Christmas with the Yared Sheikhs: The Complete Series

by North, Leslie

  The chef. The recent hire his father had brought on, from America. In the wake of his mother’s absence due to her long-running illness, his father had thought it wise to bring in a foreign woman to prepare the traditionally maternal Christmas Maatkare feasts. She moved to her dough, cutting it into small sections, rolling each one out into flat, oblong pieces.

  “How about we make a deal? I sample your food, and I won’t tell my father you tried to kick out the prince of Maatkare.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Ah. A diplomat, I see.”

  “Born and raised.”

  A strange smile crossed her lips. “Well, I suppose that sounds fine. After all, I need a little Maatkaran take on some of my recipes.” She washed her hands, drying them on a towel stuffed in the front pocket of her thin white apron. “So you’ll be my official tester.”

  “I suppose my taste buds are up for the task,” he mused.

  She snorted, rubbing her palms against her jean shorts. She looked fresh, somehow. Dewy. Tightly packed and lithe, like she might go for runs every morning. Her cinnamon brown hair was tugged back in a pony tail. She moved with astonishing certainty in this kitchen, which she couldn’t have known for more than a day.

  “First things first. The shawarma marinade.” She moved to a small bowl, whisked it rapidly, then offered him a spoonful. “Thoughts?”

  He grabbed her hand instead of the spoon and took a quick taste. Their eyes locked, and something shivered through him. Blue eyes that reminded him of a spring morning watched him eagerly.

  “Too spicy,” he said, though the marinade left a pleasant buzz on his tongue. She wouldn’t get a free pass so quickly. Not as the newest employee in the palace, and certainly not when it was much more fun to tease first. “Definitely too spicy.”

  She huffed. “No it’s not.” Her gaze fell to the bowl. “I used a fraction of the cayenne I would normally use. Unless you have some sort of allergy.”

  He sniffed. “What else?”

  “I’m going to bake a fatayar now,” she said. He watched as she scooped a glob of something green into the dough she’d just rolled out, and then sealed it up with quick finger work. A moment later, she’d shut a few of them away in the oven. “The vegan take on it is a challenge, but I’m positive I found the workaround.”

  “This is an important task,” he said. And it was—especially with his mother away in Switzerland. The entire palace hinged on a solid series of Christmas meals, and this was the first time they wouldn’t have his mother’s soft, graceful touch. “You’ll have plenty of fierce critics.”

  “Yeah, I think I’m looking at one right now.”

  Her flat expression made a smile twitch at his lips. He liked this sparring.

  “Oh, you have no idea. This is nothing. I don’t even really care for food.”

  He could practically hear the record screech to a halt. Her brows formed a hard line. “What?”

  “Food is simply fuel for the body.” He believed this, but not as much as he wanted her to think right now. “The right balance of carbohydrates, nutrients, and proteins. Simple math.”

  She blinked. “That’s…offensive to me.”

  He grinned. This was more fun that it should be.

  “I’m a chef,” she went on. “I am a professional organizer of flavors. It’s more than just math. It’s not just carbs and proteins. It’s a beautiful dance that brings in emotion and memories. It’s a journey, and it’s one of the fine arts of life.” She scoffed, looking at him like he’d suggested they take a trip to Mars instead. “How can you not see that?”

  Maybe he saw it a little. But he liked this vehemence. It was a passion he hadn’t seen in a while. Life around the palace had become pure numbers and stress. Between his mom convalescing abroad indefinitely and his mission of getting the Maatkaran long-distance running team—including himself—to the Olympics, life had become stark. Boring. Bereft.

  This woman was a breath of fresh air.

  “I need an example,” he said.

  She muttered to herself while she grabbed for various ingredients. He didn’t watch what she threw together, could only see the expert maneuver of her hands and the tantalizing slope of her breasts under the flimsy white fabric of her apron. His fingers twitched as he watched her. He needed to look into a few things. Like how long this chef would be staying around and whether or not she’d come accompanied.

  “This.” She whisked something angrily in a bowl. “Try this.” She offered it to him. Something caramelized and glossy.

