“So yes,” Yasmeena said, nodding and looking right at Jenny. “I’m going to recommend that we provide the seed money for starting your venture, Ms. Jones. Assuming we are in agreement about bringing in the right celebrity chef.” She stood up now, straightening her delicately creased khaki pants. “You’ll have our offer sheet by tomorrow.”
Jenny swallowed. What’s happening, she asked herself. Is this the offer? Is this really it? Oh, my GOD, is this it? This is it, isn’t it! She almost burst into a combination of tears and hysterical laughter—she’d imagined this moment for so long, and now it was here, in the most unexpected way possible, from the most unexpected person possible!
But even though she was dancing inside, she held her poker face (somewhat) and nodded like the experienced businesswoman she wanted to be, and she said, “Thank you, Yasmeena. I look forward to reviewing the terms of your offer. Can I get back to you in a week, once I receive the term sheet?”
Yasmeena snorted. “Ms. Jones,” she said cordially. “You will be offered our standard, boilerplate term sheet. The numbers are non-negotiable and final. So unless you have another offer from a competing investment firm of our caliber, you’ll get back to me before this boat docks at Navy Pier. Are we clear? You have about forty-five minutes.”
Jenny sat stunned as a seagull screeched from the flagpole to her left. She had no other offer, and although she thought about bluffing just so she could hold her own and not look like a pushover, she knew she had her back against the wall.
“I’ll let you know before we dock,” Jenny said in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. “Thank you, Yasmeena.”
Yasmeena turned towards the front of the boat, facing into the wind, which plastered her clothes against her body. She looks frail and malnourished, Jenny thought. How is it that a woman whose best memories from childhood revolve around food seems to have lost the gift for enjoying that part of life?
“Good,” Yasmeena said, speaking over her shoulder without even looking at Jenny. “Oh, and don’t call me Yasmeena, Ms. Jones. We’re not friends.”
“Yes . . . Ms. Bukhaara,” Jenny said after a long pause, during which she forced down a big slice of the Bukhaara-recipe humble pie. “Of course.”
Now old Sheikh Bukhaara emerged from where he had been dozing off in his chair. He stretched his arms and looked around, as if he wasn’t sure where he was. “All right,” he announced. “I am going to retire below decks to continue this excellent nap. Very good job, Yasmeena. I’m proud of you, child.”
Yasmeena turned and smiled—perhaps the first real smile Jenny had seen on the woman. The old Sheikh placed a hand on her shoulder as he walked by, and Yasmeena almost glowed for a moment.
Kabeer sauntered up to the group now, still holding his phone like he was expecting a call or message. He looked lost in thought, and Jenny looked up at him, wondering if it was right that she felt a bit miffed at him walking off, leaving her to pitch her idea one-on-one with Yasmeena.
No, it isn’t right, she told herself. Grow up. Don’t misinterpret the attraction you feel for him, the attraction that he seems to feel for you. It’s probably nothing more than dumb animal lust, and to think it means something more is childish, immature, and, well, pretty dumb. And you’re not dumb, Jenny. You might be slightly in over your head, slightly rumpled and turned around by the madness of today, but you aren’t dumb. So stop expecting Kabeer to suddenly behave like he’s got your back, like he’s going to take care of you. Stop thinking that you can trust him.
The old Sheikh walked past Kabeer, glancing up at his son. Jenny saw none of the pride and warmth that Yasmeena had received, and in fact it was almost a cold, accusing look that the older Sheikh Bukhaara shot as a silent attendant dressed in sailor whites helped the man to the stairwell.
“Yes, good job, Yasmeena,” Kabeer said, clapping three times as he walked towards his sister. “I caught the bit about the celebrity chef, and I think it is a wonderful idea. In fact, here is another wonderful idea. Come, let us talk for a moment.”
Kabeer and Yasmeena walked towards the front of the gleaming upper deck and began speaking in Arabic. Jenny watched and listened, once again enjoying the strange, exotic sounds of the foreign language as Kabeer spoke with some excitement, even passion, to his older sister. She barely moved as he spoke, but then suddenly she almost doubled over with an incredulous laugh that sounded not unlike those screeching seagulls.
