by Leslie North
With a smile, he tasted, his tongue darting out to lick the last drops. She remembered how that mouth had felt on her. Her stomach dropped. She put the spoon down before she dropped it.
Glancing over her shoulder, he asked, “Will you make ro-be-yann nashif? Shrimp fried with spices. That is a favorite of mine.”
“You like shrimp? I haven’t been cooking much lately with that. It’s hard to get high-quality prawns these days.”
Ahmed waved a hand around. “Just ask. Anything you want can be flown in. But how about breakfast for now? Something simple perhaps? Honey and bread?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Did you come here to raid the kitchen?”
He shrugged. “What need have I to cook for myself? The palace has four chefs, and I eat out whenever I want. But now I want you to make me something. What about something very American. Flapjacks?”
She gave a laugh. “How about I teach you to make them? Pancakes were the first thing I learned to make, but I have a recipe for Swedish pancakes that are so thin you can see through them and so light they’re like a taste of heaven.”
He tossed the towel onto one of the stainless steel islands and rubbed his hands together. “Sounds wonderful. Where are the instructions?”
She tapped her temple. “First lesson—a chef learns to memorize recipes.” She glanced at the sweat drying on his skin—on his muscular forearms and chest. She licked her lips and turned to get him an apron. She needed some of that temptation covered up. “Wash up. And put this on.”
Surprisingly, Ahmed followed her instructions. After he’d washed, he picked up the apron and stared at it. Taking it from him, she draped the top loops over his head and let it drop down. Walking behind him, she grabbed the ties and tied it loosely behind him. She smiled as she breathed in his spicy scent.
Memories of his fingers sliding over her skin, of him buried inside her, flashed into her, washing heat through her.
Shaking her head to clear her wayward thoughts, she stepped back to the counter.
She had Ahmed pull out flour, eggs and the spices she wanted, including fresh ground vanilla bean and cardamom. She pulled down mixing bowls and set the heat under a flat pan on the stove. She was surprised how well they worked together, how companionable this was. How nice. She warned herself not to trust the feeling.
She was used to doing things on her own, had been for a long time. That was what happened when you didn’t have parents or siblings close by. That was what happened when you went to culinary school and learned how competitive the world could be. She’d been doing fine on her own. It didn’t matter to her if Ahmed was or wasn’t marrying someone else. She would be on her own again.
But this was still a moment of joy.
Ahmed glanced at the batter he’d made and frowned. “How do you know when it’s ready?”
“Taste…and texture.”
She took the spoon from him and stirred. “We don’t want any bubbles, but you want a smooth consistency. Thin but not too thin.” She glanced at him. “Kind of like traditional but not too traditional.”
He smiled, his dark eyes lightening. “This isn’t so hard.”
“Yeah, well, let’s see if you burn the first pancake or not.”
He stood close, his shoulder brushing hers, as she showed him how to pour the batter. Her heart was thudding again, and her upper lip dampened with sweat. Not from the stove. She liked the small frown that pulled his eyebrows flat and tight. She liked the way he lifted his head as if that would let him see better. She liked that he was interested.
With a shock, she realized she liked Ahmed. A lot more than she should.
The image of them doing this back in New York at her apartment on a Sunday morning flashed into her head. But that wasn’t ever going to happen. He had his world, she had hers, which meant a business to run. And he…well, she didn’t know what he did, maybe he was just a playboy. And maybe if he didn’t get married, they’d see each other once in a while. But domestic bliss…well, just not happening.
“Is that all there is to it?” he asked, staring at the pan as the pancakes started to brown.
“It’s no mystery. It’s about paying attention and the hard part is simply watching and waiting for the pancakes to be perfect. No…don’t turn them too early. You want one turn each.” She showed him how to turn the pancakes, putting her hand over his.
Reaching up, she grabbed a plate. “And you eat not just with your mouth—you want the eyes and the nose involved.” Working fast, she pulled out mint and raspberries, lemon and sugar and cinnamon. She whipped cream with a whisk, added the sugar, a squeeze of lemon and cinnamon, and showed him how to plate. “The mint’s a garnish, a touch of scent and green. The raspberries are better than any syrup—you just crush them lightly—and I wish we had some lingonberries, but these will do.” Stepping back, she admired the plate. Four golden, crisp Swedish pancakes, a dollop of whipped cream, a drizzle of the crushed raspberries, with a couple added next to the mint. It looked appealing even to her.
Inspiration struck, and she added a light dash of fresh ground ginger—an exotic touch—over the whipped cream. They headed for one of the stainless steel islands—not the one that held his sweaty towel—and she offered him a fork. She watched as he took his first bite. His dark eyes lit up.
“Good?” she asked.
He nodded and took another bite. “Better than good. And now I can cook for myself.” He smiled and looked ridiculously satisfied with himself.
She ate a few bites as well. She really didn’t have much appetite, but the pancakes had come out beautifully. And the touch of ginger on the whipped cream added a bite that complemented the creaminess.
They finished eating, and she took the plates to the dishwasher.
Ahmed pulled off his apron and came over to her. “You have taught me something. Now I need to teach you in return. What is something you’ve wanted to learn but have never taken the time for?”
