by Jackie Braun
“Yes. Near Saudi Arabia. Even though we lack our good neighbor’s oil riches, we are wealthy in other ways.”
“How so?”
“Our artisans are unrivaled.”
“In your humble opinion.” She grinned and he caught the wink of that solitaire dimple.
Madani smiled in return, but meant it when he said, “I do not believe in being humble when it comes to praising the work of my countrymen. Indeed, it is my hope that eventually, in addition to finding markets for it abroad, it will entice tourists to come and visit our country.”
“You make me eager to see their work for myself.”
“You already have and obviously are a fan.” At her surprised expression, he pointed to the sofa. “That throw was hand woven in a little village called Sakala. The pattern dates back seven hundred years and has been passed down from generation to generation. Mothers make it for their daughters when they are to wed. It is said to bring good luck to the union.”
Her expression turned surprisingly cool. “Maybe I should give it to my sister.”
“Your sister is to be married?”
“Yes.” She sipped her coffee and changed the subject. “I had no idea that throw enjoyed such a rich history when I saw it hanging in the window of an eclectic little shop not far from here.”
“Salim’s Treasures,” he guessed. The owner’s wife had family in Kashaqra.
“Yeah, that’s the one. I paid a small fortune for it,” she admitted. “But I had to have it. The colors are so rich and vibrant.”
“Vibrant.” He nodded, but his gaze was on her.
The moment stretched before she glanced away. Was she embarrassed? Flattered? Should he apologize?
“We should get down to business,” she said, ending the silence. “About your dinner party, did you have a type of cuisine in mind?”
Emily couldn’t help being in good spirits after Dan Tarim left her apartment later that morning. It had nothing to do with the man, she assured herself, though she found him extremely sexy with his dark good looks and fathomless eyes. Rather, it was because she’d landed another catering job that, after deducting expenses and incidentals, would allow her to deposit a sizable chunk of money into her savings account. The man obviously didn’t believe in doing anything halfway.
She felt the same when it came to her restaurant, which she planned to call The Merit. It was inching closer to reality by the day. Another year or so and she would be able to approach the bank with her business plan. Given the number of restaurants that failed each year, even in a good economy, Emily knew she would have to show the bank why she was a good risk.
She could picture the place so clearly. The menus would be leather bound and tasseled. The tables would sport crisp white linens and be topped with candles to add an air of intimacy and romance when the lights were turned low. But the bow to convention would end there. The food would be eclectic and bold, a smattering of tastes from around the globe all given her signature twist. As such she felt the best location for it was somewhere in the Village.
Her thoughts returned to Dan. At the end of their meeting, she’d promised to work up menu selections for his approval by the end of the week. He’d been open to suggestions, which made him the kind of client she preferred, since that allowed her to be creative. He’d made only one request, one she would have no problem honoring since he was footing the bill. He had a fondness for white truffles and insisted at least one dish include them.
The Italian delicacy went for up to ten thousand dollars a pound, which was why Emily rarely cooked with it. Even the Hendersons, who were exceedingly generous when it came to trying to please their guests’ discerning palates, had never requested a recipe that included the pricey tuber.
“I’m in heaven.” Emily sighed as she lugged a stack of books holding her favorite recipes to the kitchen’s island.
It only took the phone to ring for her to return to earth. Then, as soon as Emily heard her mother’s voice, she descended a bit further south.
“My goodness but you’ve been hard to get in touch with lately,” Miranda complained by way of a greeting.
Since her mother had forgone social niceties, Emily decided to as well. “Have I?”
“You know you have. You can try to avoid me, but you can’t avoid the fact that your sister is getting married in August.”
The M word landed like a bomb, obliterating what remained of Emily’s good mood.
“I’m not avoiding it, Mom.” The reply came out clipped, despite Emily’s best efforts to sound blasé.
“I know this is hard for you, but it’s really for the best in the long-term. He and Elle are so much better suited than the two of you were. When are you going to forgive them?”
When they ask me to, she thought.
“On their silver wedding anniversary?” her mother went on dramatically.
“That’s optimistic,” Emily muttered.
“You need to be a bigger person. Your sister is so happy and content. Your father and I have never seen Elle like this. It’s what we’ve been hoping for for years. Can’t you be happy for her?”
Guilt niggled. Her mother was good at planting the seed and then helping it grow. Miranda had been nurturing this particular one since Elle first flashed an engagement ring.
“I really do have to go, Mom.”
“Elle’s bridal shower is next Sunday.”
“You know I can’t come. As I’ve told you half a dozen times already, I’m booked that day.” It was a lie. She had that particular Sunday free.
“Please try. For the sake of family harmony.”
Emily hung up wondering why she was the only one expected to carry that load.
Dan flipped his cell phone closed on an oath as Azeem maneuvered the Mercedes through Manhattan traffic. This message, like the one before it, was from his mother. Given the time difference between New York and Kashaqra, Fadilah must consider the matter to be vitally important. That meant he couldn’t avoid calling her back much longer.
