‘Emily Merit gets her man in the end, but I still feel bad for saddling her with such a horrid younger sibling. If I’d treated my three older sisters a tenth as rotten, I wouldn’t have survived childhood.’

—Jackie Braun

“Please, call me Dan.”

Emily felt her mouth drop open. God, he was gorgeous. Drop-dead so. The monosyllabic name, however, didn’t suit him. It was too simple, too…Western.

Which was why she frowned and said, “Dan?”

“It is what you would call a nickname.” His words were adorned with an accent she couldn’t quite place, but its effect was potent. It had her hormones threatening to start snapping and sizzling like vegetables sautéing in hot oil.

“I find that when I travel in your country it is easier for some people to pronounce than my given name.”

That made sense, she supposed. Still, he didn’t look like a Dan. He was tall, with a lean, athletic build that accentuated the clean lines of the expertly tailored suit he wore. His face was angular and masculine, and slashes of dark brow set off a pair of enigmatic brown eyes. His hair was the color of onyx, cut short enough to be respectable, but still long enough to make a woman’s fingers itch to weave through it.

That was when Dan offered a smile that was every bit as warm as his hand had been. Forget the sauté—her temperature was reaching broiler status.

Dear Reader

I have a confession to make. When I decided to write SHEIKH IN THE CITY I was a little nervous. I’d never written a story about a sheikh. For that matter, I’d never created an entirely fictional country. But I was excited about the challenge.

Along the way I discovered the same thing my hero and heroine ultimately do: no matter the titles, customs or cultures, it all comes down to love.

Madani Tarim isn’t only a sheikh. He’s a man who falls in love with one woman despite his parents’ plan for him to wed another. Both he and Emily Merit have to decide if their love is big enough to compensate for what they must give up to be together.

I hope you enjoy this special story.

Best wishes

Jackie Braun

Jackie Braun is a three-time RITA® Award finalist, a four-time National Readers’ Choice Award finalist, and a past winner of the Rising Star Award. She worked for nearly two decades as an award-winning journalist, before leaving her full-time job to write fiction. She lives in mid-Michigan with her husband and their two sons. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com.

Sheikh
in the City

by

Jackie Braun

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For “the greats”: Madison, Timmy and Morgan Kaiser; Nathan and Brandon Tedder; and Brady Fridline.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Praise

Excerpt

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Copyright

Chapter One

“I THINK I’ve finally figured out who the guest of honor is,” Arlene Williams said from the kitchen door, where she was peeking into the Hendersons’ well-appointed dining room.

Babs and Denby Henderson regularly entertained powerful lawmakers, renowned academics, award-winning playwrights and European nobility at their Park Avenue soirées. Emily Merit, who’d been their caterer of choice for the past five years, didn’t doubt tonight’s guest of honor was any less impressive.

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” she replied, tongue-in-cheek, as she plated the evening’s desserts.

Her sous chef shot her a black look before saying, “I think he might be the hunky model in those underwear ads.”

Emily glanced up at that. “The ones that are plastered all over the city’s bus stops and subway stations?”

“And you claim to have sworn off men.” Arlene grinned.

“I have, but those ads are impossible to miss.”

Arlene peeked out again and her tone turned thoughtful. “Or he could be the actor who plays the CIA operative on Restless Nights. They both have that same sensual mouth.”

Emily rolled her eyes. Where she’d sworn off men, she couldn’t keep track of the number of guys Arlene had drooled over in the past month alone. “Get away from the door already and give me a hand with dessert.”

“Uh-oh. He’s…he’s coming this way.”

Emily frowned. Great. Just what she needed, an audience. She didn’t like people in her kitchen when she worked, especially if they were only coming in to flirt with her assistant. Technically this wasn’t Emily’s kitchen, but the same principle applied.

“He’s with Mrs. Henderson,” Arlene added and let the door swing fully closed.

