Sheikh in the City

“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 In addition to the one small bedroom where she’d passed the night, it contained a hopelessly outdated bathroom and a cramped living room that doubled as her business office.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 multi-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 corkboard 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 know 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.”

“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.”