shoulder were visible. Pasting a bright smile on her face, she offered a greeting.

  “Dan. Hello. This is a surprise.”

  “Good morning.” His voice was as rich as the freshly ground roasted Kona beans in her coffeemaker, but his engaging expression faltered almost immediately. “You weren’t expecting me.”

  “No.” She let out a self-conscious laugh. “Or is that yes?” When his frown deepened she clarified, “You’re right. I wasn’t expecting you. Sorry.”

  “But I thought we had agreed to this morning? I believe you said I could call on you any time after nine.”

  “Yes.” She coughed delicately. “Call.”

  He closed his eyes, grimaced. “You expected me to telephone. My profuse apologies for the intrusion. I will telephone you later.”

  He dipped his head and stepped backward. She doubted he often found himself lost in translation, even if English wasn’t his first language. His show of embarrassment helped to chase away some of Emily’s. As he turned to leave, she put a hand on his arm to stop him.

  “Don’t go. You’re here now and I’m free. Just give me a few minutes to dress.”

  Despite the invitation, he hesitated at the threshold. “Are you certain? We can reschedule our meeting. I have no wish to inconvenience you.”

  A man who didn’t wish to inconvenience her. Are you married? The ridiculous question wanted to slip from her lips. Instead Emily waved her free hand and said, “Nonsense. Please, come in.”

  Modesty, however, had her turning away without waiting to see if Dan actually did so. Even before she heard the apartment door close, she was in her bedroom, a battered oak six-panel between them as she rooted through the contents of her jammed closet for something presentable to wear.

  As the eldest child and only son of his country’s ruler, as well as the president of what was becoming a thriving export business, Madani often traveled to the United States from his native Kashaqra. Thanks in part to his schooling, first at Harvard and later Oxford, he was fluent in seven languages, one of them English. When he’d told Emily Merit he would call in the morning, he should have been clearer. But he hadn’t figured it would matter one way or another. How was he to know that the address listed on her business card was her home? Or that she would answer the door in her nightclothes looking sexy and sleep tousled?

  As it was, when he’d awoken that morning she’d been on his mind. Now, after watching thin cotton cling to her curves while she’d hustled away, he had the uncomfortable feeling she was going to be a blight on his concentration for the entire day.

  He should go. Blaming curiosity, he stepped inside the apartment instead.

  The small living room opened into a surprisingly large kitchen. It was a chef’s dream, he supposed, noting the double ovens on the far wall and the multiburnered, stainless steel stove. As for the array of gadgets on the countertop, other than the coffeemaker he was clueless to their use. While he enjoyed eating a good meal, he’d never prepared one.

  Overall, the entire space wasn’t as big as the smallest bedroom in the tower suite he maintained at The Mark for his frequent visits to the city, but she’d made good use of every inch. Sleek cabinetry ran the full height of the walls in the kitchen, and in the living area her computer and printer were tucked inside an armoire. The doors were open now, revealing a chocolate soufflé screen saver and a plethora of notes pinned to the cork-board that lined the interior of the doors.

  She’d cleverly used stacks of cookbooks to form the base of a coffee table, over which was placed an oval of glass. The slip-covered sofa behind it was the room’s only nod to comfort, but it was the brightly hued throw on the back of it that caught his attention. He recognized the craftsmanship and the centuries’ old pattern. It came from his homeland.

  “Would you care for some coffee?”

  He turned at the sound of her voice. “Yes, thank you.”

  He followed her into the kitchen, where she poured him a cup and topped off her own.

  “Cream or sugar?” she asked.

  “Black is fine.” He’d acquired a taste for Western coffee, though he preferred the sweetened variety of his country.

  She’d pulled her chestnut hair into a softer-looking version of the style she’d worn the night before, minus the net, of course. For a moment he wished she’d left it loose as it had been when he’d arrived. He liked the way it had waved in defiance around her face before falling just past her shoulders. The pink blouse she wore wrapped at the waist, accentuating its smallness. Her trousers were tan and mannish in style, but the flair of her hips and the tips of a lethal-looking pair of pumps that peeked out from the cuffed hem kept the cut from appearing too masculine.

  When he realized he was staring, he glanced away. “You have an impressive kitchen.”

  “Thanks. I like it.”

  “Was it recently renovated?”

  “Less than a year ago.” Something in her expression changed and her chin rose fractionally, as if in challenge. “My business is growing, so I decided to go all out. Besides, I spend most of my time in here whether I’m working for a client or just puttering for fun.”

  She sat on one of the stools lined up next to the island. He took the one next to hers and swiveled so he could face her.

  “You cook for fun?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help myself. I absolutely adore food.”

  His gaze skimmed over her, lingering on her slender waist. “And yet you are…small.”

  She laughed outright at what he realized too late was a rude observation for a man to make. Wincing, he said, “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t apologize.” She laid a hand on his arm. “I can’t think of a woman alive who doesn’t like to be told she’s not fat.”

  He felt his face grow warm. This made twice since arriving on Emily’s doorstep that he’d embarrassed himself. He didn’t care for the sensation. Indeed, he wasn’t used to putting his foot in his mouth, especially where women were concerned. But the amusement shimmering in her blue eyes took away some of his chagrin.

  “I only make that observation because a lot of the chefs I k
now are…more substantially proportioned,” he said, trying for diplomacy.

  She sighed. “Unfortunately that’s a hazard of the profession. All those little tastes can add up over time.”

  “How have you managed to avoid it?”

  “Exercise and nervous energy.” At his frown she clarified, “I have a gym membership. I try to work out at least three times a week. The rest of the time I fret and pace, or so my assistant tells me.”

  Fret and pace? She seemed too confident for either. “Have you been in business for long?”

  “Why do you ask? Are you having second thoughts about hiring me?” Amusement shimmered in her eyes again.

  “No. Once I make a commitment I keep it.”

  “But you haven’t committed. No contract has been signed,” she reminded him lightly.

  Madani thought of Nawar, his bride-to-be in Kashaqra, and of the long-held agreement between their families. No contract had been signed for that, either. But it was understood. It had always been understood. “Sometimes one’s word is enough.”

  “I prefer a signature,” she replied. “No offense. I just find it easier to do business that way since not everyone’s word tends to be equal.”

  “True.” He nodded, thinking of the deals he would finalize later that day. “Legally speaking, it’s always best to have documentation. I run an export business…among other things.”

  “May I ask you a question?” At his nod, Emily went on. “Your accent, I can’t quite place it.”

  “I am from Kashaqra.” He thought of his homeland now, missing it since he’d been gone a month already. It was bounded by mountains on one side and a swath of desert on the other. Due to his father’s foresight and diligence, it had avoided the unrest that had plagued some of the other countries in the region. It was Madani’s goal to continue that tradition. It was also his goal to see the export business he’d started continue to grow so his people could prosper.

  Her brows wrinkled. “Geography wasn’t one of my better subjects, but that’s in the Middle East, I believe.”