Emily relaxed a little upon hearing that. She figured she knew why they were coming to the kitchen. She’d met Babs five years earlier through her then-boyfriend, Reed, who had a business relationship with Bab’s husband, Denby. One day when a catering company left the Hendersons in the lurch just hours before a dinner party, Reed had volunteered Emily’s services. At the time, she was just out of culinary school and her only catering jobs had been casual gatherings for family and friends. She’d been scared to death, to put it mildly. But her cooking that evening was a huge hit, and the Hendersons proved to be the launching pad for her career.

As a client, Babs could be flighty and trying, but she knew lots of people whose pockets were every bit as deep as her own and—bless her—she’d made it her mission to introduce them to Emily. Thanks in part to the Henderson’s patronage Emily had been able to renovate the kitchen in her otherwise modest East Village apartment without dipping into her savings for the restaurant she dreamed of opening one day.

The older woman was probably bringing her guest in for an introduction. In Emily’s book the title of potential client was more important than what he did for a living, even if he really was the hunky model with the ripped abs and buff biceps in those underwear ads.

Arlene hoisted the tray of desserts, leaving the kitchen just before Babs swept in with the mystery man. The older woman wore vintage Dior and was doused in her usual Chanel. Her high-piled hair prevented Emily from getting a good look at Mr. Hunky.

“Emily, my dear, you outdid yourself this evening,” Babs proclaimed in her usual dramatic fashion. Her smile sparkled as brightly as the large diamond pendant hanging low in her décolletage. “All of my guests are raving about the herb-crusted salmon.” She turned and tucked her hand into the crook of the man’s arm then, drawing him to her side. “And that includes my very special guest, Sh—”

“Please, call me Dan,” he inserted.

He wasn’t the underwear model, but Emily’s mouth dropped open anyway. She couldn’t fault her assistant for standing at the door half the evening gawking. God, he was gorgeous. Drop-dead so. The monosyllabic name, however, didn’t suit him. It was too simple, too…Western.

Which was why she frowned and said, “Dan?”

“It is what you would call a nickname.” His words were adorned with an accent she couldn’t quite place, but its effect was potent. It had her hormones threatening to snap and sizzle like vegetables sautéing in hot oil. It bothered her that she wasn’t completely immune. She wanted to be. God knew, after what had happened with Reed, she should be.

The man was saying, “I find that when I travel in your country it is easier for some people to pronounce than my given name.”

That made sense, she supposed. Still, he didn’t look like a Dan. Nor did he resemble the underwear model Arlene mistook him for, though he certainly had the body for it. He was tall with a lean, athletic build that accentuated the clean lines of the expertly tailored suit he wore. His face, however, was more angular and masculine than the male model in question, and slashes of dark brow set off a pair of enigmatic brown eyes. His hair was the color of onyx and cut short enough to be respectable, but still long enough to make a woman’s fingers itch to weave through it.

She stretched out her hand, but only to shake his. “I’m Emily Merit.”

His palm was warm against hers, his grasp light but not as condescendingly loose as some men’s could be. She found it easier to concentrate on his grip than the bizarre reaction her body was having to the benign contact. It now felt as if her sizzling hormones had been placed under the broiler.

When the handshake ended, Emily smoothed down the front of her mannish chef coat. Normally she wasn’t vain, but his physical perfection made her painfully aware that her hair was pulled back in a severe, net-covered chignon and what little makeup she’d applied that morning most likely had worn off.

Babs spoke up then. “As I told you earlier, Dan, Mr. Henderson and I wouldn’t dream of letting anyone else cater our gatherings. As far as we’re concerned, she’s the best in Manhattan.”

Dan nodded and offered a smile that was every bit as warm as his hand had been. Forget broiler, her temperature was reaching kiln status. “Then I must have her.”

Was he aware of the double entendre? His bland expression made it difficult to be sure. Emily certainly was. Before she could stop herself, she sputtered ridiculously, “But I…I don’t even know your last name.”

“Allow me to remedy that. It’s Tarim.” His expression was no longer bland. The corners of his mouth turned up and laughter lit his dark eyes. He was amused. Definitely.

