Surrender to the Playboy Sheikh

‘Is that a hint?’

He smiled. ‘Yes.’

She rolled her eyes but, as he’d hoped, she smiled. ‘OK. I’ll cut you a slice. But be warned that it’s a test, so it might not taste quite right.’

When she handed him a slice of chocolate cake on a plain white plate, he took a mouthful. Savoured the taste. ‘Works for me.’ Though such a vague compliment would sound like flattery—something he knew instinctively she’d scoff at. ‘It smells good and it’s got the right amount of chocolate. Enough to give it flavour but not so much that it’s overpowering.’

She tried it, and shook her head. ‘The texture’s not quite right. It needs more flour. Excuse me a minute.’ She scribbled something on a pad.

‘Notes?’ he asked.

‘For the next trial,’ she explained.

He nodded in acknowledgement. ‘So, to return to our discussion. Basically you have how many free days a week?’

‘I have three days when I don’t cook but they are my development time. Not to mention testing the recipes three times and setting up my kitchen so the photographer can take shots of the different stages. And time to do my paperwork.’

‘But they’re days you could use—in theory,’ he persisted.

‘In theory. In practice, I don’t. If I do it for one person, I’ll have to do it for everyone, and I don’t want to end up working eighteen-hour days to fit everything in. I need time to refill the well. Time to let myself be creative.’

He tried another tack. ‘You have people working for you, don’t you?’

‘Part time, yes.’

‘But you’ve worked with them for a long time.’

She looked surprised. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because everything was so polished at Felicity’s party. That kind of teamwork only comes with experience, when you know each other and trust each other.’

She recognised the compliment and smiled.

‘And your staff help with the cooking?’

‘Some of it.’ She frowned. ‘Why?

‘I was thinking. Maybe you could delegate more to them. Then you could expand your business without encroaching on the days you don’t cook for people.’

She shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. My clients expect my personal attention, and that’s exactly what they get. The only way I can expand is if I get a time machine or a clone—neither of which are physically possible. I’m at capacity, Karim. Sorry. The best I can do is put you in touch with some of the people I trained with who also run their own businesses—they’re good, or I wouldn’t recommend them.’

This was where he knew he should be sensible, thank her for the recommendations, and call each one in turn until he found someone who could fit him in.

The problem was, he didn’t want just anyone. He wanted her.

And he was used to getting exactly what he wanted.

‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but no. I want Elizabeth Finch.’ He paused. ‘Would any of your clients consider rescheduling?’

‘No. And don’t suggest I throw a sickie on them, either,’ she warned. ‘I’d never cheat my clients.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘You have integrity. I respect that.’ He paused. ‘Whatever your usual rates are, I’m happy to double them.’

‘No.’

‘You want to negotiate?’ He shrugged. ‘Fine. Let’s save us both some time. Name your price, Lily.’

She folded her arms. ‘You honestly believe everything can be bought?’

‘Everything has a price.’

She scoffed. ‘You must have a seriously sad life.’

He laughed. ‘On the contrary. But it’s basic business sense. Someone sells, someone buys. The price is negotiable, depending on supply and demand.’

‘You can’t buy people, Karim.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I know that. I’m not asking to buy you.’ He paused just long enough for the colour to flood her face completely. ‘In business, I look for the best. That’s why I’m asking you to do the catering for some meetings that are going to be pretty crucial to my business.’

‘I’m flattered that you’ve sought me out,’ she said, ‘but, as I’ve told you plenty of times already, I’m afraid I’m already booked and there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘Firstly,’ he said, ‘persistence is a business asset. And, secondly, there’s always a way round things if you look.’

‘Hasn’t anyone ever said no to you?’

He didn’t even need to think about it. ‘I always get what I want in the end.’

‘Not in this case, I’m afraid. Unless you’re prepared to take my next open slot, in three months’ time.’

‘I can’t wait that long. The meetings are already set up.’

‘Then, as I said, I’m sorry.’ She went over to her filing system, took a box down, and made notes on a pad. She tore off the sheet, then brought it over to him. ‘Here. They all come with my recommendation—and I’m picky.’

‘So,’ he said, ‘am I.’ He drained his mug. ‘Thank you for the coffee. And the cake.’

‘Pleasure.’

She was being polite, and he knew it. He also knew that if he gave in to the impulse to pull her to her feet and kiss her stupid, he’d push her even further away—she’d respond, but she’d be angry with herself for acting unprofessionally. And he wanted her willingly in his bed.

‘If you change your mind—’ and he had every intention of making sure that she did ‘—call me. You have my card.’

‘Actually, I mislaid it.’

Had she? Or had she ripped it up in a fit of temper? Because now he knew exactly what she’d been doing at Felicity Browne’s party, he could guess at her reaction that night after she’d left the balcony—anger at herself for letting him distract her when she’d been there in a business capacity. And underneath that cool, quiet exterior lurked a passionate woman. A woman who’d responded to him so deeply that they’d both forgotten where they were.

He took a business card from a small silver holder, scribbled his personal number on the back, and handed it to her. ‘To replace the one you…’ he paused, his eyes challenging hers ‘…mislaid.’

She didn’t flinch in the slightest; she merely inclined her head in acknowledgement, and went back over to her filing system. She glanced at the name on the card, then paper-clipped it into a book. Then she took a card from a box and handed it to him. ‘In case you change your mind about the dates. But please remember that I have a three-month waiting list.’