Jenny swallowed again, blinking as she got a distinct feeling that she was at a crossroads here, where her next choice would have dramatic consequences on her life. The feeling was strange, eerie, almost otherworldly, and for some reason it took all the panic away. Now she was breathing normally, and as she stood, wincing a bit as her thigh muscle strained but then held up, she straightened her skirt and buttoned her jacket. She looked down at Yasmeena’s shoes, and took a long, careful breath. Then she stepped into those shoes like she was stepping into her own future, taking in a deep breath as she felt Kabeer silently reach out and offer his sturdy arm for support.
Now Jenny Jones, food-lover and aspiring chef, part-time MBA from City College of Chicago, future head-chef and restaurant proprietor, stood up to her full height of around five-foot-and-very-little, and looked at Kabeer Bukhara, billionaire Arab Sheikh, man who had kissed her lips, touched her body, turned her on in the most unexpected, perhaps unwanted, certainly untimely way . . . yes, she looked confidently into his dark green eyes and, doing her best not to blink, said:
“Damn right I’m ready. I’ve been ready for this meeting for a long, long time. So bring it.”
6
“Global Kitchen, right?”
Jenny squinted in the sun, carefully sitting on the white canvas chair across from Yasmeena. Kabeer hadn’t even officially introduced her to Yasmeena, or to the older, distinguished-looking man with a thick, long white beard that perfectly matched his immaculately white flowing robe that was traditional Arab dress.
The man sat in a deck chair that was reclined, and his eyes were closed tight. His lips were moving, and for a moment Jenny thought he was praying under his breath; but then she saw the earpiece tucked in his right ear and the lit-up phone on the round glass table that was fixed to the deck beside the chair. The older Sheikh Bukhaara was quietly talking in Arabic, his voice low but the words still coming across in fragments to Jenny. The language sounded nice, Jenny thought as she listened to the older man’s relaxed delivery. Mysterious, foreign, harsh at times but still beautiful.
Yasmeena was seated on a straight-backed wooden chair. She had sunglasses on now, but with a very light tint and Jenny could clearly see her eyes. God, they looked that silvery-gray even through sunglasses! Still, there was a different air about the woman now. Perhaps it was because she was with her father? Or maybe Jenny just felt that way because Yasmeena had asked her that question, the question that made Jenny’s heart jump as the adrenaline flowed, reminding her that this was her shot. However twisted the path to this point, she was now pitching her idea, and clearly Yasmeena had read her proposal.
“Global Kitchen, right?” Yasmeena had asked as Jenny made her way up the metal stairs to the top deck of the boat, holding tight to both handrails as she favored that thigh which was actually feeling fine now—maybe Kabeer was serious about massaging away the injury.
Jenny nodded now, still squinting a bit. “Yes,” she said. “Global Kitchen. I thought the name captures the—”
“I hate it,” Yasmeena said.
“What?”
“The name. I hate it. It sounds like a . . . like a food court at one of your local shopping malls!”
“OK . . .” Jenny felt her life—or at least her carefully-rehearsed presentation—flash before her eyes. She hates the name?! That was the LAST thing I expected to have to defend!
She blinked as she tried to recalibrate, tried to figure out if she should argue for the name right now or try to steer the conversation to something more substantive. The sun felt very harsh suddenly, the way it reflected off the blue waters of Lake Michigan. The yacht had cast off not so long ago, but the towers of downtown Chicago looked alarmingly small already as the yacht plowed through the waves, heading for Canada, it seemed. The wind blew through her dark brown hair, whipping it back and around as Jenny struggled to tame it back into a messy ponytail as she looked at Yasmeena and then at Kabeer, who was listening but was uncharacteristically quiet.
Now the older man was off the phone and he calmly, gracefully looked over to the group, glancing briefly at Jenny without acknowledging her, and then looking over at Yasmeena.
What, am I invisible? Jenny thought. Do these people even notice other human beings?
“Did you tell her our opinion about the name?” Sheikh Bukhaara said in a resonant, deep voice that nonetheless seemed to take the man some effort to make it heard through the wind and the roar of the engines.