Emily wasn’t since it came at her expense. God, what was wrong with her? This was completely out of character, not to mention unprofessional. Though it shouldn’t have been necessary, she reminded herself that she was a respected and sought-after chef who had graduated from one of the country’s best culinary schools. She wasn’t some silly schoolgirl conversing with the football team’s star quarterback.

Babs cleared her throat. “Well, if the two of you will excuse me, I should get back to the party. Promise me you won’t keep him occupied for too long, Emily. My other guests are eager to spend more time with him.”

“I’ll shoo him out as soon as possible,” she said with a tight smile. She meant it, too. She planned to get down to business and then usher him out. As soon as they were alone, she said, “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Tarim?”

“Dan, please. And may I call you Emily?”

“By all means.” Her name, which she’d always considered plain and old-fashioned, sounded almost exotic when he said it.

“I’m planning a small dinner party before I leave Manhattan. I would like to repay the generosity of those who have hosted me during my stay.”

“Is this your first time in the city?” she inquired politely, even as she sneaked a glance at her watch.

“No. I am here several times a year for business purposes mainly. In the past, I’ve used the services of someone else to cater my parties, but the meal you prepared tonight has caused me to change my mind.”

“Thank you. I’m flattered.”

And she was. His clothes screamed expensive, which meant he could afford to hire any catering company he wanted. She wondered which one he’d used, though she didn’t ask him. She’d discreetly inquire later. It was good to know who her competition was. Good for business and, depending on the caterer, good for her ego. For the past several years, she had slaved and sacrificed to build a client base and solidify her reputation for high quality. Knowing that those efforts had paid off also made it easier to accept their high cost to her personal life.

She thought of Reed then. They’d dated six years. Everyone, including Emily, had assumed they would wed eventually. Looking back now, though, she could see the cracks that had only gotten deeper and wider as she’d pursued her dreams. When catering had been a hobby or merely a part-time job, he’d seemed proud of her. When it turned into a real career, pulling in serious money and creating enough buzz to land Emily a mention in The New York Times, his enthusiasm had cooled considerably. When she began to dream about opening a restaurant, he’d done his best to talk her out of it, quoting statistics on the number of establishments that failed each year. Finally he’d found someone else: Emily’s sister.

“The guest list will be small, no more than six guests and myself,” Dan was saying, pulling Emily back to the present.

“When were you thinking?” she asked, mentally flipping through her appointment calendar.

“The Saturday after next. The notice is short, I know.” His expression held an apology. “As I said, I usually hire someone else to handle my dinner parties. But I’m hoping you will find room in your schedule for me. As my gracious hostess said, you are the best.”

His lips twitched charmingly, but this time, immersed in the details of business, she was able to ignore the pyre of heat.

Dan, also known as Sheikh Madani Abdul Tarim, wasn’t one to settle for anything but the best. Thanks to his position and wealth, he’d never had to. Still, he didn’t consider himself demanding so much as discerning. Tonight’s meal was first-rate. He had to admit, though, he hadn’t expected the chef who’d created it to be quite so young.

Or so attractive.

Even wearing mannish attire and with her hair scraped back in that hideous fashion there was no denying the tug of male interest he felt. Of course, he wouldn’t act on it. With the official announcement of his engagement fast approaching, he wasn’t in the market for a relationship, casual or otherwise. Still, Emily Merit almost made him wish his future hadn’t been decided when he was still a toddler.

He blamed it on her eyes. They were a rich combination of blues and greens, and reminded him of the Mediterranean Sea near his family’s summer home. Her gaze was direct and assessing, making it clear that she considered herself his equal.

He liked that. As it was, his title and position intimidated too many people—male and female. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t allowed the hostess to formally introduce him. And why he had decided to tell Emily Merit his name was merely Dan. He preferred anonymity every now and then, if only to keep himself grounded. As his father often told him, when he became ruler of Kashaqra, Madani would need to look out for the interests of all of the country’s people.

