The Sheikh’s Accidental Heir (Sharjah Sheikhs Book 2) Read online

  Ahmed raised both eyebrows. “I don’t remember agreeing with you.”

  “Ah, so you would like to tell her that she’s wasted her time here?”

  Ahmed glanced at the wedding planner. He couldn’t remember the woman’s name, but he knew she would report back to his father. The woman’s face had paled. He looked back at Nasiji and frowned. “Whatever you wish.”

  Nasiji smiled. “I knew you’d come to your senses.”

  Ahmed headed for the kitchen. He would at least see Melanie again.

  And he had to figure out some time to speak with her in private.

  7

  Ahmed strode into the kitchen as if he owned the place—which, he sort of did, or at least his father did. Melanie’s staff froze, and she turned to face him. Was he going to fire her?

  The tasting hadn’t gone as expected. She’d been hoping a couple of dishes would be discarded and a few chosen. Instead, she had no idea what to do for this wedding.

  Traditional, but not too traditional. What did that even mean?

  Glancing around, Ahmed saw her and came to her. He offered up that charming smile of his, and Melanie instantly went on guard. “You and your staff will stay at the palace. You will have access to the gym, pool, library and of course the kitchen. A car and driver is at your disposal. I trust you will be comfortable.”

  Melanie was waiting for the catch. What was the idea here? Was Ahmed expecting to have her be in a bedroom next to his? “A hotel will be—”

  “Too far.” He took her hand. “I hope you will join me for dinner.”

  She tried to pull away, but he had a firm grip on her fingers. She tugged. He frowned and held on and leaned closer. “We need to speak.”

  She gave up. He was right about that. “Thank you,” she said and kept the words flat. She was not going to help him cheat on his wife. Not before the wedding and not after.

  Ahmed gave her another charming smile that had her pulse kicking up.

  Tugging, Melanie got her hand back and turned to her staff. “All right,” she said, clapping her hands. “Let’s get to it.”

  With Ahmed gone, she and her staff set to cleaning up and Melanie let herself think about the job she’d accepted. Why had Ahmed brought her here? What did he want to talk to her about? What was going to happen between them? Should she just quit?

  But she couldn’t do that. It would leave her company’s reputation in shreds to bail on a job like this. But how was she going to keep Ahmed at arm’s length? The man had charm enough to get any woman in his bed.

  She straightened and rubbed at her lower back, which was aching. She’d just have to cope. She’d been in worse spots, after all.

  Sid, Terry and Angie finished up. They were eager to see their rooms, hit the pool and maybe take the car and driver out to see the sights. Melanie glanced around. The kitchen was once again spotless. She gave them the go to head out, with a caution to get some sleep. “Tomorrow I’m working on new menus,” she warned them. They left with Sid and Terry grinning, and a serious nod from Angie.

  Melanie headed for the outside, and it took three corridors and five doors to find it. The palace wasn’t just lush, it was huge and a maze of rooms. Thankfully, there seemed to be servants—maids in neat uniforms and security men in suits that did nothing to hide their muscles—almost everywhere. A few even spoke a little English.

  Outside, the heat of the day hit like an oven door opening.

  She leaned against the wall, thinking about the money this was going to bring in to her catering business. If she could just focus on that and not Ahmed’s smile, or the way he moved, or how it had felt with their bodies wrapped together, maybe she could get through this month.

  “Melanie Martin?”

  The voice—low and soft and male—jerked her out of her thoughts. She turned to see a man in the traditional long, white robes and headscarf fastened with a black band that she’d seen many men in Sharjah wearing. He had dark, reddish skin and light-amber eyes that almost looked like those of a lion’s. He wasn’t one of the sultan’s sons—she’d met all of them in New York—so maybe he was a cousin or something.

  “Yes?” She fixed a smile in place.

