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?”
She gave a laugh. “How about I teach you to make them? Pancakes were the first thing I learned to make, but I have a recipe for Swedish pancakes that are so thin you can see through them and so light they’re like a taste of heaven.”
He tossed the towel onto one of the stainless steel islands and rubbed his hands together. “Sounds wonderful. Where are the instructions?”
She tapped her temple. “First lesson—a chef learns to memorize recipes.” She glanced at the sweat drying on his skin—on his muscular forearms and chest. She licked her lips and turned to get him an apron. She needed some of that temptation covered up. “Wash up. And put this on.”
Surprisingly, Ahmed followed her instructions. After he’d washed, he picked up the apron and stared at it. Taking it from him, she draped the top loops over his head and let it drop down. Walking behind him, she grabbed the ties and tied it loosely behind him. She smiled as she breathed in his spicy scent.
Memories of his fingers sliding over her skin, of him buried inside her, flashed into her, washing heat through her.
Shaking her head to clear her wayward thoughts, she stepped back to the counter.
She had Ahmed pull out flour, eggs and the spices she wanted, including fresh ground vanilla bean and cardamom. She pulled down mixing bowls and set the heat under a flat pan on the stove. She was surprised how well they worked together, how companionable this was. How nice. She warned herself not to trust the feeling.
She was used to doing things on her own, had been for a long time. That was what happened when you didn’t have parents or siblings close by. That was what happened when you went to culinary school and learned how competitive the world could be. She’d been doing fine on her own. It didn’t matter to her if Ahmed was or wasn’t marrying someone else. She would be on her own again.
But this was still a moment of joy.
Ahmed glanced at the batter he’d made and frowned. “How do you know when it’s ready?”
“Taste…and texture.”
She took the spoon from him and stirred. “We don’t want any bubbles, but you want a smooth consistency. Thin but not too thin.” She glanced at him. “Kind of like traditional but not too traditional.”
He smiled, his dark eyes lightening. “This isn’t so hard.”
“Yeah, well, let’s see if you burn the first pancake or not.”
He stood close, his shoulder brushing hers, as she showed him how to pour the batter. Her heart was thudding again, and her upper lip dampened with sweat. Not from the stove. She liked the small frown that pulled his eyebrows flat and tight. She liked the way he lifted his head as if that would let him see better. She liked that he was interested.
With a shock, she realized she liked Ahmed. A lot more than she should.
The image of them doing this back in New York at her apartment on a Sunday morning flashed into her head. But that wasn’t ever going to happen. He had his world, she had hers, which meant a business to run. And he…well, she didn’t know what he did, maybe he was just a playboy. And maybe if he didn’t get married, they’d see each other once in a while. But domestic bliss…well, just not happening.