That didn’t mean he didn’t prefer to get his way. So, he prodded, “Well?”

“Unfortunately I’m booked to make the meal and cake for a child’s fifth birthday celebration that day.”

It didn’t seem like a huge obligation to him. “Will it take all day?”

“In most instances, it wouldn’t.” Her tone turned wry. “But this particular party is an hour outside the city in Connecticut and the parents are insisting on an epicurean feast.”

“You don’t agree with their menu choices,” he gathered.

She sobered and said diplomatically, “It’s not my place to agree or disagree with a client’s menu choices.”

“But?” Raising his eyebrows he invited her confidence.

After a moment she admitted, “I just don’t think the average kindergartner will enjoy what they have selected. After all, certain foods are considered an acquired taste for good reason.”

Madani found himself chuckling, charmed by her honesty. “What have they ordered? Caviar blintzes?”

“Close.” She smiled and he spied a dimple lurking low on her right cheek. It lent an air of impishness to her otherwise classical features. “At least I managed to talk the mother out of an appetizer of duck liver pâté in favor of ham rolls. Even so, I’m pretty sure there are going to be plenty of leftovers. She wouldn’t budge on the veal marsala or the side of roasted root vegetables.”

“I guess this means you won’t be available.”

She nibbled her lower lip. The gesture was uncomfortably and unaccountably sexy. “I may be able to accommodate you,” she said at last. “I have an assistant I could leave in charge of the birthday party. Of course, a lot depends on the time of your gathering and what you would like to serve.”

Madani wasn’t sure if his relief came from knowing Emily would be preparing the meal for his guests or from knowing he would have the opportunity to see her again. “I can be very amenable when the situation calls for it. When shall we meet to discuss the details?”

“I’m free tomorrow morning if you are.”

He had three meetings lined up back-to-back before noon, but he nodded anyway. As he’d said, he could be amenable when the situation called for it. This one did, though he refused to explore why he felt that way.

Emily went to retrieve a business card. Handing it to him, she said, “I’m an early riser. Feel free to call any time after nine o’clock.”

The card was still in Madani’s hand and a smile on his face when he met his driver downstairs.

“I trust you had a good evening,” Azeem Harrah said.

Azeem was not only Madani’s driver, but a trusted confidant and sometimes bodyguard who traveled with him whenever he went abroad. The two men had been friends since boyhood. Azeem’s father was a long-serving member of Kashaqra’s parliament. His uncle sat on the country’s high court. He was educated and at times outspoken, but above all he was loyal—to Madani and to Kashaqra.

“Very good. The Hendersons are generous hosts and the food was…exquisite.” His smile broadened.

“I know that smile.” Azeem laughed as he shifted the Mercedes into Drive and eased the vehicle into traffic. “A woman is behind it.”

Madani grew serious. “You are mistaken, my friend.”

“Am I?”

“Those days are over.”

“Why?” Azeem challenged.

“You know why, even if you do not agree with my decision,” he said.

“That is because it was not your decision,” Azeem shot back. “I cannot believe you are going through with an arranged marriage. You!”

In Kashaqra, Madani was known for holding much more progressive views than his father, even though during the past three decades Sheikh Adil Hammad Tarim had ushered in much change.

“You know my reasons.”

“Your father’s health is fine, sadiqi,” Azeem said, using the Arabic word for friend. “The heart attack he suffered last fall was mild.”

It hadn’t seemed mild at the time. Madani closed his eyes, recalling anew the way his father’s face had turned ashen just before he’d crumpled to the floor. They’d been arguing over this very matter. Arranged marriages were not set in stone. They could be nullified under a limited set of circumstances, none of which applied to Madani. Still, given Adil’s position, he could have voided it, but his father wouldn’t hear of it. His own union had been contracted and all had turned out well. He believed the same would hold true for his son.

“My engagement to Nawar is his wish, his will.”

Azeem shook his head. He didn’t understand. Madani didn’t expect him to.

