He dropped his hand and shook his head. “What do you mean?”
Stepping closer, she fixed a hard stare on him. “I mean that brides tend to get superstitious when it comes to their wedding day. I mean that a catering company that’s hired for a high profile event that blows up gets the stink of disaster on it. You get out of this—that’s great for you. But my company and Madam Zolest’s—we’re both going to face a huge lack of business because no one wants to hire anyone involved with a huge wedding that crashed. So thanks for nothing.”
She turned and walked out.
Ahmed stared after her. Is that what he had done—set her up to fail because this wedding would also fail?
9
Melanie’s stomach settled down, but now her emotions were churning. Her whole reason for taking this job had been the hope that this would put her company on the map to handling huge events. She’d be up there with the Wolfgang Pucks of the world. Now that would never happen—not if Ahmed planned to sabotage his own wedding. But why was part of her giddy with the idea that Ahmed wasn’t marrying another woman?
With a groan, she rested her head in her hands.
She’d spent yesterday coming up with a list of hard-to-get ingredients she must have. She’d special ordered new cookware and custom china, and she had a dozen more ideas for how to delay this wedding. Maybe Ahmed wouldn’t mind if he found out she was doing that. By what Ahmed had said, Nasiji wouldn’t mind either. But was that true?
Stumbling to the bathroom, she brushed her teeth, her stomach churning. At least whatever had upset her stomach seemed to be settling down. But she felt bloated today, her legs puffy and her face even more so, and what was up with that?
She stared at her pale reflection. Where was her energy? She’d been feeling run down of late, but this was worse than usual. Even coffee tasted bad these days. Maybe it was the heat and the added stress of putting her career on the line.
A shower helped to put her back together. She dressed and went down to the kitchen. She couldn’t look at eggs, and settled for ginger ale—Ahmed had gotten her three cases of the stuff—and dry toast. She glanced at the menu she’d been working on and her stomach flipped. Dammit, what was wrong with her? Food usually got her excited. She wanted mouth-watering lamb and to-die-for vegetable dishes, and instead she was thinking about things like bland pudding and the bliss of mashed potatoes.
She straightened.
Maybe that was the clue.
Comfort food. Mashed potatoes and feta cheese—hummus and pine nuts baked in a brioche. It seemed like they could all use some of that, and she could leave the mor
e exotic foods to her staff. She’d work out things that appealed to her, and if this wedding wasn’t going to happen, then she had nothing to worry about.
But what was that going to do to her company’s reputation? She let out a sigh and glanced around the amazing kitchen she was working in. Well, at least she’d have a few days of being in the spotlight. And then it was back to grinding out a reputation somehow in the States.
Heading over to the stove, she started working on a mint-ginger sauce, something that smelled wonderful to her for a change and would complement any meat. Her staff would be coming down soon, and she always liked to be up before dawn and in the kitchen first. She heard the swinging door open and close and turned, expecting to see Sid, who was usually the first one down.
Instead, Ahmed stood in the doorway in black sweats and sleeveless t-shirt, a white towel around his neck and a sheen on his skin as if he’d been working out.
She knew she was supposed to be professional, but she couldn’t help eyeing him. The t-shirt hugged his athletic frame, giving her reminders of the muscles underneath the clothes. Her mouth dried, and her pulse kicked up. A warmth lit his dark eyes, and she flashed on an image of the two of them going at it right on the stainless steel island counter.
No doing that—or him.
She gave him and nod and went for formal. “Sheik Ahmed.”
“Melanie.” He gave her a boyish grin that had her heart flipping over. Dammit, the man was dangerous. The way he said her name left the words soft, floated along with his faint accent. She wanted to ask him to say it again, but she was not doing that, either. “What are you cooking today?” he asked. “It smells great.”
“Just a sauce.”
“May I taste?” He came closer. She caught a whiff of his scent—something musky and unique to him, reminding her of the dry desert outside. Her mouth dried again, but she dipped a spoon into the sauce and held it up for him.
With a smile, he tasted, his tongue darting out to lick the last drops. She remembered how that mouth had felt on her. Her stomach dropped. She put the spoon down before she dropped it.
Glancing over her shoulder, he asked, “Will you make ro-be-yann nashif? Shrimp fried with spices. That is a favorite of mine.”
“You like shrimp? I haven’t been cooking much lately with that. It’s hard to get high-quality prawns these days.”
Ahmed waved a hand around. “Just ask. Anything you want can be flown in. But how about breakfast for now? Something simple perhaps? Honey and bread?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Did you come here to raid the kitchen?”
He shrugged. “What need have I to cook for myself? The palace has four chefs, and I eat out whenever I want. But now I want you to make me something. What about something very American. Flapjacks?”