“Is everything all right?” Azeem asked. “Your father?”
“Is well.” Fadilah would not have been so vague if that were the case. “My mother says she needs to speak with me,” he said wryly, knowing that would explain it all.
Azeem nodded. “She is the only woman I know who can make you squirm. But not for long, sadiqi. If you insist on going through with the wedding, Nawar will enjoy that right as well.”
Though the words were offered in jest, the challenge was unmistakable.
“Drop me off at the next light,” he said.
“But Mayhew’s is at Fifth Avenue and Forty-Third,” Azeem reminded him.
“I know. I want to walk the rest of the way.” When his friend frowned, he added, “This is the first warm, sunny day we’ve had in nearly a week. I want to take advantage of it.”
“As you wish.” But Azeem’s expression said he wasn’t buying the explanation.
Madani glanced at his watch after the Mercedes drove away. It wasn’t quite noon, which meant he still had forty minutes before his rescheduled appointment with a potential distributor. He started walking, his pace slow and leisurely. Even with heat rising from the street, the temperature was pleasant and the humidity low after a week of thunderstorms, making him glad to be outdoors and moving under his own steam. In Kashaqra, even with all of the amenities his wealth and position afforded, Madani enjoyed walking. In addition to being good exercise, it gave a man time to think, plan and put things into perspective. He needed to do that now, he decided, his thoughts returning to the phone message.
His mother probably wanted to discuss the engagement announcement or, he swallowed thickly, his wedding. Just thinking about marriage had Madani tugging his necktie loose as he strode down the sidewalk. As his parents kept reminding him, it was the next logical step in his life. He was thirty-two, educated, well-traveled and established. The time had come for him to take a wife and start a family. As the next in line to rule the country, it
also was Madani’s duty.
Turning matrimony into an obligation hardly made it any more palatable.
Still, he shouldn’t complain. Nawar, the bride his parents had chosen for him, was beautiful in both face and form. She also was bright, only recently finishing up her PhD in economics at Kashaqra’s leading university. Per her request, all talk of marriage had been postponed until she had completed her education, causing Madani to wonder if her pursuit of a doctoral degree was an indication of her own mixed emotions.
Here in the West, arranged marriages were considered archaic and unromantic. Even in his country many of the younger generation considered such alliances old-fashioned and unnecessary. After all, shouldn’t picking a life partner be left to the two people involved?
Azeem, who to Madani’s knowledge wasn’t even seriously involved with anyone, was surprisingly outspoken on the matter, which in turn made him annoyingly outspoken in his dismay over Madani’s decision to honor his arranged betrothal.
“You have an opportunity to lead even before taking your father’s place,” Azeem had hollered during one of their many arguments on the subject. “If you refuse to marry under these conditions, others would be willing to follow your example.”
He’d considered that at one time, but he’d shaken his head. “It is done.”
Madani hadn’t just been referring to the fact that his betrothal to the daughter of one of his father’s closest political allies had been arranged when he was still a toddler. As he’d told Azeem, it was his father’s wish. What reason did he have to risk his father’s health? Nawar would make a suitable wife. Besides, the notion of marrying for love seemed far-fetched. He’d spent time with plenty of women over the years, but he’d never felt the intense emotion the poets claimed existed.
For no reason he could fathom, his thoughts turned to Emily Merit.
“I was unaware you knew someone in this part of Manhattan,” Azeem had said when they’d arrived outside her apartment building that morning. “She must be very pretty to have roused you so early after a late night. Am I to conclude you have changed your mind about a final fling with which to remember your bachelorhood?”
“This is a business meeting,” he’d answered irritably. “Nothing more.”
It was a business matter, but the pretty young woman he’d hired to cater his dinner party also had captured his interest.
CHAPTER THREE
THE FOLLOWING week, Emily was still on Madani’s mind, which he supposed made sense since his personal assistant had given him the list of the RSVPs for his dinner party. He decided to call her.
She answered on the fourth ring, sounding cheerful if breathless.
“Hello, Emily. This is Dan Tarim.”
“Dan, hi. You must be psychic. I’ve been thinking about you and was just about to call.”
Her laughter, light and musical, floated over the line. He pictured her face with its errant dimple, blue eyes and soft mouth. Interest, an uncomfortable portion of it sexual, gave a swift tug.
“You’ve been thinking about me?”
“Yes. I’ve put together the most amazing menu for your guests.”
“Menu,” he repeated.
“As I promised, I want to run it by you before I purchase all of the ingredients, especially those pricey white truffles. And, of course, I will need a head count.”
“Of course.” He cleared his throat. “That’s actually the reason for my call. One of my guests and his wife will be out of town, leaving just two other couples and myself.”
“That’s too bad. I’ll adjust the portions accordingly.” Then, “You don’t have a date?”
“A date?”
“I only ask because Babs Henderson insists on an even number at her gatherings. I’ve known her to ask her social secretary to sit in to avoid going odd.”
“No. I don’t have a date.”
“Really?” She sounded surprised. “Okay.”
“You think I should have one?”
