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 more 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.