  “There’s no spoon. You should feed it to me.”

  Her nostrils flared. “With my fingers or yours?”

  “You’re the professional,” he said. “You decide.”

  She narrowed her eyes and rummaged for a clean spoon. Then she was off to another task, arranging pieces of vegetables on a plate.

  “Eat that. And look at this.” She pointed with her knife to two plates. One was haphazardly arranged—slices of onion, broccoli florets, and parsley flakes all clustered together. On the other plate, the same ingredients were arranged carefully. Parsley formed a wide arc, then florets melded into onion slices. “Which one looks better?”

  This one, he could admit. “Obviously the one on the right.”

  “Exactly.” She beamed up at him, like a proud school teacher. His flirting was completely over her head. Somehow, that made her even cuter. “So you do get it. Presentation matters.”

  “Fine,” he conceded. He took a bite of whatever she’d whipped up. Something like a salad dressing, with a bitter tang that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “But this? What is this?”

  “Flavor,” she said dryly. “Quality matters here, as much as presentation. Flavor backs up the plate. Making it look attractive is step one, but sets you up for a very important step two.” Plates clanked as she rummaged for something else. A moment later, the fatayer was steaming in front of him. “Try this. Then,” she held up a finger, “try it with the vinaigrette I made.”

  Noel stifled a smile, breaking open the steaming fatayer. He frowned, but it was just for show. “My mother’s always come out crispier.”

  The chef’s face fell, and he wanted to take it back. But instead, he crunched into the steaming spinach pie. It was too hot to taste. He chewed and swallowed.

  “It’s too salty,” he said at last.

  Her jaw dropped. “You are a liar.”

  “I may be, but my taste buds aren’t.” He skimmed the heel of his palm over the countertop, the dark glare she sent his way sending a strange thrill through him. He wasn’t one to hassle strangers. But something about this woman felt familiar. Like they’d been giving each other a hard time for years, and this was simply a continuation of an old friendship.

  “What’s this?” He found a scrap of paper with a long list of scribbled words. He squinted to read. Saffron. Yubari King Melons—Japan. Black truffles. White truffles. Edible gold.

  “Just some things I need for the meals coming up,” she said, whisking something furiously in a new bowl.

  He blinked. “Edible gold?” He let the list flutter from his hand. “You are out of your mind.”

  She stopped whisking. “I’m sorry?”

  “This list is outrageous.” He scoffed, reaching for the list again. There were even more items. “Aceto Balsalmico—Italy. Shall we send you to Italy on the private jet so you can select the perfect bottle?”

  Her blue eyes turned stormy at the same time the main kitchen door clanged open. His father strode in, his morose gaze sweeping the kitchen.

  “Perfect timing,” the chef said. “Why don’t we see what your father has to say about this?”

  3

  “Ah! I see you’ve found the chef.” Noel’s father had a wispy smile at best these days, and it flickered across his face briefly before disappearing entirely. “Ana, I’d like you to meet my middle son—Noel.”

  “Yes.” She shot him a severe look. “My pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is mine,”
he snapped back. Turning to his father, he snatched up the list once more. “Father, can you tell me some more about our allotted budget for the Christmas festivities this year? Like if you specifically wanted edible gold to be included in our vegan feasts?”

  Sheikh Yared’s black eyebrows formed a hard line. “Why, I’m not—”

  “Sir,” Ana butted in, “Your son has caught me in my creative process.” She sent him a dark look, one that made his stomach tighten. “A brainstorming session, if you will. I prefer to work uninterrupted, yet he insists on interrupting. One of my stipulations for the job is that I am able to work in peace.”

  His father’s mouth turned downward. “Noel. There’s no need to hover around the new hire.”

  “I’m not hovering. But I am overseeing. As you asked me to help with.” Noel tossed the list down. This wasn’t going as he’d planned, so he needed to retreat. Cutting costs at the holiday dinners was a major part of his cost-reduction plan for the palace at large. One of the only ways he could justify, from a financial standpoint, his drive to get Maatkaran athletes to the Olympics. And perhaps even his own self someday, as well.

