“You don’t have security clearance,” he’d said. It was true. She didn’t.
“But surely, you—a powerful sheikh and m
ember of the royal family—could nudge that process in the right direction.” Her eyes burned into him, and all he could think about was the curve of her ass lifting toward him in that alcove. His body wanted to relent. His body wanted to say of course I can if only it would mean pinning her down in his bed right this instant.
He very nearly gave in. He would have, if it weren’t for the weight of responsibility that still tethered him to honor, even with Mackenzie looking at him the way she was, biting her lip.
It went on like that for three full days. It was torture. It was against all codes of warfare. Mackenzie would pull away, finding things to occupy her after the initial ask, and Issam would find himself wanting her.
She became untouchable.
Not fully untouchable. She would kiss him, yes. She would let her lips linger on his, tasting and teasing, her breath hitching, but when it came time…
Three days, and he cracked.
“Let me do something for you,” he’d said that morning, with Mackenzie perched on the edge of his bed and her lips inches from his. Her legs had been pressed firmly closed. “What are you working on with the wedding planning?”
She’d trailed a finger down the front of his shirt, hooking her knuckle in the places between the buttons. “It’s a tasting for food this afternoon.” Mackenzie looked up at him with huge eyes, excitement glowing in her face. “Will you come?”
Entrapment.
And now he was giving up half a day’s work to taste food he had undoubtedly tasted hundreds of times before.
One of his guards opened the doorway to his office. Mackenzie stood a safe distance outside in the hall. When she saw him, her expression brightened, and she waved.
He knew what food was like. What he didn’t know was how he could get his forces to occupy the dilapidated fort in the no-man’s land without setting off Mackenzie’s brother-in-law in Al-Madiza. If he moved first, he’d have the high ground, but it would also enrage the leadership there. But if he waited too long—
It wasn’t a problem he could solve right now. He had a tasting to attend.
They went down to the state-of-the-art kitchen on the terrace level of the palace, where the family’s world-class chef, Jacques, was waiting. He catered almost all the special occasions with a team that specialized in a fusion of local and international cuisine.
“I wonder what his plans are for the menu,” Mackenzie said as they took their seats at a table at the edge of the kitchen. “I’ve never been so excited for a meal.”
“I’m sure they’ll be the same as ever.”
That got her attention. “What is it? Have you seen a draft of the menu?”
“No, no.” He tried to cover. “I only meant that Jacques is a highly talented chef. I’m certain he’s planned something utterly delicious.” Still, as the kitchen hummed around them, Jacques directing an army of sous chefs, the tension descended on his shoulders like an iron bar.
He shouldn’t be down here.
He should be in his offices, working out the land dispute.
It was his highest priority.
But Mackenzie’s life depends on this, he reminded himself. The wedding was important too—and it was an essential key to the land dispute.
Jacques came to the table, putting two small bowls in front of them both. “Sheikh Issam,” he beamed. “We’ll begin with a twist on your classic favorite, the lentil soup.” He went on to describe how he had made small changes to the recipe to enhance the flavor, and despite Issam’s skepticism, the first bite flooded him with comfort.
Maybe they could survive without him for a few hours.
At any rate, Jacques was just beginning.
* * *
Mackenzie had expected a meal. She had not expected a marathon.
After the first three dishes, she stopped cleaning the tiny plates Jacques brought out. Each of them were over-the-top delicious, but there seemed to be hundreds. Hundreds. Middle Eastern feasts, she learned, were not one-and-done affairs.