“Absolutely not, Kabeer,” she said in English, her voice coming through as the wind suddenly changed direction, carrying the sound back to Jenny, and for a moment Jenny wondered if Yasmeena WANTED her to hear this part. “I warned you after the Holbrook deal,” Yasmeena continued, her voice sharp and clear. “You do NOT get to use Bukhaara Capital as your playground for whatever new, fun experience you’re seeking! You have to learn how to separate your business and personal life. You see how I do it—you think I WANTED to make the offer to this tramp you brought on board? But I read her proposal a month ago and the business plan is solid. It could be big, and my responsibility is to choose businesses that could be big, even if I do not like the people involved. You can do whatever the hell you want with this woman—and Allah knows you will do what you want with her—but you are NOT involved with this deal.”
“Then there is no deal,” Kabeer said, his look calm and unwavering as he stared his sister down. “I am an equal partner in Bukhaara Capital, and you know that both of us need to approve any new investment. I get what I want, or there is no deal.”
Yasmeena took off her sunglasses. “All right, Kabeer,” she said, glancing over at Jenny and then back at her brother like she smelled victory. “No deal.” She snorted pointedly at Kabeer. “Now do you think she will let you near those monstrous breasts again?”
Um, I can hear you, Jenny wanted to say, but she held back and listened in disbelief.
Kabeer flinched and glanced over at Jenny to see if she had heard. He held her gaze for less than a second, but there was something in his look that told her to stay calm, to not lose her cool, to . . . to trust him.
“I do not give a damn whether she lets me touch her again or not,” Kabeer said. “I have swimsuit models and beauty queens calling me ten times a goddamn day. You are a fool if you think I am doing this to be close to this woman I barely know.” Now he turned and faced his sister directly, hands on his tight hips, his broad chest straining the few buttons that were still fastened on his fitted white dress shirt. “But it does not matter, because I know you are bluffing. The reason you can separate your business life and your personal life is because you HAVE no damned personal life. It is all business, Yasmeena! And I know you want this deal.”
Yasmeena was silent, but Jenny saw her blink hard, saw her flinch in that wind-blown top.
But Kabeer wasn’t done. He was aggressive and firm, and he was going in for the kill, in a way closing the deal on HIS terms. “But the biggest thing is that you KNOW my idea makes sense, has merit, is innovative and unusual and will get attention. And all publicity is good publicity, yes? So I am correct. I know it and you know it.” He tilted his head back and laughed—not in a mocking way, but in an innocent, almost schoolboyish manner, perhaps in the same way he had laughed with his sister while affectionately teasing her as a child back in their Sheikdom of Bukhaara. “I am calling your bluff, Yasmeena. It is my way or no way. I am not backing down. You know I will not back down.”
Yasmeena was silent for a very long, tense moment, and then she put her sunglasses back on and walked over to where Jenny was sitting with arms crossed over her “monstrous” boobs and a twisted frown on her normally sweet face.
“I know how to separate my personal feelings from a business relationship,” Yasmeena said tersely as she walked past Jenny. “And if you want to see this restaurant of yours succeed, I hope you figure out how to do the same, Ms. Jones. Congratulations and good luck. You’ve made your soup, and now I hope you like the taste.”
And just like t
hat Yasmeena was gone, like she was a vampire who could turn into a seagull, and suddenly it was just Jenny and Kabeer. Jenny looked over at the grinning Sheikh-Prince-billionaire-whatever as he walked towards her, one deliberate step after another, the wind outlining his muscular, ripped body as it pressed his fitted clothes flat against his ridged torso, magnificently muscled stomach and hips, powerful thighs . . .
“Kabeer, what the hell is—” she said, but then stopped.
Because Kabeer was very close to her now, and with that couldn’t-give-a-shit grin still on his face, he stretched his arms out wide and looked down at himself like a TV game-show host presenting himself, like he was the impressive prize being shown, the jackpot, the star of the show.
And with those green eyes shining bright like two emeralds in the desert sun, Sheikh Kabeer Bukhaara smiled wide and proclaimed to all that could hear, “Jenny Jones: Meet your new celebrity chef.”
