“The true story . . .” Kabeer said, and Jenny could almost hear him grind his teeth over the phone.
“Yes,” Jenny said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “That our relationship is professional and nothing more, and you’ll be up to your usual . . . um . . . your usual . . . I mean, what you usually . . .”
She couldn’t finish the sentence, because something inside wouldn’t let the words come out. There was a silence now, a silence so heavy that it felt like it might crush her.
Finally he spoke.
“OK, Jenny,” Kabeer said, his voice deafeningly calm now, like a switch had flipped in him, a light had gone out. “Sorry. I mean Ms. Jones.”
“Oh, come on, Kabeer. You don’t have to—”
“Let me know when you are ready to start talking business. Until then, good luck and goodbye. I have other matters to attend to.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.
Jenny stared at the phone as the most sickening feeling washed over her. She was nauseas, sick to her stomach, dizzy and lightheaded. She glanced in despair at the papers scattered all over her desk, looked at the “Congratulations!” cards from her best friends and classmates, the smiley faces she had drawn on the hundreds of post-it notes that dotted her computer monitor . . . yes, she looked at all the reminders of happiness, success, and optimism; and then she turned away and forced a smile as she got back to work.
What choice did she have? She couldn’t choose a “maybe-perhaps-possibly” romance with a man she barely knew, a man who was getting calls and messages from models and movie stars, a man who could and would walk away if he got bored with plain old Jenny Jones, a man who seemed American enough at times but very much NOT American at other times, a man who had this whole side of him which she knew NOTHING about!
Yes, what did she know about Bukhaara, about Sheikhs and rulers, about their religion, their politics, their language, their land, their people? Nothing.
So she knew almost nothing about Kabeer, and so of COURSE she was making the right choice by honestly and truly accepting the conditions Yasmeena had set forth in how she should conduct her business, how she should conduct herself. The relationship with Kabeer stays professional, Jenny, or else you risk losing everything, you risk being left with nothing. Nothing except a memory of what might have been.
Now Jenny looked down at herself and touched her stomach, patting the cute bulge of her belly as she sighed for a reason she did not want to acknowledge. She had taken the morning-after pill following the boat trip, but she couldn’t deny that for some strange reason she had hesitated a long time before doing it. Perhaps too long? No, she was fine. She couldn't be pregnant. It would take a miracle. An act of God. No need to think about it.
“Jump in, right, Grandma?” she said out loudly to the empty room, patting her belly again as she pushed all her thoughts aside and tried desperately to focus on her work. “Jump in.”
16
“Dubai?”
“Dubai.”
It had been over a month since their father's death, and things seemed to have settled down, so Yasmeena looked at her brother with some apprehension as she put her bag down on the table of her office. Kabeer had been waiting for her to arrive, and it looked like he had been in the office a while.
“Dubai,” Yasmeena said again, clearing her throat as she took her seat and looked into her brother’s eyes to see if he was sober. “In the United Arab Emirates? That Dubai? You want the first location of Jenny’s restaurant business to be in Dubai? Not Chicago. Not New York. Not Paris. Not London. Dubai.”
Kabeer nodded. “I think you have got it, Yasmeena. Dubai. Correct.”
Yasmeena tried to keep her breathing calm even though her heart was pounding. In a way she was not too surprised. She and Kabeer had just returned from almost three weeks in Bukhaara, and Yasmeena had proudly watched her brother perform the funeral rites for their father, the old Sheikh. Indeed, Kabeer had made no argument when told by his father’s council of advisors about the details of the funeral, the ceremonies and speeches that would need to be given, the prayer calls and scheduled visits to the great mosques of Bukhaara that would have to be conducted. More importantly, Kabeer had made no fuss or protest when the council informed him that in six months, after the mourning period had passed, he would ascend to be Sheikh of Bukhaara.
The Sheikh of Bukhaara.
