Sheikh in the City

“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.”