Surrender to the Playboy Sheikh

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‘I’m not afraid of you.’ Which was true. She was afraid of herself. Of her reaction to him. She’d never felt like this before. This overwhelming blend of desire and need and urgency. Not even with Jeff—and she’d lost her head over him.

She’d lost a hell of a lot more, too. Her business, her home, her self-respect, and her heart. She’d worked hard to get them all back, and she knew better than to repeat her mistakes.

‘So you’ll have lunch with me on Monday.’ It was a statement, not a question.

The sensible side of her wanted to say no.

But the woman who’d been kissed wanted to know…This man would be a perfectionist. Would he cook as well as he kissed? Would he make love as well as he cooked?

But just as she was preparing a polite but firm refusal, her mouth seemed to work of its own accord. ‘Lunch would be fine. Thank you.’

‘Good. And in the meantime I’ll be your apprentice. Starting now.’

‘Thank you, but I really don’t need an apprentice.’

‘You don’t have to pay me, if that’s what you’re worrying about. I’m giving my time freely.’

She felt her eyes narrow. ‘If you’re trying to get me to change my mind about catering for your business meetings…’

He spread his hands. ‘I’m not trying to buy you, Lily. And time is more precious than money. If I give up my time to help you, then maybe you might reconsider giving up some of your time to help me.’

So he wanted a quid pro quo.

At least he’d been honest about it.

And he wasn’t expecting to push his way into a queue. He wanted some of her non-catering days. He recognised that her time was important and he was offering her something that he valued more than money, too.

Even though she knew her head needed examining—the man was a definite danger to her peace of mind—she took a step back from the door. ‘Come in.’

Karim smiled, and let her lead him to her kitchen. ‘So, boss. First off, how do you take your coffee?’

‘Milk, no sugar, please. And I’m not your boss.’

‘I can take orders.’

He was teasing her. No way would this man take orders. Give them, yes.

She must have spoken aloud because he laughed. ‘Habibti, I can definitely take orders. Just tell me what you want me to do.’

She knew he wasn’t talking about coffee or anything of the kind. There was a sensual gleam in those amber, wolfish eyes that suggested something completely different. That doing her bidding would be his pleasure—and most definitely hers.

‘Coffee,’ she said, before she did or said something to disgrace herself. Like telling him to carry her upstairs and rip all her clothes off and make love to her until she didn’t know what day it was any more.

Coward, his eyes said. She knew he knew damn well what had just gone through her mind.

‘Lots of milk or just a dash?’ he asked.

‘Somewhere in the middle.’

‘OK. Carry on with whatever you were doing, and I’ll make coffee.’

She sat at the little island in the centre of her kitchen, where she’d set up her laptop earlier that morning. So much for editing her article on summer food. How could she possibly concentrate with this man in the room? She was aware of every movement he made, even when she wasn’t looking at him.

She typed and erased the same three words a dozen times.

This wasn’t going to work. It was going to drive her crazy, him being in here. Invading her space. Looking in her cupboards for china—she bit back the words before she told him that she kept the mugs in the cupboard above the kettle, because she didn’t want him knowing that she was watching him instead of working.

She forced herself to concentrate on the screen of her laptop.

A few moments later he brought a mug of coffee over to her—along with a plate, with a little gold box sitting on it.

Her heart missed a beat.

Then she shook herself mentally. Stupid. Even if he was a sheikh and impossibly wealthy, of course he wasn’t going to lavish jewellery on her. They barely knew each other.

Besides, she recognised the embossing on the box: the name of a very exclusive and extremely expensive chocolatier.

‘Is this what I think it is?’ she asked.

‘That rather depends on what you think it is.’

‘Unless you’ve recycled the box, this is definitely chocolate.’

Again, his eyes glittered with amusement, as if he’d guessed the crazy idea she’d had a few seconds before. ‘It’s a new box,’ he confirmed. ‘I wasn’t sure if you preferred white, milk or dark.’

She opened the box. He’d bought two of each sort. Enough to be a thoughtful gesture, but not so much that she felt too uncomfortable to accept his gift. From what she’d read about him online, he could’ve afforded to buy the contents of the shop with his spare change, and still had enough left over to buy the entire stock of the florist’s next door—but he’d been restrained rather than over the top. He’d remembered what she’d said to him about not being bought.

And she liked that.

‘As long as it’s chocolate, I like it,’ she said. ‘But, as there are two of each, I think you should share them with me.’

‘Thank you. I accept.’ His tongue moistened his lower lip briefly. ‘I have to confess to a weakness for chocolate. But I like mine dark. Rich. Spicy.’

How could the man make her think of sex when he was talking about chocolate? Breathe, Lily reminded herself.

He sat on the pale wooden bar stool next to hers—not close enough to crowd her, but near enough for her to be incredibly aware of his body. The first time she’d seen him, he’d worn a dinner jacket. The last time, he’d worn an expensively cut business suit. Today, he was in jeans, very soft denim that just screamed out to be touched, and a collarless white cotton shirt. It made him look younger. Approachable. And incredibly sexy.