  “Let the new chef settle in,” Sheikh Yared said in a low, drawling rumble. “She’s the professional. We shouldn’t second-guess her.”

  “I can only do my job with full control of the kitchen.” With a sharp look in Noel’s direction, she added, “My kitchen.”

  His lips twitched with a suppressed smile. There it was again. The urge to retort, to fight back, to take this to a saucier level. “Very well. Even so, you should prepare yourself for a spectator over the next several weeks.” With a tight smile to both of them, Noel strode toward the small hallway that connected to the dining room. As he left, he could hear the undertones and his father continuing a conversation with Ana.

  Each time he blinked, he saw her face behind his eyelids. She’d damned near scorched herself into his brain already.

  As Noel pushed into the grand dining room, a scuffle alerted him, followed by a very noticeable curse word in Arabic. Amid the variegated palms dotting the inside of the dining room, he spotted Segal, one of the head cooks for the palace.

  “Segal. What are you doing in here?”

  Segal stepped out from behind one of the enormous planters. He swiped at his tightly cropped black hair with the back of his hand.

  “I just came from the kitchen.” Segal’s eyes lowered to the floor. “I heard what you said to that American chef.”

  “Hm.” Noel shoved his hands into his pockets, studying the parquet flooring with intensity. He didn’t normally condone eavesdropping, but Segal had been a cook in the palace kitchen for almost thirty years. He had a vested interest in the direction of the kitchen.

  “She sounds like a troublemaker,” Segal went on. “I fear this will be an utter failure.”

  Noel sighed, searching Segal’s face for the true source of his comment. Noel had enjoyed giving Ana a hard time, but it was in good fun. Or something resembling good fun. If the entire kitchen staff believed she would fail, however, then they had a different problem on their hands. One that would ensure the holiday feasts became a downward spiral. “And why do you think that?”

  “I heard what you said about her list,” Segal hissed, clutching a palm frond. “You think she’ll be able to pull off these dinners within budget? Economically? Not even to mention the traditions.” Segal tutted, his dark, worried gaze drifting away. “We need someone who knows what he’s doing. Who knows how to handle a kitchen but also knows about Maatkare.”

  “She brings a lot of experience with her,” Noel said.

  “Yes, but don’t I have just as much experience?”

  Noel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Segal would have been his first pick, if he’d been in charge. But of course his father had hired this young beauty on a whim during a visit to Santa Monica, California. Noel couldn’t advise his father; it was his job to pick up the pieces and make sure things stayed in line.

  “You know that you would have been my choice,” Noel said in a low voice, as though uttering it within the palace was somehow sacrilegious. “But these things are not in my control.”

  “My daughter would have been an excellent choice, as well,” Segal said. “You know that she just graduated from the Maatkaran Culinary Institute.”

  Noel nodded. Segal’s daughter, Dina, had shadowed Segal in the kitchen for years. She was young, and maybe a little uncertain. But she had plans to follow in her father’s footsteps. “And we applaud her. But my father’s decisions must be supported.”

  Segal didn’t immediately respond, so Noel added, “By all of us.”

  Segal nodded. “Oh yes. Of course. Of course.” And then he bowed his head slightly and shuffled out of the dining room, leaving Noel in a thick silence. The golden-edged paintings lining the walls of the dining room bore down on him then, the stoic faces of his ancestors watching him for a reaction.

  Segal was right. The palace needed someone familiar with Maatkaran traditions at the wheel of this ship. His country’s adherence to tradition wasn’t just nostalgia; it was a time-honored display of faith and loyalty. The feasts at the palace during these holidays celebrations were, for some Maatkarans, the highlight of their entire year. Parents would scrimp for years to be able to purchase one perfect holiday dress for their child.

  Edible gold had no place in these sacred times. He’d make sure that Ana didn’t overstep her boundaries. Noel would keep an eye on her…and all the shapely temptations she had to offer.