“Well, you are not engaged yet. There would be nothing wrong with a final…fling, I believe is the word the Americans use.”

Madani gazed out the car’s tinted window and let the conversation lapse. He wasn’t officially engaged. That much was true. His betrothal to Nawar would be announced later in the summer. But he was not free. Indeed, in this regard, he never had been.

Emily arrived home just before midnight. She felt exhausted and invigorated at the same time. In addition to the enigmatic Dan, two other guests of the Hendersons’ party had requested her business cards tonight. As it was, the Hendersons had paid her generously, per usual. Of course, she’d had to hire a couple of extra hands to pull off the meal and serving, but deducting for expenses, wages and other incidentals, she still had a decent sum to deposit into her savings account come Monday morning.

It took her three trips to cart everything from the catering van to her fourth-floor apartment from which she also ran her business. Then she had to move the van to her spot at a paid lot half a block away. Once in her apartment she wanted to collapse on the couch, but she spent another twenty minutes putting away chafing dishes, serving utensils and other items before she finally propped her aching feet atop the coffee table in what passed for a living room.

The stack of mail cushioning her heels drew her attention. She hadn’t had time for more than a cursory glance at the envelopes before leaving for the Hendersons that afternoon. Most contained bills. A few were junk mail. Only one was personal and would require a response. She pulled her feet to the floor and sifted through the pile until she found it. Even without opening the thick envelope she knew what was inside: an invitation to her younger sister’s wedding.

On an oath, she ripped back the flap and pulled out a square of ivory vellum. The quality of the paper and the engraved lettering had cost their parents a fortune, but then nothing was ever too good for Elle.

Emily’s younger sister could do no wrong. Even the fact that she was engaged to marry Emily’s ex-boyfriend, who had not yet been an ex when Elle first began seeing him, elicited no censure from their parents. Rather, Emily had been called on to be more “understanding” and, later, to be “happy” that her flighty baby sibling was finally settling down.

Elle Lauren Merit and Reed David Benedict, together with their parents, request the honor of your presence at their wedding…

Emily got no further than that before crumpling the invitation in her hand. Out of respect for the tree that had been chopped down to produce the paper, she decided to toss it in the recycling bin rather than the garbage. But she had no intention of honoring Elle and Reed with her presence as they exchanged I Dos, any more than she planned to give in to her mother’s urging that she don a bridesmaid gown and join the wedding party.

It wasn’t that Emily couldn’t forgive them. She wanted to believe she was bigger than that despite their monumental betrayal. No, it was the fact that neither of them had ever so much as acknowledged the pain they’d caused her or offered an apology of any sort. Quite the opposite. Elle had manipulated her illicit affair with her older sister’s longtime beau into proof positive that true love could not be denied.

“It’s destiny, Em. The answer to my prayers. Reed and I were made for one another,” she’d had the gall to claim. As if Emily was supposed to feel so much better knowing her sister had been hot for her boyfriend from the very beginning.

Reed had been neither romantic nor idyllic. Rather, he shifted the blame for his infidelity squarely to Emily.

“If you weren’t always so busy catering parties you might have noticed how unhappy I was,” he’d told her when she’d learned of the affair.

His remark had landed like a sucker punch. “I have a business, Reed.” A business he’d been only too happy to help her create and grow when it had been convenient for him.

“Don’t remind me.” He’d snorted in disgust. “You’re very much in demand these days.”

“Am I supposed to apologize for being successful?”

“No, but you shouldn’t act so surprised that with so much free time on my hands I found someone else.”

“That someone else is my sister!” she’d shouted.

He’d merely shrugged. “Elle understands me. She’s not interested in having a demanding career and working long hours. She wants to be supportive of me so that I can advance in mine.”

Gaping at him, Emily wondered if Reed had always been so chauvinistic or if her growing success had brought it out. Regardless, his attitude had her blood boiling.

“So, women can’t have a demanding job or pursue their dreams without expecting the men they’re involved with to stray. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying no man wants to place second to a woman’s ambitions.”