She glanced around the kitchen. She had prep work and menus to work on, but wasn’t this another way to delay the wedding? She started to wonder if Ahmed had maybe hired the guy who had approached her. After all, a guy who wanted to blow up his own wedding wouldn’t be shy about delaying it as well to get more time to make things go wrong.
But Ahmed took her hand and urged, “Come on, there must be something.”
“Self-defense,” she said, blurting out the word. “I’ve always wanted to learn, but I’ve never taken a class.”
Ahmed rubbed his closely cropped beard with his free hand. He didn’t let go of her fingers with the other. “Okay, I can show you a few things.” He pulled her with him. She dragged her feet a little, but he only glanced back, grabbed his towel and said, “Come on. We need the gym and mats in case you manage to flatten me.”
She pulled a face. “As if that’s going to happen. But I’m not dressed for it.”
He shook his head. “You’ll stop to put on sweats if any guy in New York comes up to attack you? ‘Oh, sorry, mister, I must take off my high heels and get ready for you.’”
“I don’t need the mockery.”
He grinned. “No, you need to learn just a few moves.”
Dragging her along, he strode down corridors and back halls, past security guards and maids, who smiled and seemed to regard this as nothing unusual. She started to wonder if anything Ahmed did startled anyone. Was everyone used to him misbehaving? If that was true, he was going to have a really hard time making his wedding come off the rails, since no one would bat an eye at him doing anything outrageous.
Pulling her into the gym, he let go of her hand and headed to an area of dark blue mats that covered part of the hardwood floor. The floors gleamed with polish. She glanced around, seeing a punching bag, a full up boxing ring, weights and state of the art stationary bikes and even a pool in the distance. Windows showed a view into a garden on one side, the pool was on the other, and skylights let in natural light. Air conditioning brushed a cool breeze ov
er her face. Angie had been using the gym, but Melanie had never imagined it was so huge.
Ahmed threw down his towel and faced her, waving her closer. “Come over. Punch me.” He squared his shoulders and kept his hands by his side.
Walking over to him and stepping onto the mats, she asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be fake attacking me?”
He rolled his eyes. “I need to know if you can punch first.”
She lifted a hand, bunched her fist and threw a punch at his chest. He grabbed her hand. “You punch like a girl, and you telegraph every move. Put your thumb over your fingers, and punch with the arm, not your fist. Faster this time. Try it again.”
She threw another punch. Again he blocked it. Stepping around her, he grabbed her hand and her arm. One hand rested on her hip while he gripped her hand. “Tighter fist.” He pulled her arm back. “Throw straight out as hard as you can. Fake with one hand and hit with the other.”
Melanie closed her eyes, wishing that they were doing something else. Even though his touch on her was harmless, she was having difficulty concentrating. She shivered as his fingers stroked down her arm. He stepped away from her, moving in front of her again.
She faked with the right and threw another punch with her left hand. Her fist smacked into his hard chest.
“Good. Now, if you want to do some harm, aim for the throat.” Stepping behind her, he pulled her left hand back. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat and reminded herself to focus on what he was saying and not where his hands were roaming. “This gives you the chance to throw another punch as powerful as the first. So it’s fake, then hit and hit. Practice once. Put your weight into it but keep your feet anchored.”
He put his hands on her hips. His warm breath on the back of her neck was doing things to her insides. She kept thinking about the last time they’d had sex—how he’d come into her from behind, how he’d held her like this, how his body had felt pressed up against hers afterward.
Ahmed seemed oblivious. “Come on, punch.”
Swallowing hard, she did as he asked, trying to concentrate on throwing one punch after another.
“Good. Can you feel the power in those punches?” he asked.
She turned slightly to tell him she could. Her gaze met his, and she froze. So did he.
He was still gripping her hips, but his eyes darkened now. The smile went out of his stare, and hunger came into it. Reaching up, he traced one finger down her cheek and then pushed her hair back behind her ear.
She sucked in a breath, heart hammering. She couldn’t move—couldn’t breathe.
He leaned closer and put his mouth on hers.
She leaned into him, pressing her body against his. She had no idea she’d wanted this, longed for it. She could only think how he tasted of ginger and cinnamon and cardamom and something that was uniquely him. His lips parted, and she opened her mouth to him. He caught the back of her neck and deepened the kiss. She gave a low groan.
She had no idea how long they kissed before he pulled back. His breath came in short gasps. So did hers.
Resting his forehead against hers, Ahmed closed his eyes. “It was a mistake bringing you here,” he confessed. “I can’t seem to get you out of my thoughts.”
Melanie turned and put her hands on his chest, resting them flat against him. Unable to look at his face, she whispered, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you either. But you are still engaged to someone else. I don’t care if you say that’s fake. We can’t do this. Not right now.”
“It’s my father’s plan. Not mine.”
Melanie stepped back. “You sure about that? Nasiji’s beautiful and charming. Why not marry her?”
“The only woman I am attracted to is you, Melanie. From the moment I first laid eyes on you, everyone else has paled in comparison.” He smiled and touched her cheek again. “That was why I had to see you again. I will always have to see you again.”