  * * *

  Ana returned to her bedroom a couple hours later with flour-stained legs and bits of parsley stuck under her fingernails. A sign of a good first morning in the kitchen and a good head start before she formally met with the kitchen staff later that evening.

  In the darkened opulence of her bedroom, Linh was still asleep. Ana had to turn this into a lengthy nap instead of an all-day sleep-a-thon, if she had any hope of getting Linh to adjust to the time difference.

  The nanny, a short woman with jet black hair swept up into a tight chignon, rose from her chair and bowed. “Hello, madame. I am Priscilla. I’m honored to meet you, and it has been my pleasure to watch your sweet child while you are away. She slept quite well.”

  Ana cracked a smile. The lady was probably in her mid-twenties, but she had a grandmotherly energy about her. A daisy yellow scarf was knotted around her neck, the same way she’d seen other female workers of the palace wearing scarves.

  “Thank you, Priscilla. You can take a break. I’ll call you when I need you again.” Ana turned to her daughter. “Linh, baby.”

  She gently squeezed Linh’s small arm. She didn’t like how the nickname baby made her think of Reggie. A flash of a memory—she and Reggie arguing over the expenses of the restaurant while Linh wailed in the background, upset by the loud voices. Reggie always resented the fact that Ana called Linh baby and not him. That had been her nickname for him—until they adopted Linh.

  Linh stirred and rolled onto her side. Her long black lashes fluttered against her cheeks.

  “Let’s get up and have a snack, honey.” Anything to get her daughter awake for a few hours. “We can watch some Doggie Tales.”

  Linh cooed at the mention of her favorite kid’s show. “Woggie Tale?”

  “Mm hmm.” Ana tickled Linh’s sides until she giggled and became fully awake. “Time for Doggie Tales and a snack made just for you by Mommy. I know you love that.” It was one of the traditions that had grown organically between mother and daughter…and one of the many things Reggie had come to resent.

  She never would have guessed that her smart, driven, progressive boyfriend from five years prior could have become the resentful, bitter, and childish spouse she’d left almost a year ago. Their separation was another damning factor in the demise of their restaurant; she should have known that if they couldn’t manage it as partners, then they certainly couldn’t manage it as exes.

  And it was precisely Reggie a
nd the bevy of unsavory memories that should have tamped down the prickling attraction to that sexy middle son in the kitchen. His outspokenness, his mischief, his flirtations—they were all hard for her to ignore. But if her history with men taught her anything, it was that men couldn’t be trusted. Even if they looked, spoke, or treated her nicely. And especially if they were extra gorgeous…like Noel.

  Stay away. That was the bottom line. And now that she had a daughter, this rule was more important than ever.

  Ana unwrapped a simple cheese and tomato sandwich on focaccia bread, one of Linh’s favorites. As Linh snacked, Ana pulled up Doggie Tales on the tablet. Linh munched and giggled happily while Ana continued unpacking. A while later, Charlie knocked on the door.

  “You two awake in here?” He poked his head in through the deeply carved doorframe. “I’m up from my nap and ready to go again.”

  Ana smiled as she folded some T-shirts into the dresser drawer. “Almost ready. Hopefully that nap gave you the strength to deal with our new staff tonight.”

  “Readier than ever.” Charlie tousled Linh’s hair as he came into the room. “Hey, you have a fountain in your bedroom. I don’t. What a crock.”

  Ana snorted. “They reserve the best features for the best guests, apparently.”

  “Well, I’ll allow it. You are the executive chef, after all, and I a lowly sous chef.” Charlie strolled around the bedroom, checking out various aspects. He paused in front of the bathroom, letting out a low whistle. “But that shower stall is almost criminally luxurious.”

  She gave a low cackle. “Don’t I know it! It’ll be like showering in gemstones.”

  “If these are the rooms reserved for the plebs, I don’t think I want to know what the real royal bedrooms look like.”

  Maybe I’ll find out. She clamped her mouth shut before the words could pop out. No, she would not be finding out. Not here. Not ever. Even if Noel’s jawline made her question how she’d ever managed to achieve orgasm with any other man previously.