Yasmeena nodded, making eye contact with her father and then looking down and staying silent. The man turned to Jenny now. “We do not like the name,” he said. “Global Kitchen sounds like a . . . like a cheap restaurant at the Cincinnati Airport.”
From the corner of her eye Jenny saw Kabeer smile and turn away, as if he was stifling a laugh. What’s the joke, she wanted to ask him. Am I the joke here, she suddenly thought. Did you bring me up here for your family’s amusement? Should I stand up and perform some tricks for you and your royal family now?
But Jenny held her calm and looked firmly at Sheikh Bukhaara. “I’m open to suggestions on the name,” she said, doing her best to match Sheikh Bukhaara’s tone (and doing a pretty good job of it, if she did say so herself . . .) “But the name is secondary. What’s important is the idea, the vision. Let’s talk about that first. You’ve obviously seen the proposal and business plan. If not, I’ve got a copy—”
Sheikh Bukhaara waved his arms and leaned back in his reclining deck chair. The wind played with his long white beard as he grunted and then gestured towards Yasmeena, his gaze still trained on Jenny. “I do not care about the details of the idea. Yasmeena has analyzed it and briefed me on it. She likes it and I trust her judgment. You like it, yes, Yasmeena?”
Yasmeena nodded again, slowly but clearly, and now Jenny looked at her in surprise. “Really?” she said, an involuntary smile breaking on her smooth round face.
Yasmeena gave her father a quick look before glancing back at Jenny. “But of course the restaurant business is notoriously hard,” she said. “Especially at the high-end level where you want to play.” She sighed now, like she was reluctant to say what was coming next. “But your plans for expanding this into a franchise that could go national, even international . . . well, that is something . . . something unique. Well thought out. It is a strong and clear vision, which I do not often see in first-time entrepreneurs. Yes, it is something that could do well if it’s done right.”
“It could be very big, you told me,” Sheikh Bukhaara said in that deep voice, and now when Jenny looked at the old man she swore she saw a hint of mischief in his tired eyes, like he was teasing his straight-laced, overly-serious daughter, trying to playfully embarrass her. “What was it you said, Yasmeena? It was an American expression. Ah, yes: Big time! You said it could be BIG TIME, right, Yasmeena?” He spread his arms out wide now, and with his white robes billowing in the wind and that beard looking wild as the wind whipped it all over, the man looked like some kind of mystical sage, a magical druid.
“You said ‘big time,’ Yasmeena? Where did you learn that expression?” Kabeer asked now, his tone more taunting than teasing, but still reasonably playful—at least compared to the interchange that had just occurred below decks. “What American TV have you been watching, dear sister?”
Yasmeena seemed unmoved, and if she was embarrassed or even amused, Jenny couldn’t tell. “Like I said, the restaurant business is very tough. It will be nothing if it is not done right. If it is done right, it could do well.”
Jenny took a deep breath as she tried to control her excitement. “Just have to make sure it’s done right,” she said with the enthusiasm of a girl scout about to tie her first knot or bake her first cookie.
The old man clapped his hands and raised them to the sky as if he was saying “God willing” or something. Kabeer laughed out loud behind her, and it was a supportive, admiring laugh that made Jenny feel warm all over. Even Yasmeena’s expression looked less severe for a moment as
Jenny’s excitement spread through the group, and for a moment Jenny got a strange feeling like she was a part of something, a part of this, a part of . . . a part of this family.
But Yasmeena was still all business. “Easier said than done. Everything will depend on getting the first location off to a flying start. If the first restaurant fails—or even does just average—there will be no hope for expansion. The first restaurant has to be big. Heavy publicity. Influential reviews. And, of course, a celebrity chef.”