“Well, no. It’s not a requirement or anything. I just thought that someone who looks like you would have one if not several women…” She coughed, clearly embarrassed. “Um, never mind.”
Manhattan was far from his homeland, but Madani had spent enough time in the city that he knew plenty of women he could invite. Women who would drop everything to spend an evening in his company, even though he always made it clear, without going into too much detail, that a long-term relationship would never materialize.
He didn’t feel he was being unfaithful to Nawar. After all, they were not officially engaged. In truth, they had met on only a handful occasions during which he’d been allowed no more than to brush both of her cheeks with his lips in his culture’s customary greeting.
He pushed thoughts of Nawar and all other women away. All other women save Emily.
“When are you free to discuss the menu?”
“You want to meet?” She sounded surprised. “We can…or, if your schedule is full, I can e-mail you the proposed menu and we can go over it on the telephone.”
“Is that how you normally conduct business?”
“Sometimes.” She laughed, the sound again pleasing. “I’ve found that there’s really no such thing as normal. Some clients want to try samples of the dishes I suggest. Others leave everything to me. And then there are the high-maintenance types who demand they accompany me to the grocery store.”
“And you let them?”
“I don’t encourage it, but for what I charge…” She cleared her throat. “You’re a businessman. The client is always right, remember?”
“Indeed.”
“So?” she prodded.
“When can we meet? And, of course, I’ll want samples.” He chuckled before adding, “I may even request to come shopping with you. Those who know me well will tell you I can be very demanding.”
“Are you serious?”
“On all counts.” Though he hadn’t been till she’d called him on it. “Are you free Saturday night?”
“I’m a caterer.” Her tone was dry.
“Day then.” Which was for the best, he reminded himself. Even in his country, Saturday night was the territory of couples and dates.
“I have a dinner party for twelve at seven o’clock. It’s going to take up a lot of my time since my assistant has asked for the night off. I plan to start some of my prep work the night before.”
“So the morning should find you free.”
Her laughter was exasperated now. “You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”
“No. The customer is always right, remember?”
“Absolutely. Come by anytime between ten and noon. I can’t promise samples of the meal I’d like to make for your guests, but we can go over the menu and I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”
“Very good. Until then.”
For no reason he could nail down, Madani was smiling when he hung up.
Dan arrived at Emily’s door promptly at ten the following morning. This time, she was ready for him. She answered his knock fully dressed and coiffed, her teeth brushed and her makeup applied.
She’d taken a little more time on her appearance than she normally did on a day that would find her toiling in her kitchen, but she wanted to present a crisp and professional image since she had a client coming over. Of course, that didn’t explain why she’d opted to forego a white, standard-issue chef’s coat in favor of a short-sleeved teal blouse that brought out flecks of blue in her eyes. Thankfully, enough sanity prevailed that she’d layered an apron over the dry-clean-only fabric before starting to chop the ingredients for one of the three appetizers she was to prepare.
“Good morning.” His voice was as deep and rich as she remembered.
“Good morning.”
He was dressed casually in tan slacks, a pair of broken-in loafers and a white oxford shirt. He wore no tie, which made sense since it was Saturday. Even so he radiated the same authority and sophistication he did wearing expensive,
tailored suits.
Realizing she’d been staring at him while he remained in the hallway, she backed up and invited him inside.
After Emily closed the door, she turned to find that he was staring, too. At her apron.
“You are already working?”
“For hours now. I’ve been up since six, although I didn’t get anything accomplished until after I’d had a cup of espresso. I was up a little late last night. Today’s client called just before five yesterday afternoon with a last-minute menu change. It seems one of her guests has a shellfish allergy, so the shrimp appetizer I’d planned was a no-go.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug.
“A caterer’s work is never done.”
“Exactly.” She flashed a smile as they walked into the kitchen.
“Are you like this every weekend?” he asked.
“When I’m lucky.”
Dan frowned at her reply. “Perhaps you should consider hiring more assistants. It sounds as if you could use the additional help.”
She could. That was true enough. But adding more employees to the payroll was out of the question. Their wages and the additional taxes would eat too far into her profits. Emily figured she could work herself to near exhaustion on weekends for however long it took to open her restaurant. What else did she have going on Saturday nights anyway? When The Merit became a reality, she would gladly hire a full kitchen and waitstaff, and take off nights here and there when the mood struck. Until then, caffeine would be her best friend.
Which prompted her to ask, “Can I get you something to drink? Espresso? Coffee? Tea, maybe?”
“Coffee, since I see that you already have a pot prepared.” He nodded in the direction of the state-of-the-art brewing station she’d splurged on the previous Christmas.
“Yeah. I switched to French roast after the espresso.” She grinned. “I figured I’d better pace my caffeine intake. I can’t afford to get jittery when I’m working with knives.”
He smiled in return as he settled onto one of the tall stools at the granite-topped island. At the moment, the island was littered with a cornucopia of fresh produce that had already been washed. Some of it would be used in a salad. Others would be chopped and added to the various dishes.