  He’d seemed to come from nowhere. She glanced around, wishing one of the security men would show up. This guy had bulk and muscle under his robes and a vaguely threatening feel to him. She’d lived in New York long enough to know trouble when it was headed her way. He stopped in front of her. He smelled of sweat and garlic, but his English was perfect when he said, “I have a business proposition for you.”

  She doubted that his definition of business was the same as hers. He’d also put himself between her and the door back into the palace. She wasn’t in any position to try to fight off a man in Sharjah. As a foreigner, she knew she had to walk a very thin, straight and narrow line of behavior. As a woman, that line would be even thinner.

  She lifted her eyebrows, crossed her arms over her chest and waited. Her heart was thudding hard, but she was going to try to go for cool.

  “You are vital to this wedding—the caterer.” He made a face as if he had tasted something sour. “These arranged marriages, not something you Americans practice. Sadly, we do. And that is where you could be of help. All you need do is be what anyone would expect—a temperamental chef who demands the finest ingredients. Exotic fruits that must be special ordered. Unusual, hard to get fish and spices.”

  “You want me to delay the event?” Melanie asked, staring at him.

  “A few days only. Until after the last day of June. And for this, one hundred thousand dollars will be transferred into a Swiss bank account in your name.”

  Melanie stilled. She swallowed. “That’s…a lot of money. Do you mind if I ask why?”

  He lifted a hand. “Think of it as…well, an astrologer looking for an auspicious date.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Really? Seriously? And why haven’t you approached the family to mention this?”

  His smile remained fixed but his eyes hardened. “You ask a number of questions.”

  Melanie propped a hand on her hip. “Look, buddy. I’ve had to deal with New York teamsters. I can hear a threat even when it’s not mentioned.”

  His smile widened to flash white teeth. “Not at all. I merely make an offer. And…what harm could it possibly cause?”

  Tempting as it was to tell the guy to go to hell, Melanie was certain he’d only find someone else to try and bribe. If she agreed, she’d be able to tell Ahmed about this. And she’d decide later if this really was a wedding that needed to be delayed or not. She gave a nod. “I’ll do what I can.” She put one hand behind her back and crossed her fingers. And she hoped she hadn’t just agreed to something that wouldn’t just put off a wedding, but which might end her career. And hurt Ahmed.

  8

  Ahmed sat at the dining table, drumming his fingers on the hard wood. Plates had been set out and they were to taste dishes today, but he had no appetite.

  He had wanted to see Melanie, but so far that was proving difficult. She always seemed to have her staff with her, would not dismiss them, and if it that was not difficult enough, Nasiji kept after him to do something to end this farce of an engagement. She worried too much, and he kept telling her to trust in him, but she would simply give him accusing looks.

  At least his plans were advancing.

  Khalid and Zaid had both already remarked that it seemed as if Nasiji was the rule in this relationship. Each time, Ahmed had shrugged and spread his hands. “What can I do? Father wishes me to marry her, so I must. And what she wishes…well, I do not want a shrew of a wife and so I live now to please her.” He had walked away—but he knew they would carry stories to his father. And his father was not a man who believed that any woman should rule a house. It was step one to making Nasiji seem an undesirable daughter-in-law.

  Now for step two.

  But first he must try the dishes.

  At least this might lead to a chance for him to tal
k to his sensual American.

  However, Melanie’s staff brought out the meze or appetizers—the traditional but not too traditional foods. He raised an eyebrow at that. If Melanie thought to avoid him today, she was wrong.

  He tasted the dishes—wonderful all of them, but that was not part of the plan. He made faces at everything. The za’atar—a blend of thyme, sumac, and sesame seeds—was too dry. The hummus had too much tahini. Things were too traditional or not enough. He bickered with Nasiji over every little thing.

  Ahmed stood and threw down his napkin. “That was terrible.”

  “Perhaps the next item?” the wedding planner said. She was fidgeting nervously with a tablet computer.

  Ahmed shot her a glare, and she paled. He crossed his arms. “I refuse to sample another dish until I speak with the caterer. None of this is good enough.”