7
“Now?” Kabeer said to the dark attendant in the white clothes who stood at the top of the steps, at the far end of the upper deck. “Father wants to see me now? I thought he was asleep.”
“The Sheikh has asked for you,” the attendant said, bowing his head and simply repeating the sentence he had uttered a moment ago, when he nervously stepped onto the deck and plucked up the courage to interrupt Kabeer and Jenny.
Kabeer glanced over at Jenny, and it occurred to him that perhaps it would actually be a good thing if this woman had some time to herself right now. She looked shellshocked at his announcement—indeed, Kabeer himself was not sure what he had been thinking when he insisted on being the head chef! Still, it was clearly a bigger shock for her, one of perhaps many unexpected, shocking things he had thrown at her today. No doubt Kabeer was impressed at how she had handled the events of the day thus far without losing her composure, without breaking down into tears like he had seen many others do under Yasmeena's gaze. Still, perhaps it was best if she had a few minutes of space—just like he had given her some space by backing off during the meeting.
Yes, he had been watching and listening as Jenny dealt with his shark of a sister—indeed, in a spontaneous, almost perverse move Kabeer had decided to fake a phone call so he’d have an excuse to step back and watch this sweet, innocent, curvy American woman stumble and crumble, fall and flail, get chewed up and spat out by Yasmeena.
So Kabeer had stepped away and talked loudly to a silent phone as he paid close attention to how this curious woman Jenny navigated her way through that conversation with Yasmeena. And, by Allah, the American woman won! She may not know it, but to get Yasmeena to offer her a term sheet after just one meeting?! It was a victory!
That puzzled Kabeer in a way too. Yes, certainly Jenny’s idea was good—perhaps even great. But Yasmeena turned down great ideas every day! His sister knew that launching a new business was much more about the person than the idea or concept, and so if Yasmeena had agreed to put Bukhaara Capital’s money into Jenny’s business, it really meant that Yasmeena, in her own way, was expressing confidence in Jenny herself! Jenny’s character. Her intelligence. Her capacity to follow through.
Ya Allah, Kabeer thought as he dismissed the now-shaking attendant and then glanced at Jenny, who had turned away from him and now stood against the railing looking directly into the endless blue of the vast great lake, away from the distant skyline of Chicago. Kabeer took a long breath as he glanced at her full, womanly figure from behind. Her clothes were pressed tight against her body, highlighting her curves in a way that made him sweat more than the damn sun ever could. The summer wind swept her brown hair back like a flag in a hurricane, open and free, the wildness contrasting with her professional skirt suit in a way that made Kabeer yearn to figure out the mystery of this woman, this woman who possessed a strangely attractive mix of self-consciousness and confidence, insecurity and a deep sense of self-worth, vulnerability and . . . and . . . power!
Mother of God, this woman had in some way exerted power over both him and his sister today, had she not? Had she not stopped Kabeer in the parking lot when she herself was aroused? Had she not somehow set aside the anger and indignation she must have felt when Yasmeena called her a whore in that first meeting? Yes, set aside the anger well enough to have a business conversation and get the deal she came to get!
And now Kabeer wondered if Jenny would have stopped him downstairs in Yasmeena’s room too. Would she have let him get close and then backed away, reminding him that this was a business meeting first, that she was here to make her pitch, sell her idea, close her deal? Did this woman have that in her? Was she playing that game? Perhaps playing it without even realizing it?
Kabeer looked at Jenny again, his mind turning as he blinked hard into the wind. Is this woman capable of playing that game, he wondered as his breathing quickened and then slowed. That old, ancient game that mixed power and money, love and sex, influence and desire . . .
Kabeer was no stranger to women who tried to play that game—some were good at it, some not so good, and some not sure if they wanted to play it but did not have the strength of character to stay true to themselves when exposed to Kabeer’s power and influence, his potent mixture of charm and . . . and, well, money. Of course, Kabeer understood that any relationship, no matter how deep or shallow, is a game, a dance between two people, a stage production sometimes.