“Really? Me and how many other women?”
Ahmed stepped back and rubbed the back of his neck. “Is that what you think of me? My father has no respect for me. Thinks I am a boy, not a man. He thinks marriage will make me grow up.”
Melanie hugged herself. Her stomach was queasy again. “And is he right?”
Turning away, Ahmed took three steps to the door and stopped. He turned back to her. “Does it matter what he thinks? I will have his respect someday. I will have yours.”
Melanie shook her head. “Really? You’re just going to order it and that will make it so? Ahmed, it doesn’t work like that. Respect is earned. And it’s my company you hired—you didn’t buy me. Now, excuse me. I have work to do. It seems like maybe you do have a few things yet to learn besides cooking.”
10
Ahmed got Nasiji’s text message after he had showered and dressed in jeans and a light, linen shirt. His father would not approve of the jeans, but Ahmed intended to tell his father that Nasiji liked Western clothing. That would irritate the old man.
Heading down into the garden, he met Nasiji beside the fountain. They would be able to see anyone coming from here, and the splash of the water would cover up anything Nasiji had to say.
Stopping in front of her, he crossed his arms. “What is it?”
Nasiji pulled back her veil, lifted her skirts, slipped out of her sandals and slid her bare feet into the fountain. “It’s going to be hot today.”
“It already is. What did you want to see me about?”
“About?” She glanced up at him, her green eyes pale and sparking. “How can you ask that? The wedding comes at us fast and your plans seem to be going nowhere.”
“Nonsense. They’re working very well. You must complain more. Tell that wedding planner—”
“Her name is Madam Zolest.”
“Yes, well, tell her you have changed your mind about the colors. Bright colors, or make it all white, with doves and orchids or something else extravagant. My father hates wasting money, so demand real gold in the decorations and ridiculous wedding gifts to hand out. And make certain this wedding planner…this Madam Zolest sends immediate bills to my father. And we must do more to irritate yours.”
Nasiji splashed her feet. “This is only going to get me married to my father’s horrible cousin.”
“No, I’ve been thinking about that. I have arranged for a doctor’s report to be leaked to your father. It seems this aged cousin is now, as the phrase goes, shooting blanks. If your father wants grandchildren, he will not look to that old man to be a husband to you.”
Tuning, Nasiji swung her feet out of the fountain pond and stood. “That, at least, is a good idea, but what about the rest? My father is still expanding the guest list for our wedding! He’s going to see us married, Ahmed!”
He took her hand and patted it. “Calm yourself. The plan is working. I hear from my brothers how my father is already grumbling under his breath, which means he is rethinking this plan of his. He will soon be looking at this as a bad idea and coming up with a scheme to undo it. All we need is to spark one good argument between your father and mine over this wedding and they will both call it off and think they have done good in ending an alliance that could only disgrace both families.”
She frowned and pulled her hand away. “Really? Then you had better not keep flirting with that caterer. Oh, don’t open your mouth to deny it and give me those big, innocent eyes. I hear the maids gossip, and they see more than you think. You father is going to think you need a wife to settle you more than ever if you keep flirting with that American.”
Ahmed stiffened. “That is none of your business.”
“This is my business, for it is my life. Put your mind to ending the wedding, not to getting into the pants of that American. You’ll have time to do her in the kitchens if you wish after this wedding is called off.”
Throat tight and the pulse pounding in his jaw, Ahmed leaned forward. “You will do well not to mention Melanie again to me. Or I will simply walk away from this and leave you to your fa
ther’s plans.”
He turned and strode away, the pulse still pounding hard.
He did not know why Nasiji’s words should anger him so much, but Melanie was nothing to do with Nasiji. The need to see Melanie swept into him. He had to know she was well. He headed to the kitchens. Was she not always there?
As usual, he found her working with batters and mixers and what looked like cakes. Oddly, however, her staff was not also busy with her. He paused in the doorway, one hand holding open the door, to watch her.
She stood with her back to him, bent over, her black slacks showing off the curve of her hips and her round ass. Her dark hair for once was pinned back in a clip. She seemed to sense him, for she straightened and looked up at him, her green eyes brightening for an instant and then a frown pulling her dark eyebrows flat.
“Where is everybody?” he asked and strolled into the kitchen.
“I gave them the afternoon off.” She gave a shrug. Flour dusted her pants and her fingers. “Told them to go sightseeing. I’m still working on menus and trying to figure out what’s a traditional but not too traditional wedding cake.”
Her voice had gone throaty and rough. He ought to turn right around and yet he couldn’t tear himself away. The kiss they had shared earlier lingered between them. He stepped closer to her. “And why did you not go with them?”
“I’m…I’m still working on the menu. You might think this wedding can be postponed or ended, but if it isn’t, I need to be ready.”
“Postponed?” he asked, puzzled she should use that word.
She turned away and picked up what looked like a chocolate-covered slice of candied orange. She offered it to him. “What do you think—traditional but not too much? The orange is candied with spices and honey.”
He put a hand on hers and took a bite of the delicacy. It was delicious. A drop of honey escaped from the corner of his mouth, and she put up a thumb to wipe it away.