And tonight she was dining with him.
The table was beautifully set with white tablecloths and candles, and the silverware and glasses gleamed, yet it was not the luxurious surroundings that unnerved her, but the company that she kept. It wasn’t his title that intimidated either—well, perhaps a bit, Natasha conceded—but really it was the man himself that had her stomach folding over on itself, had her still unsure as to whether she should have said yes to his offer. Because despite the silk of his manners there was that edge to him. She knew she had taken on more than she could ever handle.
The waiters lavished attention on them, pulling out chairs and spreading napkins over their laps as Rakhal ordered champagne.
Natasha declined. ‘Not for me, thank you. I’d prefer to drink water.’ Oh, she knew the cost of a bottle of champagne would be nothing to him, but somehow she didn’t want to feel beholden, and she was also mindful that her common sense was somewhat lacking around him. Champagne might only exacerbate the fact.
Rakhal too, it seemed, was only drinking water, for he cancelled the champagne, ordered iced water and then turned his attention to Natasha. ‘Is there anything you are allergic to?’ he asked. ‘Or anything you particularly do not like to eat?’
‘Oh!’ It was a rather unusual question. ‘I’ll just wait to have a look at the menu, thank you.’
‘I will make the selections,’ Rakhal responded.
Natasha felt her lips tighten. She certainly did not want him choosing her dinner for her, and she told him the same. ‘I’d like to wait and see the menu.’
She was determined to win on this—for this was a man who didn’t usually take no for an answer. Not this morning when she had declined his lift, nor tonight when he had come to her door despite her turning down his invitation to dinner. And now he thought he could choose what she ate. Well, he had chosen the wrong person if that was the case.
Her voice held a warning when she spoke again. ‘I can order for myself, thank you!’
‘I’m sure you can. But I have asked my chef to prepare a banquet, so he needs to know if there are foods to which you are averse.’
‘Your chef?’
‘I stay regularly at this hotel and so I ensure there is a chef from Alzirz. Naturally when I’m away the other guests get to sample his delightful cooking, but tonight he is preparing food exclusively for us …’ He watched the movement in her throat as she swallowed. ‘Of course I can have him come out and discuss your preferences, if you’d prefer …?’
‘No.’ Natasha shook her head, her face flushed, more than a little embarrassed at the fuss she had made. ‘That won’t be necessary.’
And Rakhal watched her blush, visible even in candlelight. ‘Perhaps I could have somebody write down the ingredients so you can check through them …’ He was enjoying this now.
‘Of course not. I’m sure it will be lovely. It is more that I thought you were choosing for me …’
‘I am,’ Rakhal said, and watched her rapid blinking. ‘Tonight you are my guest, and you should not be worrying about making decisions. Say I were to come to your house tomorrow for dinner …’ He watched the red darken on her cheeks as she pictured it. ‘Perhaps you would ask my preferences, but you would not give me a menu.’ He leaned forward a little. ‘You would prepare dishes that you thought might please your guest. Well, I do not cook, but I have asked my chef to do the same … to cook with foods that are fresh and flown in from my country.’
‘You have food flown in?’ How spoilt was this man? she wondered, taking a sip of her drink.
‘And water too …’ Rakhal responded without a qualm. ‘I am served water that is sourced from my home.’
She paused as she raised the glass to her lips. French champagne probably cost less. And then, as he had since the moment they met, he surprised her again.
‘If I am to give wise counsel then I should be nourished by my land …’
A waiter topped up her glass as the first course was brought: a selection of dips and breads and fruits. Rakhal explained his selections.
‘The water is from a spring deep in the desert, and this is what I always start with.’ He picked up a date and a small silver knife. ‘Usually they are served quartered, but I prefer to pit my own.’
He slid the knife through the shiny fruit and exposed the stone. She felt her stomach curl as he inverted the date and popped the stone out. How, Natasha tried to fathom, could slicing a date be seductive?
Dates were something her grandmother served at Christmas.
Dates were prunes.
Dates were not sexy.
He dipped it in some oily goo and she watched his long slender fingers swirl it around. Then he lifted it to her mouth and she accepted, trying to touch only the fruit. But her lips met his fingers and she had to force her mouth not to linger, to take the fruit, not to capture his hand and taste his fingers. It scared her, the effect he had on her, the places he took her mind to. And she knew that he knew it as he pulled his hand away.
As Natasha chewed the rich fruit, she amended her thoughts.
Dates were sexy.
‘It is called haysa al tumreya.’
His voice was low and for her ears only, and she tasted the hot sauce around the sweet date as she listened.
‘The date tree is the most important. It provides shade around the spring …’
As they ate he told her about the oasis in the desert, about the fruits and ripe peaches for nectar and about the aubergines that made the baba ganoush she tried next. It held a smoky flavour that had her closing her eyes in bliss as she tasted it. He told her about the foods that grew beneath the tall date trees, and she ate and she listened and she looked, and he was intriguing rather than spoilt, and at each turn more beautiful still.
Rakhal was right. It was nice to be spoiled, not to have to make any decisions, simply to listen and to talk as they shared the sumptuous food. He told her a little about his land, about his life in Alzirz, and she told him a little about herself too—or rather he asked her about her family.
‘My parents were killed last year in a motor accident,’ Natasha said. She waited for the flurry of sympathy, but he simply stared and waited for her to go on. ‘I have an older brother. Mark.’
‘And he takes care of you?’
‘I take care of myself,’ Natasha answered. Aware her response might have been a little brittle, she softened it. ‘It’s been a difficult year, but I manage.’
She was relieved when they were disturbed by the waiters bringing another impressive course, and then he told her more about the land from which he came. About the palace that looked out to the ocean and the desert abode to which he escaped.
‘It sounds beautiful.’
‘You would love it,’ Rakhal assured her, and for a moment he glimpsed her there—the jewel in his harem.
They ate more food from his country, and she could taste the sun. When he could not hear something she said he moved his chair around the table until he sat next to her. Dessert was a shared plate, and he fed her fruit from his fingers again. Sometimes Natasha forgot she was in a busy restaurant. Sometimes she forgot her own inexperience under the gaze of this very experienced man. For his voice made her ears ache to hear him, had her inching a little closer to him.
For Rakhal too this night was different. There was candour—he normally would not tell a woman such things about his home, about his life and his thoughts, but with her conversation was pleasing. Now they were speaking of traditions, and he was honest—telling