But there is nothing about this woman that is an act, is there, he thought now as he remembered that his father was waiting and he could not linger here and think himself into circles trying to figure out the riddle of this American woman who he barely knew and who was already under his skin in the most unexpected of ways.
Yet Kabeer stood there, taking in the sight of her standing against that railing, her dark, wild hair looking striking against the blue of the surf and sky. She stood with her back straight, her shapely legs braced slightly apart as she held on to that railing and looked out over the horizon.
What are you looking at, Jenny Jones? What do you see out there? Do you see your future? Yes, little Jenny with your big brown eyes, round and innocent but with a fire that sets ME afire!
Do you see your future, dear Jenny? Am I in it, Kabeer wanted to whisper in her ear as he slipped his arms around her waist, grasping her tight, pushing her against that railing as she backed up against his body.
Am I in it, and does it feel like this, he would whisper as he kissed her soft neck, her smooth cheeks, her full lips, his arms tightening their hold on her, his body hardening as he moved closer, pinning her against the metal railing as the wind screamed in their ears.
Will she resist me, he wondered as he took a step closer, his breathing quickening as his thoughts suddenly evaporated, leaving nothing but pure, savage, unfulfilled NEED. Will she shout for me to stop as I hold her tight against that strong metal railing and RAVISH her the way my body wants, the way my body needs, the way my body goddamn CRAVES right now, has craved since I first touched her haunting curves down in that dark basement garage? Will she scream when I hold her thick brown hair tight, pull her head back, kiss her the way I yearn to kiss her? Will she struggle when I undress her, quickly, ripping off buttons, tearing through cloth, right here, right now, on this open deck, under the wild blue sky, beneath the all-seeing eyes of Allah?
Another step closer, and now the blood was pounding in his ears and the sun felt blinding as he approached her from behind. He could smell her faint perfume, her unique musk . . . oh, God, he wanted this woman, wanted to touch her again, take in her smell, her taste . . . he wanted to damn well CONSUME her if he could!
Ya, ALLAH! Kabeer almost shouted out loud as he abruptly turned and stormed down the metal stairs, and suddenly he was in the cool, quiet, air-conditioned atmosphere of the walnut-paneled interior hallways of this million-dollar yacht, the wind and sunlight gone, leaving him almost disoriented as he stood and caught his breath, regained his frame, his goddamn sanity.
Slowly Kabeer began to walk towards his father’s cabins at the far end o
f the yacht, and only now, as he forced his arousal for Jenny to take a backseat because he needed to think clearly for a moment . . . yes, only now did he realize that he had made a profound mistake with this whole chef business.
I am not going to be able to keep my hands off this woman, he thought as he walked down the empty, silent hallway that smelled of sandalwood incense and palm oil. I know myself. I know what my body feels, what my body needs, what my body damn well craves. And right now it is her, Jenny Jones, whether I like it or not. So now I have thrown myself into this chef business, which means I am committing to working with her—working with her closely, every day for months, a year, maybe more! If I take this woman the way I want to take her—and I damned well am GOING to take her—then what happens a few months from now, a year from now, two years from now? I am part of her business—and not just her business: now that Bukhaara Capital is investing, it becomes Bukhaara’s business as well. Part of the family business, yes?! Yasmeena will be watching. Father will be watching. God will be watching. Ya, Allah, what have I stepped into here? What was I thinking?!
Kabeer knew that if he started down the path of being the head chef to launch Jenny’s restaurant with some buzz, he would need to follow through. He would actually need to be GOOD at his work. He would actually need to SHOW UP at work.
Of course, Kabeer knew he was capable of following through once he had a goal in mind—indeed, he had achieved excellence in all sorts of physical and intellectual fields: squash champion at Paris-Sorbonne, law review at Columbia. There had been martial arts belts, solo skydiving certifications, competition-level equestrian riding. Yes, Kabeer had the patience and dedication to achieve a goal once the goal was set. But what was the goal here?
Yes, Kabeer, he asked himself as the thick wooden door to the old Sheikh’s room appeared at the end of the long, wood-paneled hallway. What is the bloody goal here? Is it just the experience? The fun of it? The thrill of something new?
Flames for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 2) Page 7