“Celebrity chef,” Jenny said, nodding and taking a deep breath. “I know that the traditional model for a successful high-end restaurant is to have a famous chef as head of the kitchen. But like I said in my proposal, I would actually be the head chef. That’s part of MY model. I’ve been cooking my whole life, and I’ve been experimenting with all kinds of exotic foods, innovative combinations, exciting mixes of international cuisines! My proposal includes a full section on menu options and layouts, and—”
“I read the section on the food, Ms. Jones,” Yasmeena said dismissively. “The concept is good and the menu looks fine for now. And in fact you can still be in charge of the menu and request that the head chef include your ideas. But you cannot BE the head chef. You have no qualifications, no experience, no reputation, no—”
“I have the SKILLS,” Jenny snapped. “That’s what matters, isn’t it? In the end a restaurant is about how the food tastes, right?”
Yasmeena shrugged as if she couldn’t care less. “Yes, I suppose a restaurant is about the food. But it is not ALL about the food. Every day in the world new restaurants are opening—new restaurants that serve excellent food. And you know something: eighty percent of those restaurants will be out of business before Ramadan.”
“Ramadan? Well, isn’t that the fasting season anyway?” Jenny said, and she wanted to dive off that deck as she heard herself say it. “Ohmygod, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean it like that! It was just—”
Yasmeena raised her eyebrows and glanced over at her father, but the old man had his eyes closed now, and this time it looked like he wasn’t on the phone and had actually dozed off. Kabeer had stepped away from the group, and Jenny could see him on the phone at the far end of the long, windy deck. He had dark wayfarers on, and he was smiling and laughing as he spoke, his body language looking almost flirtatious, Jenny thought for a moment.
And now that earlier warm feeling of being part of the family seemed lost and unregainable, and Jenny felt like everything was suddenly turning dark and menacing, and she had made a culturally insensitive joke, and Yasmeena was going to have her thrown overboard, and Kabeer was teasing and flirting on the phone with someone, and . . . and . . and focus, you moron. FOCUS!
Calmness again. Control once more. Breathing normal. You can handle this, Jenny told herself. You can handle ANYTHING!
And as if the universe was still watching, still listening, still testing her, that wild wind died down and the blazing sun went behind a cloud for a moment and Yasmeena miraculously seemed unfazed by the quip about Ramadan.
“Yes, Ramadan is the month of fasting for all Muslims,” she said matter-of-factly. “But it is not like people do not eat for a month. The fasting period is from sunrise to sunset, so at night there are great feasts in all Muslim countries!” Now those gray eyes lit up, and even through those sunglasses Jenny could see some emotion come through. “Oh, the midnight feasts in Bukhaara! Kabeer and I would run through the streets, followed by the horse-drawn carriages with Father and our mothers and the royal attendants. We would eat freshly picked dates offered by the street-vendors. Fragrant rice pilafs, the purest white grains perfectly fluffy and plump, infused with saffron, decorated with streaks of orange and green food coloring!”
Jenny smiled as she pictured the scene: the Middle-Eastern city of Bukhaara lit up at midnight, the narrow streets crowded with joyful, colorfully dressed people feasting on fresh dates, sweet rice, savory kebabs. The domes and minarets lit up in the night, the rolling sand dunes looking silver beneath the starlit desert skies.
The image was so strong in her mind that Jenny felt that otherworldly, eerie sense once more, that sense that had pushed her to keep going . . . keep chasing her dream, keep following her instincts . . . her instincts with this business, her instincts with . . . Kabeer?
But this was time to talk business, and Jenny knew it. So she nodded and smiled at Yasmeena and told herself to keep going.
“That sounds wonderful,” she said, meaning every word. “I can almost picture you and Kabeer as children. Is it just the two of you, or are there more—”
“We had an older brother. He is no more,” Yasmeena said, and she spoke quickly, abruptly, without emotion, and Jenny immediately wished she hadn’t asked the damn question!
Stick to the topic, moron, she told herself as she cringed at her last two missteps. Talk food. Talk the restaurant. Close the deal. Don’t ask personal questions! These aren’t your friends! This isn’t your family!
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jenny said, and before she could stop herself, she was stumbling forward. “I’m sorry to bring it up.”
Yasmeena ignored the apology, but whatever emotion she had shown was now buried again. “Like I was saying, food is just one part of what makes a restaurant successful. I know you’d LIKE it to be all about the food. Every restaurant owner—and certainly every chef—wants it to be all about the food. But it is NEVER all about the food, and, quite honestly, Ms. Jones, I assumed you would have already understood that as a businesswoman.”
