‘Okay, I will have my assistant rearrange our accommodation.’
She wanted to suggest she find the apartment herself, because she had visions of finding somewhere cosy and comfortable and intimate, and not too lavish, but she decided not to press him. The apartment wasn’t important, it was what they could establish inside it—a new level of understanding, of intimacy and domesticity. Together.
An apartment represented a chance to make some semblance of a home with Raif—with no staff looking over their shoulders and cleaning up after them, and no restaurant or room service meals they hadn’t created and cooked themselves. To just be, in their own space, together, however temporary, was more of a luxury to her than going on shopping sprees with his credit card, or seeing even the most amazing sights without him.
As Raif left, her heartbeat galloped into her throat. It was such a small thing, a small thing that Raif didn’t understand the significance of, but that was okay, because it had huge significance to her.
Plus she’d never been to New York before.
The next two weeks would be an adventure, for both of them, that she could not wait to explore.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘THAT SMELLS INCREDIBLE—what is it?’
Raif dumped his briefcase by the door and tugged at his tie. He was tired. The day of meetings with a Mexican retail consortium looking for investment had been conducted in both English and Spanish—a language he was not yet fluent in. But as he slipped off his shoes and walked into the loft apartment’s generous open-plan living and dining space he spotted Kasia, her wild hair pushed back from her face by a colourful bandana, busy stirring something on the five-ring stove.
His heart did a giddy two-step. And the fatigue lifted, to be replaced by the familiar punch of lust. And longing.
She sent him a quick grin, making the longing wrap around his heart. And begin to choke him. It had become a familiar sight since they had arrived in New York a week ago and his assistant had found them this apartment.
Kasia’s request had confused him when she had made it in Paris. He always stayed at the Plaza when he was in New York. Had never had any desire to stay anywhere else. And if truth be told, he hadn’t been that happy about agreeing to this shift. He didn’t like her having to cook for them. And he liked even the less the daily excursions she made to scour the local markets to find the spices and ingredients she needed for her latest creation. But he’d had to stifle his objections because it made her so happy.
And he liked to see her happy.
Plus, the food she managed to conjure up—an eclectic mix of Middle Eastern, African and other ethnic flavours from her travels around the local neighbourhood shops—was quite simply the best he’d ever tasted. So much so he’d managed to regain nearly all the weight he’d lost while lying flat on his back at the Golden Palace.
‘Sarma, moutabal and hummus to start,’ she announced proudly. ‘Then lamb tagine, whipped garlic mash and Armenian salad. I hope you’re starving. The bread is from an amazing Lebanese bakery I found in Tribeca.’
After popping the pitta breads in the toaster, she produced a tray of colourful dishes from the fridge.
‘Please tell me you didn’t walk all the way to Tribeca.’ He’d cautioned her before about not taking the car and driver.
‘Then I won’t tell you,’ she said, the flirtatious wink making it hard for him to be annoyed with her. Even though she had been defying his express order.
Dammit.
‘Kasia, you must not tire yourself,’ he said, trying to be firm. The nausea still hit every morning like clockwork. And he knew how tired she became in the afternoons, because he’d come back between meetings only yesterday, hoping to surprise her, and had found her fast asleep. ‘Especially not cooking for me.’
‘But I like cooking for you,’ she said, disarming him all over again. ‘Tribeca is not that far. And I had a nap this afternoon. So I’m not tired. Plus, the bread is amazing.’ She pointed to a delicious-looking concoction, made with chargrilled eggplant, on the tray of dishes, attempting to distract him. ‘And it goes perfectly with the moutabal. A lovely Lebanese man at the farmers’ market on Hudson told me how to make it.’
‘I don’t want you talking to strange men either,’ he said, frowning, as she whisked the pitta out of the toaster, chopped them up with a few efficient strokes of a very large knife and sprinkled them with some aromatic spice.
‘He was ninety if he was a day, Raif.’ Her eyes flashed with the rebellious spirit he had become captivated by. Taking the dish off the tray, she presented it to him with the plate of prepared bread. ‘Now, stop talking nonsense and taste it, so you can tell me what you think.’
It wasn’t nonsense, he thought grumpily, but then he tasted the dish. The flavours exploded on his tongue, lemon and sesame and garlic perfectly combined with the savoury charcoal flavour of the charred aubergine. A moan came out before he could stop it.
‘Good?’ she said, the eager smile making his heartbeat thicken.
‘Excellent,’ he was forced to admit.
‘Sit down and sample the other dishes while I finish the mash.’
He did as he was told, perching on the stool on the other side of the bar as he had become accustomed to doing for the past week. He would ask her about her latest research, and the progress of her PhD, which the Kholadi Corporation was helping to fund after setting up the scholarship programme at Devereaux College. She would often ask him about his work, what he had been doing, and tell him what else she’d done during her day—which usually involved making friends with people she didn’t know. And walking miles after he had told her not to.
But it was hard to chastise her when she enjoyed it so much. Kasia, he had discovered, was a naturally sociable person, who thrived on meeting new people and exploring new places.
Her stories enchanted him. And disturbed him.