Yasmeena had almost cried with joy as she watched her brother step out through the dark purple curtain on the massive funeral stage erected in the center of Bukhaara’s capital. It was a somber occasion, and so the thousands who thronged the narrow streets were relatively quiet as Kabeer emerged, dressed in the royal robes, purple, blue, and red silk intertwined with black satin, green velvet. On his head he wore one of the royal turbans handed down through the generations of Bukhaara’s Sheikhs—Kabeer and Yasmeena’s ancestors, their bloodline, their family.
The turban was trimmed with gold that was hand-embroidered by their great-grandmothers, studded with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds that were over a hundred years old. It certainly looked like a crown fit for the greatest of kings. But Yasmeena knew it was not the royal crown itself. No, because although Kabeer was already Sheikh simply by virtue of his line, the ascendancy ceremony would not occur for another six months, not until the mourning period for the old Sheikh had passed.
And a lot could happen in six months.
Like this sudden plan about Dubai. It has come out of nowhere, Yasmeena thought. And although she was pleased that Kabeer seemed to want to return to the Middle-East—indeed, Dubai was less than an hour’s flight from Bukhaara—she needed to be certain about his motives.
“Kabeer,” she said quietly. “We have only just returned from burying our father. We are still grieving. Perhaps this is not the time to make sudden decisions.”
“It is not sudden. I have been considering it for the past three weeks. I took several day-trips to Dubai while we were in Bukhaara. I already have a space picked out.”
Yasmeena did a double take. “You left Bukhaara during the funeral period? I did not know of it.”
Kabeer smiled, his eyes bright and focused, his jaw set. “Nobody knew of it. I have a pilot’s license, remember?”
Yasmeena sighed and nodded. “Kabeer,” she said quietly, intently, almost a plea in her voice. “You are the Sheikh of Bukhaara now. You realize that, do you not?”
Kabeer held her gaze. No head movement. Not even a blink. “Not until the ascendancy ceremony. But yes, I do realize I will be Sheikh. That I am Sheikh. I have always known the day would come, Yasmeena. I ran from it as long as I could, but I know my time is coming.”
Yasmeena tried to hide her joy. “Then why are you wasting your time and energy on this restaurant business! You should be preparing to lead your people! Speaking with the council of advisors on a regular basis! Traveling your land, meeting your people, getting to know them once again! Let me run our businesses, like I have always done! You have a nation to run, brother! A people to lead! Drop this Dubai nonsense! And this chef nonsense! We cannot have the Sheikh of Bukhaara cooking in a restaurant in Dubai! Our people would be the laughing stock of the Middle East! As it is there is much work to do on your image, Kabeer. As it is there is a lot of damage to be undone, ya Allah! Do not make it worse!”
But Kabeer stayed silent, and now it was Yasmeena’s turn to feel a strange thought enter her being as she looked at her brother, looked into his eyes. She took a breath, choosing her words carefully. Then she spoke, hoping she could play this right, test her brother the way she wanted to test him.
“Oh, God, Kabeer. This is not about that woman, is it? It cannot be about her, can it? Jenny Jones? This American who . . . who spread for you the first damned chance she—”
“DON’T!” Kabeer shouted, SLAMMING his palms down on the cold wood table with such force that Yasmeena jerked backwards, almost hitting the padded wall behind her chair. “Don’t,” Kabeer said again, pointing at his sister, his face f
lush with color as he tried to calm himself down.
Yasmeena took several deep breaths before speaking. “But . . . but Kabeer . . . it has been weeks since you have even seen her! You yourself said that you barely know her. And now you want to drag her to the Middle-East so you can . . . so you can . . . so you can what? It does not make any sense, Kabeer! It doesn’t even—”
“She’s pregnant,” Kabeer blurted out now. “Yasmeena, she is pregnant. With my child. That is what makes sense of everything. Jenny is going to have my baby. That is the only thing that you need to understand. You understand, do you not? Jenny Jones is carrying the child of the Sheikh of Bukhaara. A royal child.”
17
Dubai.
The United Arab Emirates.
Dubai.
If the past three weeks had been chaos and madness, what was happening now didn’t have a name. Ridiculousness? Insanity? Ridiculous insanity?