While Reed clearly felt a woman should be thrilled to place second to a man’s, his parting shot contained enough truth that Emily had decided if she was only entitled to one true love, it was safer for her heart to choose cooking.

Sighing now, Emily rose and, peeling off her stained chef’s coat, headed in the direction of the bedroom that, a year ago—a lifetime ago—she’d shared with the man who would soon make her sister his wife.

Chapter Two

EVEN though she had retired late, Emily rose just before eight o’clock, as was her practice. She was a morning person, even though these days her career often demanded late nights. Caffeine—and lots of it—helped her stay on her feet.

Her East Village apartment measured barely seven hundred square feet and offered an uninspiring view of the alley from its two hazy, south-facing windows. In addition to the one small bedroom where she’d passed the night, it contained a hopelessly outdated bathroom and a cramped living room that doubled as her business office. Its kitchen, however, was a work of art.

When she and Reed had moved in a few years earlier, splitting the down payment and monthly expenses, the kitchen had been horrendous while the other rooms hadn’t been quite as space-challenged. The major renovation she’d treated herself to after he’d packed up his belongings and gone was responsible for that. As far as trades went, Emily figured she’d come out way ahead.

Gone was the galley that had barely allowed room for an under-counter refrigerator and persnickety electric stove. A wall had been knocked out, new wiring and plumbing installed. The new kitchen, which took up the space of the other three rooms combined, had a multi-burner gas cooktop, double ovens and a commercial grade refrigerator. It also offered plenty of counter space for food preparation and ample storage for her extensive collection of pots, pans, gadgets and appliances.

At this point in Emily’s life, her surroundings reflected her priorities perfectly, and she would make no apologies for that.

One of the perks of working from home was that her morning commute could be accomplished in a dozen steps while wearing her pajamas. Emily was seated at her computer, tweaking the ingredients in a recipe for roast duck, when she heard a knock at the door. A glance through the peephole had her cursing.

It was Dan.

He appeared freshly shaved and was wearing a tie. Despite the limited view, she was sure he looked every bit as polished and sophisticated as he had when she’d met him at the Hendersons’ the evening before. Meanwhile, she was clad in wrinkled drawstring pants and a snug white T-shirt that couldn’t camouflage the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. God only knew what her hair was doing.

To think she’d been concerned about her appearance last night! When she’d told him to call, she should have been more clear that she meant on the phone. And why, she wondered now, had she ever thought it a good idea to put her address on her business card?

Emily debated not answering his knock. She could get his number from Babs and contact him later in the day. But what if she couldn’t? What if she failed to reach him and he decided not to hire her despite the interest he’d expressed the prior evening?

Okay, she had an overactive imagination, but this much she knew: It never paid to be rude to a client.

So, after running her fingers through her hair in the hope of taming it, she flipped the dead bolt and unlatched the security chain. As she opened the door, she maneuvered her body behind it, using it as a shield so that only her head and one shoulder were visible. Pasting a bright smile on her face, she offered a greeting.

“Dan. Hello. This is a surprise.”

“Good morning.” His voice was as rich as the freshly ground roasted Kona beans in her coffeemaker, but his engaging expression faltered almost immediately. “You weren’t expecting me.”

“No.” She let out a self-conscious laugh. “Or is that yes?” When his frown deepened she clarified, “You’re right. I wasn’t expecting you. Sorry.”

“But I thought we had agreed to this morning? I believe you said I could call on you any time after nine.”

“Yes.” She coughed delicately. “Call.”

He closed his eyes, grimaced. “You expected me to telephone. My profuse apologies for the intrusion. I will telephone you later.”

He dipped his head and stepped backward. She doubted he often found himself lost in translation, even if English wasn’t his first language. His show of embarrassment helped to chase away some of Emily’s. As he turned to leave, she put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Don’t go. You’re here now and I’m free. Just give me a few minutes to dress.”

Despite the invitation, he hesitated at the threshold. “Are you certain? We can reschedule our meeting. I have no wish to inconvenience you.”

