He grinned. “I’m biased, but I do not think there is a food like it. It’s one of the things I miss most when I travel.”
An odd stitch tipped in her heart. “You live in Dashan?”
He studied her thoughtfully. “For the moment.” His eyes glowed with passion and fire. “Before that, I was in America for several years.”
“Where in America?”
A muscle jerked in his cheek. “LA, mostly, and then Vegas for a time.” He thought of the rehab facility that he’d called home for six months. The most important six months of his life. He did not hide his relationship with drugs, mainly because he was proud of the strength he’d developed to overcome that addiction. He understood now the emotions that had led to his dependency and he had conquered them. He knew he would never again be vulnerable to such extraordinary weakness and stupidity.
“Oh! I’ve always wanted to go to Vegas. Did you like it?”
He pulled a face. “It is exactly as you’d imagine. Full of wild parties and a little too much fun than is good for you.” He winked and Melinda found herself laughing.
“You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who would enjoy that at all.”
“Oh, really? This is because I am corporate, no?”
“No,” she tapped a finger against her lips, searching for the indefinable quality of the man. “You just seem so … steady. Sturdy. Rock-reliable. I can’t see you getting into the whole flippant, flamboyant, night life scene.”
Her words meant more to him than Melinda could possibly understand. He had been all those things at one time. And then, for too many years, he wasn’t. And now, finally, he was himself again. The man who had been born to rule a kingdom. A man who’d given up that right, who’d been supplanted by his brother, and who was free to focus on his business interests and his own life, but with the same strength and maturity that he should have brought to his role as Sheikh.
“Thank you,” he murmured seriously, transferring his attention to the plates in front of them. “This is a chickpea fritter.” He pointed his way around the plate then, listing each dish. “A rice that is flavoured with currants, pepper and saffron. Lamb and cumin. Fish and tomato. And a sauce that is a little like a spiced yoghurt.”
He watched as Melinda lifted her fork and scooped some of the lamb dish onto its end. He made note of the fact she’d chosen that first, a smile on his features as she lifted it to her mouth and tasted it. Her eyes were huge when they turned to him. “It’s amazing. So, so good.”
He tipped his head in silent agreement. “I agree.”
“You said you miss it when you travel. Where’d you get this from?”
“I have a chef here.”
The sentence was an omission. A mistake. He had resolved to hold off on revealing too much about his life until they knew one another better. He had enough experience with how people reacted to the discovery that he was a man of incomparable wealth and power. And he didn’t want Melinda to know that about him; to factor it into her opinion, for better or for worse.
“My company provides one,” he fudged a little. It was close enough to the truth.
“How nice. My company got me an ergonomic keyboard last year.”
He laughed at the unexpected response. “Well, I suppose that’s err, important.”
“Actually, it’s a pain in the backside,” she confided, lifting a little more of the lamb to her lips. They were beautiful lips. Full, and shaped like a cupid’s bow, with a natural pinkness to them. “I know they’re meant to be better but it feels so awkward to use.” She winked and then settled back in her chair.
Belatedly, he opened the bottle of wine and poured two glasses, though he knew he wouldn’t touch his. Not because he didn’t drink – he did, occasionally – but because he didn’t want even a hint of alcohol to cloud his memories of this evening.
“Thank you,” Melinda murmured without lifting her glass.
“So,” he leaned forward a bit, fighting an urge to reach his hand across the table and curve his hand over hers. “Tell me about him.”
“Him?” She looked over her shoulder. Jordan’s door remained ajar, just as she’d left it.
“The father.”
“Oh.” She dropped her gaze to the curries, and now she fingered the stem of her wine glass, running her fingers up and down its glass stem, unconsciously trying to extract strength from it. “Right.” She nodded. “Brent. Brent is his name.”
Ra’if was quiet. He had spent a lot of his youth being trained to rule a country and part of that had included the requisite lessons in diplomacy. He had been taught, and instinctively known, how important it was to remain silent when someone had the air of confession. Melinda wanted to speak to him, she just needed to find the words.
Sure enough, after a moment that throbbed with emotion, she sipped her wine then placed it carefully on the table. “We met when we were just kids. I loved him straight away.” She met Ra’if’s eyes. “I suppose you think that’s stupid? Love at first sight? I know it seems like a fairy tale. But I did love him.”
He shook his head. “I have seen this for myself,” he said gently, thinking of Olivia and his brother Samir.