  Nasiji stood as well. “Why don’t you like it? Is it because I do? You’re saying that I have no taste in food? That…that I will try to poison you?” Nasiji picked up the edge of her veil. “How dare you embarrass me like this.” She turned and stomped from the room.

  Ahmed called after her, “And how dare you embarrass me!”

  Nasiji slammed the door behind her. Ahmed turned and found that skinny wedding planner staring at him as if she was watching her wedding plans dissolving. Good. He hoped they were. He fought down a smile, fixed what he hoped was a stern frown in place and started for the kitchen. “I will speak with the caterer myself.”

  He found Melanie leaning over the sink in a bathroom that stood just off the kitchen—it was easy enough to find her due to the running water. She was wetting a cloth to put over the back of her neck. He came up behind her and took it from her. She glanced up, her face pale, but she allowed him to help her.

  “What is it?” he asked, voice soft. “You look terrible.”

  She glanced up into the mirror as if to check herself, and put a hand up to her hair, as if self-conscious now that the usual sleek cap was disordered. Ahmed put the damp cloth on the back of her neck.

  “Flu?” he asked.

  “No. I’m okay.” She straightened and brushed at the front of her white shirt. She wore—as did her staff—a white button-down shirt, black trousers and sensible black shoes. He expected that under that would again be her sensible bra and panties. A memory flashed of her naked in bed and his skin heated. He put a hand to her face. She was warm, too.

  She took a step back, removing herself from his reach. This bathroom—like all those in the palace—was large enough she could do so. “I think it’s the water. It doesn’t agree with me.” Her eyes were watering.

  Ahmed shook his head. “The water is perfectly fine and filtered. It cannot make you ill.” He wanted to want to gather her into a hug and stroke her back and brush the hair from her face. The instant he took a step closer, cool cloth raised again, she gave him a fierce glare. He tossed the cloth into the sink and held up his hands.

  “This is not just water. You are not well. I cannot have that.”

  Her chin dropped, and she put a hand on her stomach. “It’ll pass. It’s just…well, mornings have never been the best time of day for me.”

  He studied her. “Melanie, you’ve lost weight. I can see that. You skin is as white as this sink, and there are shadows under your eyes.”

  She straightened and brushed at her face. “That’s called a lack of makeup, and I’ll be fine. A little bicarbonate and ginger ale is all I need. Do you have any ginger ale around here?”

  “I will see some is obtained at once.”

  Melanie licked her lips, and her stare darted away from his. Ahmed instantly sensed something was not right. “What is it, Melanie? You avoid me—and we need to talk.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing to say. You’re getting married. I’m here to work.”

  He stepped closer. “If things go as I wish, there will be no wedding.”

  She looked up at him and her green eyes darkened. “You plan to dump Nasiji? What kind of—”

  He put his fingers on her lips—they were as soft as he remembered. “Nasiji wishes this farce to end as much as I do. This is our father’s plan, not ours.”

  Pulling his hand away, she stepped back again. “So…why not tell them that?”

  He shook his head. “I could do so—Father will no doubt want to banish me. But Nasiji—it is not so easy for her. Her father has another husband already waiting. He will see her married no matter what. So I must find another way for her. I’ve been friends with her far too long to leave her in this mess her father wishes to make of her life.”

  The sharpness eased from Melanie’s eyes. She crossed her arms. A little color had returned to her face. “You’re helping her out? That’s an excuse I haven’t heard before.”

  Ahmed shrugged. “It is the truth. And now, will you make a bargain with me? If you do not feel better, will you see the palace doctor? I do not like the idea of you being ill.”

  She shook her head. “I told you. I’m fine. And I can look after myself.”

  She started to turn away, but he caught her arm. “Things are not done between us. I asked for you specifically, so I could see you again.”

  She pulled away. “Talk to me when you’re not engaged to another woman, Ahmed. Maybe this wedding isn’t for real, but have you even thought about what happens to me if that’s the case?”

  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.