Surrender to the Playboy Sheikh. Kate Hardy

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СКАЧАТЬ events, when her doorbell buzzed. Too early for the postman, she thought, and she wasn’t expecting any deliveries that morning. She wasn’t expecting any visitors, either.

      She opened the front door and stared.

      Karim was the last person she’d expected to see. She’d only told him her first name—and it was her nickname rather than her full name. How come…?

      ‘Lily?’ he asked, looking as surprised as she felt. ‘Do you work for Elizabeth Finch?’

      She shook her head. ‘I am Elizabeth Finch.’

      He frowned. ‘You told me your name was Lily.’

      ‘It is.’

      He looked sceptical, as if he wasn’t sure she was telling the truth.

      She shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say Elizabeth when I was tiny—I called myself “Lily-ba”. The name kind of stuck. Everyone calls me Lily. Though obviously I use my full name for work.’

      ‘I see.’ He inclined his head. ‘I was impressed by the food on Saturday night. I asked Felicity Browne for her caterer’s contact details.’

      Then this was a business call, not a social visit. Good. Business made things easier. She could section off her emotions and deal with this. Even better: if he became her client, that would be yet another reason not to act on that attraction. She knew first-hand that relationships and business didn’t mix. Lord, did she know that first-hand. She’d been there already with Jeff and had her fingers well and truly burned. ‘Come through.’ She ushered him into the hall, closed the door behind him and led him through to the kitchen. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

      ‘Thank you. That would be nice.’

      ‘Milk? Sugar?’

      ‘Neither, thanks.’

      ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Do take a seat.’

      At her gesture, Karim took a seat on one of the overstuffed sofas set in the open-plan conservatory area, while Lily busied herself making fresh coffee. Her kitchen was clearly a professional kitchen—very up to date appliances, sleek minimalist units in pale wood, a central island, and what looked like granite work surfaces and splashbacks. Everything was neat and tidy, including the shelf of cookery books and box files. He wasn’t surprised that she was the meticulous type.

      And yet the room was far from sterile. The walls were painted a pale terracotta, adding warmth to the room, and there were photographs and postcards pinned to the fridge with magnets. A simple blue glass vase full of daffodils sat on the window sill behind the sink. And he could smell something gorgeous; a quick scan of the room showed him a couple of cakes cooling on a wire rack. For a client? he wondered.

      Lily herself was dressed casually in jeans and a camisole top, and looked incredibly touchable. He could remember the softness of her skin against his and the sweetness of her scent when’d he kissed her on the balcony the other night, and his body reacted instantly.

      Not good.

      This was meant to be business. He knew that mixing business and pleasure wasn’t a good idea—he needed to get himself under control again. Right now. He really shouldn’t be thinking about hooking a finger under the strap of her top, drawing it down, and kissing her bare shoulder.

      ‘Nice kitchen,’ he commented when she returned with two mugs of coffee.

      ‘It suits me,’ she said simply.

      And she suited it, he thought.

      ‘So what did you want to discuss?’ she asked.

      She’d made quite sure she was sitting on the other sofa rather than next to him, he noted. Fair enough. This was business. And sitting next to each other would’ve risked them accidentally touching each other. Given how they’d both gone up in flames the other night at the first touch, distance was a very good idea.

      ‘As I said, I was impressed by the food at Felicity’s party. I’m holding a series of business meetings and I need a caterer.’

      ‘And you want m— You’re asking me?’ she corrected herself hastily.

      A little slip that told him her mind was still running along the same track as his. ‘Yes.’ To both, he added silently.

      ‘That depends when you have in mind. I’m booked up for the next three months.’

      ‘They’re set up for the end of the month.’

      She shook her head. ‘In that case, sorry, no can do.’

      He backtracked to what she’d just said. ‘You’re working every single day for the next three months?’ And people called him a workaholic.

      ‘All my work days are booked.’

      He picked up the subtext. ‘So you don’t work every single day.’

      ‘Actually, I do,’ she corrected. ‘But I don’t cook for other people every single day.’

      ‘What do you do on the days you’re not cooking for other people?’

      ‘I develop recipes. I have a column in a Sunday newspaper twice a month, and a monthly column in a magazine.’

      He couldn’t resist. ‘Are they work in development?’ He gestured in the direction of the cakes.

      ‘Is that a hint?’

      He smiled. ‘Yes.’

      She rolled her eyes but, as he’d hoped, she smiled. ‘OK. I’ll cut you a slice. But be warned that it’s a test, so it might not taste quite right.’

      When she handed him a slice of chocolate cake on a plain white plate, he took a mouthful. Savoured the taste. ‘Works for me.’ Though such a vague compliment would sound like flattery—something he knew instinctively she’d scoff at. ‘It smells good and it’s got the right amount of chocolate. Enough to give it flavour but not so much that it’s overpowering.’

      She tried it, and shook her head. ‘The texture’s not quite right. It needs more flour. Excuse me a minute.’ She scribbled something on a pad.

      ‘Notes?’ he asked.

      ‘For the next trial,’ she explained.

      He nodded in acknowledgement. ‘So, to return to our discussion. Basically you have how many free days a week?’

      ‘I have three days when I don’t cook but they are my development time. Not to mention testing the recipes three times and setting up my kitchen so the photographer can take shots of the different stages. And time to do my paperwork.’

      ‘But they’re days you could use—in theory,’ he persisted.

      ‘In theory. In practice, I don’t. If I do it for one person, I’ll have to do it for everyone, and I don’t want to end up working eighteen-hour days to fit everything in. I need time to refill the well. Time to let myself be creative.’

      He СКАЧАТЬ