Which part is ridiculous, Jenny, she had asked herself as she packed her bags and made sure all the stoves were off in her cozy little apartment kitchen. Yes, which part is ridiculous? The part where a private courier in a purple uniform shows up with a letter and a set of documents—the letter informing you that Bukhaara Capital has made the unilateral decision (that means they just do it without asking, Jenny discovered . . .) that the first location of Global Kitchen (HER restaurant, HER idea, HER business, by the way . . .) will be in Dubai, a city in the United Arab Emirates? How about the part where you calmly read the rest of the documents, which include an amended agreement (amended without asking, without negotiating . . .) that allows you to back out of the contract, to walk away from the business. You would be paid back the entire personal investment, as well as a lumpsum payout for the work already put in, as well as the rights to the business plan.
In other words Jenny was being told that she needed to move to Dubai, or else she’d be moved out . . . out of her own company! Was this a test? A test to see how far they could push her? A test to see how badly she wanted this? Still, Bukhaara Capital was the majority owner, and their “boilerplate” standard agreement gave them almost complete (unilateral . . .) authority over the business and its personnel. Complete authority over Jenny too, it seemed.
So was that ridiculous? Or was it ridiculous that while the dark-skinned courier stood there like a mute footman from the horror-movie version of Cinderella, Jenny thought for about three minutes, and then signed the new agreement and began packing.
She didn’t bother to call Bukhaara Capital. By now she understood how things worked with this company, with this family. Yasmeena and Kabeer were in charge. She couldn’t be sure whose idea this was, or why this was happening, but she didn’t want to think about it. In a strange way she was already prepared—mentally prepared, that is—for something like this.
Perhaps it was because over the past few weeks she had been so absorbed in thinking about her business in real, concrete, this-is-happening terms, about “First Chicago, then the world!” as she expanded to other countries. Yes, perhaps because she already knew that Global Kitchen would eventually have locations on every continent—certainly in the Middle-East, perhaps beginning with Dubai anyway—it didn’t seem like a TOTALLY insane idea to start outside the United States.
But it wasn’t just that, and she knew it. It was him. Sheikh Kabeer Bukhaara. Her billionaire-celebrity-chef. He was behind this—she sensed it the moment that gaudily dressed courier buzzed her apartment from downstairs. What the hell was Kabeer doing? Certainly Jenny had expected that he wouldn’t simply take no for an answer, that she’d constantly need to be on her guard, pushing him back as they struggled to find a working relationship after the way things had started between them. But she was prepared for that—or at least that’s what she told herself.
But Dubai . . . oh, God, in a way it’s as exciting and thrilling as it is ridiculous and insane, isn’t it? But Kabeer, what are you thinking? What do you think is going to happen? Do you want to get me on your turf, in the Middle-East, far out of my comfort zone? Is that your game? You think I’ll fall into your arms because we’re in some strange foreign land? You think it’ll be that easy to get me to sell out my business, my goals, my goddamn DREAMS for some good sex?
But it wasn’t just “good sex,” she thought as she zipped up that bag and checked herself in the mirror. She touched her face, her cheeks, her chin. She straightened her hair, her blue blouse, her black jeans. Then she touched her belly again, like she had been doing almost unconsciously a lot this past month, this past month which had been so busy, so hectic, so chaotic that she had missed meals, missed personal appointments, missed her . . . missed her . . . wait, what was the date . . . what was the damned date . . . ohgod . . . .ohgod . . . ohgod . . . OHMYGOD!
And now Jenny RAN to the bathroom, her hand over her mouth as she felt the sickness rise in her like a panic, and now it was real panic that tore through her as she threw up in the sink, and suddenly she was crying, sobbing, shaking . . . and now she was laughing, giggling, drooling . . . and all of it spun around and around until she just collapsed on the soft blue bathroom rug and broke down into all of it—laughter and tears, shaking and coughing, gurgling and whimpering, the sounds of a madwoman, the sounds of an animal, the sounds of . . . of . . . a child.
