The Sheikh Surgeon's Proposal

Something thorny expanded in her throat. She could only nod, before turning blind eyes to the darkened vista outside her window. Let him ask the driver to get going. Let them get to her hotel quickly. Please.

She felt him move beside her, felt as if every muscle expanding and contracting under his polished bronze skin was pulling at her own. Then his voice drenched her skin in goose-bumps.

“About our interview,” he drawled huskily, commanding her eyes back to his, his gaze on her mesmerizing, “and conducting it over the now very late lunch—what cuisine takes your fancy? French, Italian, Chinese—or local?”

CHAPTER FOUR

HE WAS INSANE.

Instead of sticking to his plan of taking Janaan on a short guided tour then rushing her back to one of his cars and jumping in another to zoom in the opposite direction, he’d gone over the base almost down to the wiring and piping, clung to her all the way to his car and jumped in beside her telling himself he couldn’t hand her over to his driver and must escort her himself to her hotel. Then she’d let him know exactly where to drop her and he’d panicked. He’d known then that his plans had been empty bravado, that he’d do anything to prolong his time with her.

And he had. He’d taken her to one of his two “personal” places. His first and overwhelming desire had been to take her to his private one. A last wisp of sanity had made him opt for the public one, even if it was where he’d never brought another woman.

He was still vibrating with the jumble of relief and anxiety that had assailed him when she’d succumbed this time, with such an obvious muddle of eagerness and agitation. She felt the same about him, knew it was foolish to prolong the exposure, yet couldn’t stop herself either.

But if there’d be no more brakes applied from her side, how high would this conflagration soar?

She now snatched her eyes away, sent a tremulous smile up at the Bedouin waiter who’d placed the last in over a dozen plates of hors d’oeuvres on the four-foot-round copper tray. Then she busied herself with smoothing the keleem covering the floor where she sat, studying the vivid patterns of the hand-woven wool before she tucked her blue denim-covered legs beneath her, adjusting her pose against the reclining cushion into a guarded, formal one. She could have been spreading herself in the most erotic display with the way his hormones seethed.

His avid gaze followed her nervous, awed one as it darted around. She was attempting to distract herself with the details of the restaurant, which was a vision of the time of one thousand and one nights with a futuristic twist.

It was minutes, crowded with the unspoken and the out of bounds, before she finally gave up trying to avoid his eyes and a conversation, and sighed. “So you own this place, or what?”

He huffed in surprise at this new self-deprecation she made him experience. “It’s just the only place, besides one of my retreats, where I feel … at peace.”

“Provided you’re the only customer, right?” She gave him an assessing glance. “Since a place like this—one that combines tradition and progress in such a magical blend—must have people fighting to secure a tab-a tub … er …” She waved at the handcrafted copper trays gleaming in the last rays of the sun and placed on foot-high, carved, solid mahogany bases.

“Tubleyyah,” he provided, picking up an incense stick, lighting it from the flame of an intricately worked brass lamp and placing it in the matching incense burner.

She gasped when the sweet-spicy scent of ood, his land’s most valued incense, hit her. “Yeah, that.” A hot, short sound of pleasure escaped her, vibrating behind his ribs, shooting to his loins. The sensations spiked when her eyes narrowed on him with disapproval. “I bet the absence of customers is to accommodate you. And I bet I can’t even imagine what that cost.”

“Is your blood boiling at the misspent money?” His lips spread, warmth and something he’d never felt towards a grown woman other than his mother—tenderness—humming in his.

She waved her hand. “Nah. This is not a hospital and it’s your personal money—though you could do better with it … Oh, OK. My blood, while not boiling, is a few degrees above normal.”

He shook his head in amazement. Everything she did and said was affecting him like an intravenous euphoric drug. “You’ll be glad to know I exchange favors with the owner, not money.”

“I won’t ask what kind of favors.”

He chuckled. “Very wise of you.”

He knew she would have volleyed something if not for the arrival of more food. She sat watching a procession of waiters bearing one serving plate after another in arrested attention and vocal appreciation, all but licking her lips as their meal was served by a dozen waiters clearly thrilled to lavish their expertise on such guests as them.

Malek always demanded that only one served him and only when asked, but he’d ordered the full fanfare of service the restaurant was known for for her benefit, felt the spreading coolness of satisfaction in his chest at her delightfully flustered reaction at being waited on like that.

She went on to delight him further, not picking at her food or getting finicky about ingredients that experience told him foreigners balked at, at least at first exposure.

She attacked her meal with relish, kept reporting her experience with every mouthful. She enthused at the assorted grilled goat and sheep, including liver and brain, and the kapsa, the spiced rice with fried nuts and raisins, and the date wine. At trying gahwa, the cardamom Arabian coffee, her eyes widened at its bitterness, got even wider when he instructed her to drink it with the ultra-sweet chewy agwa dates. She went on to wash down a whole pack with a full carafe of coffee.

By the time logmet el guadi arrived, he was sure such a flat stomach couldn’t hold any more food. But it did. She popped one of the crunchy, chewy golden spheres of fried dough dipped in thick syrup into her mouth and moaned. She washed it down with goat milk, murmuring “Sinful” and reaching for another one.

He didn’t know why, but he thought this was the moment to tell her. “I cancelled the security checks.”

She choked. He thumped her on the back to stop her coughing paroxysm. Her eyes glittered up at him from a bed of tears. “You mean into my dark past? Why did you do that?”

“Because I want to hear about it from your lips.” In fact, he needed to. “And Janaan, this is not an interview.”

“But you said—”

His lips twisted. “I would have said anything to get you to agree to come here with me.”