A man who didn’t wish to inconvenience her. Are you married? The ridiculous question wanted to slip from her lips. Instead Emily waved her free hand and said, “Nonsense. Please, come in.”

Modesty, however, had her turning away without waiting to see if Dan actually did so. Even before she heard the apartment door close, she was in her bedroom, a battered oak six-panel between them as she rooted through the contents of her jammed closet for something presentable to wear.

As the eldest child and only son of his country’s ruler, as well as the president of what was becoming a thriving export business, Madani often traveled to the United States from his native Kashaqra. Thanks in part to his schooling, first at Harvard and later Oxford, he was fluent in seven languages, one of them English. When he’d told Emily Merit he would call in the morning, he should have been clearer. But he hadn’t figured it would matter one way or another. How was he to know that the address listed on her business card was her home? Or that she would answer the door in her nightclothes looking sexy and sleep tousled?

As it was, when he’d awoken that morning she’d been on his mind. Now, after watching thin cotton cling to her curves while she’d hustled away, he had the uncomfortable feeling she was going to be a blight on his concentration for the entire day.

He should go. Blaming curiosity, he stepped inside the apartment instead.

The small living room opened into a surprisingly large kitchen. It was a chef’s dream, he supposed, noting the double ovens on the far wall and the multiburnered, stainless steel stove. As for the array of gadgets on the countertop, other than the coffeemaker he was clueless to their use. While he enjoyed eating a good meal, he’d never prepared one.

Overall, the entire space wasn’t as big as the smallest bedroom in the tower suite he maintained at The Mark for his frequent visits to the city, but she’d made good use of every inch. Sleek cabinetry ran the full height of the walls in the kitchen, and in the living area her computer and printer were tucked inside an armoire. The doors were open now, revealing a chocolate soufflé screen saver and a plethora of notes pinned to the corkboard that lined the interior of the doors.

She’d cleverly used stacks of cookbooks to form the base of a coffee table, over which was placed an oval of glass. The slip-covered sofa behind it was the room’s only nod to comfort, but it was the brightly hued throw on the back of it that caught his attention. He recognized the craftsmanship and the centuries’ old pattern. It came from his homeland.

“Would you care for some coffee?”

He turned at the sound of her voice. “Yes, thank you.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where she poured him a cup and topped off her own.

“Cream or sugar?” she asked.

“Black is fine.” He’d acquired a taste for Western coffee, though he preferred the sweetened variety of his country.

She’d pulled her chestnut hair into a softer-looking version of the style she’d worn the night before, minus the net, of course. For a moment he wished she’d left it loose as it had been when he’d arrived. He liked the way it had waved in defiance around her face before falling just past her shoulders. The pink blouse she wore wrapped at the waist, accentuating its smallness. Her trousers were tan and mannish in style, but the flair of her hips and the tips of a lethal-looking pair of pumps that peeked out from the cuffed hem kept the cut from appearing too masculine.

When he realized he was staring, he glanced away. “You have an impressive kitchen.”

“Thanks. I like it.”

“Was it recently renovated?”

“Less than a year ago.” Something in her expression changed and her chin rose fractionally, as if in challenge. “My business is growing, so I decided to go all out. Besides, I spend most of my time in here whether I’m working for a client or just puttering for fun.”

She sat on one of the stools lined up next to the island. He took the one next to hers and swiveled so he could face her.

“You cook for fun?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help myself. I absolutely adore food.”

His gaze skimmed over her, lingering on her slender waist. “And yet you are…small.”

She laughed outright at what he realized too late was a rude observation for a man to make. Wincing, he said, “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

“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.”

“Elle’s bridal shower is next Sunday.”

“You know I can’t come. As I’ve told you half a dozen times already, I’m booked that day.” It was a lie. She had that particular Sunday free.

“Please try. For the sake of family harmony.”

Emily hung up wondering why she was the only one expected to carry that load.