A child.
A royal child.
18
“Globe. That’s the name. Not Global Kitchen, but Globe. One word. Globe,” Jenny said. It wasn’t a question, and it certainly wasn’t a suggestion. It was a statement, pure and simple. Spoken with authority.
Jenny was seated at a round table at the prime spot in her still-being-constructed restaurant interior, the frosted glass windows overlooking the deep blue Gulf of Oman. Dubai was a port city, Jenny had discovered as she flew in and saw the ocean meet the desert, the shining spires of Dubai’s new city looking like an alien landscape from the air. Her driver had taken her through the old city on the way to her hotel, and Jenny had been transfixed by the white sandstone houses nestled together along the narrow, cobblestone streets, the street vendors calling out in Arabic as they sold everything from fresh dates to ancient crystals of desert glass picked from the expanses of pure white sand that enveloped the region.
Kabeer had already selected a space, Jenny was informed, and although she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hate it or not, once she saw it she had to admit that it was something she herself would have chosen.
The space was circular, just like the space Jenny had wanted in Chicago. It was at the ground level facing the patio of the Burj Khalifa atrium. The Burj Khalifa, Jenny discovered, was the tallest building in the world, and it drew visitors from all over the globe, visitors who would stand in line for three hours just to get to the top and take in the view. Then they would come down, ravenous and ready to spend money. And “Globe” would be right there.
Not yet, though. There was a lot of work to be done. Even as Jenny had prepared for Yasmeena’s visit, contractors were working on an etched stone wall towards the west side, furniture people were polishing the beautiful antique wooden benches she had placed near the front in the waiting area, the sounds of top-of-the-line stainless-steel appliances being moved into place were ringing out from the large open kitchen.
Yasmeena Bukhaara had arrived alone, nodding at Jenny and then sitting across from her at the round table. And now here they were.
“Globe,” Jenny said again. “It works.”
Yasmeena’s eyes narrowed, and Jenny could see her perusing a mental checklist. But Jenny wasn’t worried. This was the name, and she wasn’t going to back down if Yasmeena hated it. She had compromised enough. This was her baby now, and a mother always gets to name her child, doesn’t she?
“Globe,” Yasmeena repeated. A long pause. Then “Globe,” again, like she was going into a trance. Slowly she began to nod, a straight smile finally emerging on her thin lips. “Globe. One word. It’s tight, elegant, and evocative. Fits the elite image we’re trying to portray. Sounds
intriguing enough for people to look us up and see what kind of cuisine we serve.” She nodded again. “And it’s broad enough to travel well as the name of an international chain.” She looked around the room. “Oh, and it fits perfectly with the circular shape of the space!” Now the smile was full, and she glanced at the craftsmen working on the stone and wood and nodded. “I like it,” she finally said. “It is coming together. I like it.”
Jenny grinned, allowing herself to feel some relief. “Do you love it?”
Yasmeena’s tight smile opened up and she actually showed a flash of teeth, but she didn’t reward Jenny with anything more. Soon enough her surly expression was back, and she glanced around with that birdlike intensity.
“It is shaping up well, but there is still a long way to go before we can even get a few publicity shots of the interior. We need to launch in the winter, Jenny. Winter is peak season in Dubai, because the temperatures are tolerable in the day and cool at night. If we have a big opening that carries through the tourist and holiday season, it could give us the momentum we need to have a solid first year. And if it goes well, perhaps we can think about a second location a year, maybe eighteen months, from now.”
Jenny blinked as her breath caught. A second location in a year? The financing so far had strictly been for the first location, so to hear Yasmeena even mention the possibility of a second location so soon . . . well, it meant that surly Ms. Bukhaara was feeling optimistic!
Not that her pallid demeanor let on she was feeling anything, let alone unbridled optimism. Another quick look around, a few specific questions about timing, a comment about having a contact with someone at the Dubai Department of Health, and then she was on her feet and headed for the door.
Flames for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 2) Page 12