Sheikh in the City. Jackie Braun

She let out a self-conscious laugh. “Or is that yes?” When his frown deepened she clarified, “You’re right. I wasn’t expecting you. Sorry.”

      “But I thought we had agreed to this morning? I believe you said I could call on you any time after nine.”

      “Yes.” She coughed delicately. “Call.”

      He closed his eyes, grimaced. “You expected me to telephone. My profuse apologies for the intrusion. I will telephone you later.”

      He dipped his head and stepped backward. She doubted he often found himself lost in translation, even if English wasn’t his first language. His show of embarrassment helped to chase away some of Emily’s. As he turned to leave, she put a hand on his arm to stop him.

      “Don’t go. You’re here now and I’m free. Just give me a few minutes to dress.”

      Despite the invitation, he hesitated at the threshold. “Are you certain? We can reschedule our meeting. I have no wish to inconvenience you.”

      A man who didn’t wish to inconvenience her. Are you married? The ridiculous question wanted to slip from her lips. Instead Emily waved her free hand and said, “Nonsense. Please, come in.”

      Modesty, however, had her turning away without waiting to see if Dan actually did so. Even before she heard the apartment door close, she was in her bedroom, a battered oak six-panel between them as she rooted through the contents of her jammed closet for something presentable to wear.

      As the eldest child and only son of his country’s ruler, as well as the president of what was becoming a thriving export business, Madani often traveled to the United States from his native Kashaqra. Thanks in part to his schooling, first at Harvard and later Oxford, he was fluent in seven languages, one of them English. When he’d told Emily Merit he would call in the morning, he should have been clearer. But he hadn’t figured it would matter one way or another. How was he to know that the address listed on her business card was her home? Or that she would answer the door in her nightclothes looking sexy and sleep tousled?

      As it was, when he’d awoken that morning she’d been on his mind. Now, after watching thin cotton cling to her curves while she’d hustled away, he had the uncomfortable feeling she was going to be a blight on his concentration for the entire day.

      He should go. Blaming curiosity, he stepped inside the apartment instead.

      The small living room opened into a surprisingly large kitchen. It was a chef’s dream, he supposed, noting the double ovens on the far wall and the multiburnered, stainless steel stove. As for the array of gadgets on the countertop, other than the coffeemaker he was clueless to their use. While he enjoyed eating a good meal, he’d never prepared one.

      Overall, the entire space wasn’t as big as the smallest bedroom in the tower suite he maintained at The Mark for his frequent visits to the city, but she’d made good use of every inch. Sleek cabinetry ran the full height of the walls in the kitchen, and in the living area her computer and printer were tucked inside an armoire. The doors were open now, revealing a chocolate soufflé screen saver and a plethora of notes pinned to the corkboard that lined the interior of the doors.

      She’d cleverly used stacks of cookbooks to form the base of a coffee table, over which was placed an oval of glass. The slip-covered sofa behind it was the room’s only nod to comfort, but it was the brightly hued throw on the back of it that caught his attention. He recognized the craftsmanship and the centuries’ old pattern. It came from his homeland.

      “Would you care for some coffee?”

      He turned at the sound of her voice. “Yes, thank you.”

      He followed her into the kitchen, where she poured him a cup and topped off her own.

      “Cream or sugar?” she asked.

      “Black is fine.” He’d acquired a taste for Western coffee, though he preferred the sweetened variety of his country.

      She’d pulled her chestnut hair into a softer-looking version of the style she’d worn the night before, minus the net, of course. For a moment he wished she’d left it loose as it had been when he’d arrived. He liked the way it had waved in defiance around her face before falling just past her shoulders. The pink blouse she wore wrapped at the waist, accentuating its smallness. Her trousers were tan and mannish in style, but the flair of her hips and the tips of a lethal-looking pair of pumps that peeked out from the cuffed hem kept the cut from appearing too masculine.

      When he realized he was staring, he glanced away. “You have an impressive kitchen.”

      “Thanks. I like it.”

      “Was it recently renovated?”

      “Less than a year ago.” Something in her expression changed and her chin rose fractionally, as if in challenge. “My business is growing, so I decided to go all out. Besides, I spend most of my time in here whether I’m working for a client or just puttering for fun.”

      She sat on one of the stools lined up next to the island. He took the one next to hers and swiveled so he could face her.

      “You cook for fun?”

      “I’m afraid I can’t help myself. I absolutely adore food.”

      His gaze skimmed over her, lingering on her slender waist. “And yet you are…small.”

      She laughed outright at what he realized too late was a rude observation for a man to make. Wincing, he said, “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

      “Oh, no. Don’t apologize.” She laid a hand on his arm. “I can’t think of a woman alive who doesn’t like to be told she’s not fat.”

      He felt his face grow warm. This made twice since arriving on Emily’s doorstep that he’d embarrassed himself. He didn’t care for the sensation. Indeed, he wasn’t used to putting his foot in his mouth, especially where women were concerned. But the amusement shimmering in her blue eyes took away some of his chagrin.

      “I only make that observation because a lot of the chefs I know are…more substantially proportioned,” he said, trying for diplomacy.

      She sighed. “Unfortunately that’s a hazard of the profession. All those little tastes can add up over time.”

      “How have you managed to avoid it?”

      “Exercise and nervous energy.” At his frown she clarified, “I have a gym membership. I try to work out at least three times a week. The rest of the time I fret and pace, or so my assistant tells me.”

      Fret and pace? She seemed too confident for either. “Have you been in business for long?”

      “Why do you ask? Are you having second thoughts about hiring me?” Amusement shimmered in her eyes again.

      “No. Once I make a commitment I keep it.”

      “But you haven’t committed. No contract has been signed,” she reminded him lightly.

      Madani thought of Nawar, his bride-to-be in Kashaqra, and of the long-held agreement between their families. No contract had been signed for that, either. But it was understood. It had always been understood. “Sometimes one’s word is enough.”

      “I prefer a signature,” she replied. “No offense. I just find it easier to do business that way since not everyone’s word tends to be equal.”

      “True.” He nodded, thinking of the deals he would finalize later that day. “Legally speaking, it’s always best to have documentation. I run an export business…among other things.”

      “May I ask you a question?” At his nod, Emily went on. “Your accent, I can’t quite place it.”

      “I am from Kashaqra.” He thought of his homeland now, missing it since he’d been gone a month already. It was bounded by mountains on one side and a swath of desert on the other.