Ahmed looked into Nasiji’s now hardened eyes—hard as stone. He wondered if he was mad to even toy with the idea that had sprouted in his mind. But it was not just his future at stake—it was Nasiji’s. He had to help her. The long friendship between their families meant he owed her that much. And this idea of his would bring his sensual American back into his life. What happened after that—well, he’d always hoped to be his own man. Now he was going to have to prove it.
He would need his Melanie’s help with that.
If she would give it.
6
It was the opportunity of a lifetime. Melanie did a slow circle in the middle of the spotlessly clean, relentlessly top-of-the-line, enormous kitchen of the Sultan of Sharjah. Stainless steel freezers, Aga stoves, marble pastry station, a wall of walk-in fridges, and spice racks stocked with everything a chef could want. Not to mention the stacks of bowls, trays, and every possible mixer or appliance she could want. She hadn’t even dug into the full list of tools available. Here was the chance to finally get her catering company—MM Catering—into the headlines. And she had Ahmed to thank for this.
She was still a little worried about meeting him again.
George had taken the call and had booked the event, just about pushing Melanie onto the first plane out of JFK. “It’s the Emirate of Sharjah, Melanie. A royal family, an unlimited budget and a spread in People Magazine,” George had told her. He’d packed her knives, his hands shaking. She’d protested that she needed back up, but George told her he’d get Angie, Sid and Terry onto the very next plane, and Melanie could buy what she needed. He’d ship her anything else—like himself and whatever other staff she had to import. Meantime, he was clearing the calendar for the next month. A month! Just to plan one event.
Melanie put a hand on her stomach. The nausea caught at her again, just as it had the past few mornings. If she didn’t know any better, she’d suspect something was up. She was a few days late with her period, but she’d always been a little irregular. And she knew damn well that Ahmed had used protection every single time. She’d seen, felt, and heard the evidence. Still, that last time—she’d felt a spurt of wetness inside. She frowned. She didn’t have time to deal with complications right now, so it’d just have to wait. This had to be jet lag puffing up her ankles and nerves twisting her stomach.
She’d been met at the airport by a harried-looking wedding planner who had introduced herself as Madam Zolest. The name left the woman sounding more like a fortune teller, but the Chanel suit, the ruthlessly slim and stylish dress and diamond studs all said Zolest knew her business and made a fortune at it. Zolest had led Melanie to a car, said she had underlings meeting Melanie’s staff and started with the requirements for the bride and groom.
Melanie’s stomach had jumped at those words. A part of her was hoping it was Ahmed’s other brother—or a cousin—who was getting married. But she had to face the truth—she might have been his last-minute fling. She needed to focus on the job, the money, and the fact that this was going to launch her company into being in demand by the wealthiest clients in the world. There was nothing but upside on this.
So why were her hands shaking worse than George’s had been?
Angie, Sid and Terry burst into the kitchen, chattering like the college students they had been up until a few months ago. George called them the Three Musketeers. They were her go-to team, and she clapped her hands, got their attention and put them to work.
Today, they had to prep three rounds of tester foods for the bride and groom—samples that would showcase options for the menu and confirm she could handle the job. Madam Zolest had said she’d be doing the first tasting before anything went out to the happy couple, and Zolest hadn’t sounded happy or confident that Melanie could deliver. She was going to blow Zolest out of the water.
Today it was all about hors d’oeuvres.
Sid was working on the spiced plantains, crispy fried bananas with a sweet curry spice, and an Allo Tika, spiced chicken done in a cube on a stick. Angie was making spicy tuna in a hand-rolled Miso seaweed cone, a seared Hamachi and fish tacos in wonton shells. Terry had the hard job—an array of wood-fired mini-pizzas, with toppings ranging from caviar to roasted vegetables. As a nod to tradition, Melanie was going to do a hand-held Shawarma—the lamb was almost done roasting and filled the kitchen with the aroma, and fresh pita that was cooling right now—and dates stuffed with a goat cheese, walnut and honey mixture. Those were already made and on a tray in a cooler to get them to the perfect temperature.
She stopped by the stations to see how everyone was doing. Sid flashed her a quick smile, Angie was biting her lower lip in concentration and Terry was humming—a good sign. Madam Zolest poked her head in twice, sniffed, frowned and left—maybe she wasn’t a lamb fan. When the samples were ready, Melanie gave the trays one last look—plating was as important as taste. Everything looked beautiful and smelled even better. Taking a deep breath, she had Sid and Terry pick up the tray and Angie held open the door. They headed into the dining room.
She’d seen it before—Madam Zolest had given her a blurry, fast tour. The palace seemed all white walls, a lot of marble, heavy portraits and gold leaf. The dining table could host a state dinner—meaning it would seat three hundred comfortably. But Melanie almost stumbled into a huge Chinese vase when Ahmed looked up from the table.
Next to him sat a woman in a black burka, her head covered but her face revealed—and she was beautiful. Exotic and beautiful, and Melanie suddenly felt skinny and far too much the tomboy she’d once been.
Ahmed was the groom.
She blinked. Her chest seemed too tight with a breath caught that she couldn’t dislodge. Her skin chilled, and the nausea lifted again. But she had a job to do. She pushed back her shoulders.
They hadn’t made promises to each other—it had been a fling.
She glanced at the bride. With her mouth turned down and her dark eyes snapping, the woman didn’t look happy. Just what was going on here?
Ahmed looked—well, he looked better than ever in a tailored suit and with his smooth, dark features. His seductive eyes held a gleam she didn’t trust. She put on a smile and concentrated on the professional demeanor she’d worked so hard to cultivate.
Melanie explained the samples as Sid and Terry served them. Her stomach churned and her heart pounded as she watched Ahmed and his fiancée try a bite of this or that.
Well, if her fling had gotten her this job, that was great. But if Ahmed thought they were going to keep things going while he got married, he was going to have a few things explained to him.
But this didn’t seem to be a happy couple.
The woman—Nasiji, Ahmed called her at one point—hated the fish, loved the Shawarma, and couldn’t make up her mind about the dates. Ahmed kept saying, “Whatever pleases you.” But his tone was such that it sounded more like he was running out of patience. Madam Zolest started to look more harried. No wonder, since this looked like a wedding about to blow up. What was going on?
Ahmed avoided looking at her now—and that was a good thing. She wanted the focu
s to be the food. But the polite bickering at the table—Nasiji managed to be difficult with passive-aggressive perfection, and Ahmed’s clipped tones were giving the wedding planner a heart attack—overwhelmed everything. Nothing was decided, and Madam Zolest excused Melanie and her staff with a nod and a wave of her hand.
Melanie went, grateful to head back to the kitchen. Once there, Sid voiced the question Melanie had been thinking, “Are those two going to get married or kill each other?”