No. Sexy was bad.

He was just…

She gave up trying to describe him, because her mind filled the gap with all sorts of descriptions that made her heart skip a beat. Hot. Touchable. Kissable.

This couldn’t be happening. Shouldn’t be happening. They moved in different worlds. No way could anything happen between them.

Except maybe a fling, her libido reminded her. A hot and very satisfying fling. Something temporary. No strings, no promises to be broken.

And the idea sent her temperature up another notch.

Lily reached out to take a chocolate from the box, to distract herself, and her fingers brushed against his. She found her lips parting automatically, inviting a kiss, and felt her cheeks flame when she realised that she was staring at his mouth. When she lifted her gaze she saw that he was staring at her mouth, too.

Remembering.

Wanting.

All she had to do was move towards him and she knew he’d touch her, his fingertips skating across her face and then sliding behind her neck to urge her closer. And then his mouth would touch hers. So lightly. Asking. Promising.

And this time they were on their own. There was no risk of being disturbed. No reason why he couldn’t scoop her off the chair and carry her up the stairs to her bed.

She really, really had to get a grip.

She edged her chair slightly away from his. His expression told her that he’d noticed. And that he’d guessed why.

‘So what are you doing?’ he asked.

Trying to resist temptation, she thought. ‘Editing my article about seasonal foods. Gooseberries, courgettes and broad beans.’

‘It’s spring now. You’re talking about summer foods.’

‘Magazines work three or four months in advance,’ she explained. ‘So although for my catering work I prefer to buy seasonal ingredients, produced as locally as possible, for this kind of work I can’t.’

‘So you do the pictures as well?’

‘No, the magazine sends a photographer over. I’ve emailed them some rough shots so the designer has some idea of what the finished product looks like and can brief the photographer with the kind of angles she wants taken, and we’ll be setting up the final shoot tomorrow.’

‘So what are you cooking?’

‘Broad beans with pancetta, gooseberry and elderflower fool, and courgette and chocolate cake.’

He looked surprised. ‘Courgette and chocolate cake? Are you sure?’

She smiled. ‘Did you taste the courgettes in it yesterday?’

‘That was courgette and chocolate cake?’

‘Yup.’

He spread his hands. ‘What can I say, other than that you’re a culinary genius, Lily Finch?’

She gave him a tiny bow, acknowledging the compliment. ‘We didn’t tell the kids, either. Until they’d scoffed it.’

‘Kids?’ he queried.

Ah. She hadn’t intended to tell him that. ‘Never mind.’

‘Talk to me, Lily,’ he said softly. ‘Kids?’

She flushed. ‘My friend Hannah, who works with me—she takes my trials to her daughter’s nursery school. Depending on what it is, they either use it for the children’s break-time snacks or offer it to parents in return for a donation to nursery funds.’

‘That’s good of you.’

She shook her head. ‘This might be a nice middle-class area now, but there are still quite a few kids around here who have nothing. Nursery’s the only place where they get to play with toys and books. So this is my way of giving something back.’ That, and offering a romantic dinner for two cooked by Elizabeth Finch at the nursery’s annual fund-raising raffle. Because she owed Hannah for supporting her through the mess of her divorce—and she never forgot her debts.

‘It’s still a nice thing to do.’

She wriggled on her seat, not comfortable talking about it; he clearly noticed, because he moved over to the window and changed the subject. ‘Nice garden.’

‘I like it,’ Lily said. ‘Though it’s not just flowers. There’s a raised bed at the bottom which I use for vegetables, and there are pots of herbs on the patio.’ She joined him at the window. ‘And there at the bottom is my Californian lilac. My favourite shrub—it’s a mass of bright blue flowers in May, and it attracts all the butterflies.’ She shook herself. ‘But this isn’t getting any work done.’

‘Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.’

‘I can’t think of anything.’ Well, she could—but none of those things were on the agenda. At all. She raked a hand through her hair. ‘I just need to finish editing my article, and make sure I have all the ingredients in so I can make at least four sets of everything tomorrow—one finished article, two showing the cooking process at different stages, and a spare in case there’s a last-minute hitch.’

‘Give me your recipes, and I’ll check the ingredients for you,’ he said.

‘Thanks, but I’d rather do it myself.’

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘I’d rather do it myself,’ she repeated. ‘I can see at a glance if I need anything. It’s quicker than explaining.’

‘You’re not a team player, then.’

Not since Jeff’s betrayal. She’d vowed that she’d never, ever have another business partner again. It had been devastating to lose the restaurant she’d worked so hard to build. Even though it meant that Amazing Tastes couldn’t expand, it also meant that she couldn’t lose the business she loved because of someone else’s failings. Been there, done that, worn the T-shirt to shreds. ‘I don’t have a problem with my colleagues in the kitchen.’

‘But you have a problem with me?’

She nodded. ‘You’re…distracting.’