Dan flipped his cell phone closed on an oath as Azeem maneuvered the Mercedes through Manhattan traffic. This message, like the one before it, was from his mother. Given the time difference between New York and Kashaqra, Fadilah must consider the matter to be vitally important. That meant he couldn’t avoid calling her back much longer.

“Is everything all right?” Azeem asked. “Your father?”

“Is well.” Fadilah would not have been so vague if that were the case. “My mother says she needs to speak with me,” he said wryly, knowing that would explain it all.

Azeem nodded. “She is the only woman I know who can make you squirm. But not for long, sadiqi. If you insist on going through with the wedding, Nawar will enjoy that right as well.”

Though the words were offered in jest, the challenge was unmistakable.

“Drop me off at the next light,” he said.

“But Mayhew’s is at Fifth Avenue and Forty-Third,” Azeem reminded him.

“I know. I want to walk the rest of the way.” When his friend frowned, he added, “This is the first warm, sunny day we’ve had in nearly a week. I want to take advantage of it.”

“As you wish.” But Azeem’s expression said he wasn’t buying the explanation.

Madani glanced at his watch after the Mercedes drove away. It wasn’t quite noon, which meant he still had forty minutes before his rescheduled appointment with a potential distributor. He started walking, his pace slow and leisurely. Even with heat rising from the street, the temperature was pleasant and the humidity low after a week of thunderstorms, making him glad to be outdoors and moving under his own steam. In Kashaqra, even with all of the amenities his wealth and position afforded, Madani enjoyed walking. In addition to being good exercise, it gave a man time to think, plan and put things into perspective. He needed to do that now, he decided, his thoughts returning to the phone message.

His mother probably wanted to discuss the engagement announcement or, he swallowed thickly, his wedding. Just thinking about marriage had Madani tugging his necktie loose as he strode down the sidewalk. As his parents kept reminding him, it was the next logical step in his life. He was thirty-two, educated, well-traveled and established. The time had come for him to take a wife and start a family. As the next in line to rule the country, it also was Madani’s duty.

Turning matrimony into an obligation hardly made it any more palatable.

Still, he shouldn’t complain. Nawar, the bride his parents had chosen for him, was beautiful in both face and form. She also was bright, only recently finishing up her PhD in economics at Kashaqra’s leading university. Per her request, all talk of marriage had been postponed until she had completed her education, causing Madani to wonder if her pursuit of a doctoral degree was an indication of her own mixed emotions.

Here in the West, arranged marriages were considered archaic and unromantic. Even in his country many of the younger generation considered such alliances old-fashioned and unnecessary. After all, shouldn’t picking a life partner be left to the two people involved?

Azeem, who to Madani’s knowledge wasn’t even seriously involved with anyone, was surprisingly outspoken on the matter, which in turn made him annoyingly outspoken in his dismay over Madani’s decision to honor his arranged betrothal.

“You have an opportunity to lead even before taking your father’s place,” Azeem had hollered during one of their many arguments on the subject. “If you refuse to marry under these conditions, others would be willing to follow your example.”

He’d considered that at one time, but he’d shaken his head. “It is done.”

Madani hadn’t just been referring to the fact that his betrothal to the daughter of one of his father’s closest political allies had been arranged when he was still a toddler. As he’d told Azeem, it was his father’s wish. What reason did he have to risk his father’s health? Nawar would make a suitable wife. Besides, the notion of marrying for love seemed far-fetched. He’d spent time with plenty of women over the years, but he’d never felt the intense emotion the poets claimed existed.

For no reason he could fathom, his thoughts turned to Emily Merit.

“I was unaware you knew someone in this part of Manhattan,” Azeem had said when they’d arrived outside her apartment building that morning. “She must be very pretty to have roused you so early after a late night. Am I to conclude you have changed your mind about a final fling with which to remember your bachelorhood?”

“This is a business meeting,” he’d answered irritably. “Nothing more.”

It was a business matter, but the pretty young woman he’d hired to cater his dinner party also had captured his interest.

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