Jenny seethed at being talked to like a child, but she knew Yasmeena was right. Great food and a creative menu was necessary but not sufficient for success. Not in a high-stakes, competitive market like the high-end restaurant business, where you need to invest a lot of money up front and just a couple of bad months can sink you. You can’t take the chance that the food alone will get you there. Marketing, perception, press, BUZZ . . . that’s what gets the tables booked, that’s what gets people to tell their friends, that’s what puts a restaurant over the top. That’s what gets you to the big time.
So Jenny nodded as she held eye contact with Yasmeena. Then she shrugged and looked away for a moment. “OK,” she said quietly, realizing quickly that the easiest and best way to build buzz was indeed to hire a celebrity chef. “So we hire a celebrity chef. Maybe poach one from another restaurant?”
Yasmeena shook her head like she had already thought about it. “That will not work. The big names are going to want to bring in their own menus, their own vision. The restaurant would become THEIR restaurant, and that would take away from your story.”
“My story?” Jenny said, frowning, her face scrunching up in the way that Grandma always got after her about.
“Your story. Americans love the underdog story, yes? You know: lower class girl works her way through a part-time MBA, starts a unique restaurant that sources local food and serves creative dishes that draw from the world’s cuisines. It is a good story. It will play well both here and abroad, once you expand overseas. Your lower-class background and non-flashy education will fight the perception of white Americans being privileged and entitled.”
Lower-class girl? If they weren’t on a boat, Jenny would have stood and walked right out of there. My parents may not have been around a lot, but that’s because they worked HARD, little Miss Silver-Spoon-up-the-Butt! We lived in a warm, clean HOUSE, not a goddamn trailer park with meth-addicts for neighbors. I am not trailer-trash, you stuck-up—
But wait, Jenny thought as she pulled her emotions back into line. The truth was, she’d thought of that angle herself, thought of that story herself. And in a way it was true, wasn’t it? Money HAD been tight growing up. They hadn’t always lived in a safe neighborhood when she was little. Both her parents worked long hours and weren’t often the nicest, most understanding parents when it came down to it. Jenny had worked her way through community college. Her degree had been in accounting, even though she would have loved to have g
one to culinary school. Accounting had gotten her a part-time job in the finance department for the McDonald’s Corporation, and she had learned a lot about how franchises and expansion was handled. That job had only lasted a year or so before she was downsized and had to work three other jobs, but it helped give her the confidence that she could handle the finances of her own restaurant chain when it came down to it.
So yes, it was a good story, Jenny realized. SHE was a good story. And Yasmeena was right again—a really BIG celebrity chef would overshadow Jenny’s story, stifle her vision. She wouldn’t be able to train a true celebrity chef, teach them her own creations. The ego battles would be too much.
Now Jenny looked at Yasmeena with a modicum of respect. This woman knew her business. She was legit. And what’s more, from the way she was talking, it sounded like she had already decided to fund Jenny’s venture.
The realization hit home just as Jenny had the thought, and her heart almost stopped as she tried to come to terms with the fact that she was sitting on a yacht, the skyline of Chicago in the distant background, the rich blue waters of Lake Michigan all around . . . yes, she was sitting on a yacht with the owners of Bukhaara Private Capital, discussing how to make her restaurant—her vision, her creation, her DREAM—come true!
Her heart pounded as she listened to Yasmeena talk about the proposal. The woman had clearly read it in detail, and so it was odd that she seemed surprised when Jenny had introduced herself earlier, while walking up the gangplank. Maybe she didn’t hear her? Whatever. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that Yasmeena seemed to be running the show at Bukhaara Capital, and she was clearly interested in Jenny’s idea.
Yasmeena had been talking, but a lot of it was flowing right through Jenny as she felt waves of elated disbelief rock her body as she sat there in her business suit. This was a yes! They were going to fund it! Weren’t they? Aren’t you? Oh, God, don’t tell me you were leading me on just to crush me at the last minute! Oh, Yasmeena, you cruel, evil—
Flames for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 2) Page 6