Temptation in Istanbul, page 4
“My stash,” he said with a grin, blushing when she looked back at him, her hands holding two mugs.
“Stash?”
Face warming a little more, he murmured, “Yeah. I keep tea stocked always, here and in the main house.” And as she likely noticed, he stocked a variety, too. His tea preference changed with the weather, the seasons, even his moods. Not every occasion could be black tea—even if his parents preferred traditional black tea as most Somalis often did.
“Were you hiding it? Your stash, I mean,” she clarified. “Because I might have had more trouble if you hadn’t had everything labeled so very neatly.” She lifted the kettle, poured hot water into the two mugs and replaced the kettle on its stand before turning back and finishing with the mugs. “Do you prefer sugar?”
“No, I add honey. I’ll grab it,” he said, and helped her by fetching a tray and depositing a jar of clover honey on it. He placed the tray on the kitchen island and waited on her to finish with the tea and face him again. What he desired most right then was sitting down with her and finishing their conversation on the yacht. He wanted to know more about her. More about how she’d come into Zara’s life when she looked to be in her mid-to late twenties. Young enough to be living out her own life, not tying herself to big responsibilities.
“Seriously speaking, I’ve never appreciated a kitchen before, but yours is tidy and put-together and very unlike anything I have seen. I can’t imagine what the main house looks like.”
Maryan’s praise triggered a breezy laugh from him. “You’ll have to thank Lalam. She’s worked her magic here and almost everywhere else in my home.”
“Who?” She eyed him funnily, suspicion leaking into her voice.
And he had a guess as to why. She suspected he had a woman in his life. He didn’t know whether to be slightly irked by her unvoiced assumption. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t date and have a woman over for fun. Though that was all it would ever be. Fun. Nothing serious. Romance had never been a serious subject for him. Right then it was the last thing he’d think to do, especially now that Zara had arrived to live full-time with him.
“My housekeeper, three times a week. You’ll like Lalam. She speaks enough English, too, so you won’t need me to translate.”
The aromatic smell of herbal çay flooded the kitchen soon after. It lured him from around the kitchen island closer to her with the tray and jar of honey. There was something about her being in his space. The sight of Maryan making herself at home in his kitchen tempted him to disrupt her tea-making process.
She noted his nearness when she glanced up. Unable to hide her startle, she gazed wide-eyed at him for a handful of heart-stopping seconds before looking away shyly.
He read her shyness clear as day and as bright as the afternoon sun shining through the open blinds of the picture windows across the room. Normally he would’ve taken that as a sign to charm her. But he wasn’t flirting. He shouldn’t want to flirt with her, either. Maryan was leaving in fourteen days. She would no longer be Zara’s nanny when she boarded her flight home to California. And he wasn’t really planning to hire her, so...
I won’t sleep with her.
That would be cruel. To him, to her and probably to Zara most especially. If they did make love, that was all it would be. The intimacy never left his bedroom, not with anyone—not even Zara’s mother. They hadn’t married as Salma hadn’t wanted to, and he didn’t believe in love all too much. At least, love felt like it could happen for anyone but him.
As if pounding it into his head and tattooing it into his flushed skin and beating heart, he thought, no kissing and no sex.
Nothing remotely romantic with Maryan. He wouldn’t tease himself with a friendship, either. Though he hoped they could be amicable during her stay. He could pick her brain about Zara. After all, that was all he should be worrying about: whether his daughter would be happy in his care.
Even as he thought that, his mind wandered to Maryan. He studied her.
Aboard his yacht when they got to talking, she displayed a sharp, bright mind, a fierce protective instinct and a keen perception that had him standing taller before her. And not even a boardroom full of his most important stakeholders and external board directors could do that to him.
Maryan managed it in less than the few hours he’d been in her company.
It was a remarkable feat. One she’d never know about, as he would have to reveal the degree to which she affected him.
“It’s ready,” she said, setting the mugs on the tray.
He lifted it and walked them to the breakfast table across the kitchen and beside the large windows with their sublime views. His garage apartment was one of his favorite spots to relax. Later, he planned to show her his backyard and the treats it held. But now he’d enjoy this cup of tea made by her and ease them into another enlightening conversation.
Last time he had learned about her ex-boyfriend and her aunt and uncle’s restaurant. This time he wanted to hear more about her.
Her and Zara, he corrected.
Her phone pinged as he opened his mouth to speak.
Maryan mumbled, “Excuse me,” and checked her phone. She frowned prettily and tapped a button before setting her phone facedown on the glass table. “Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be,” he told her, and held out the honey jar after he’d stirred the clover honey into his minty herbal tea. Their fingertips touched when she accepted the jar from him.
He sipped his mug and hummed his approval. “Sage tea. Good choice.”
Her phone went off again. Chiming once, twice, three times. He lost count after that and remained quiet, observing her discreetly while imbibing his tea and savoring its honeyed earthy notes while wishing he had a slice of lemon on the side with it. By the umpteenth chime, though, his nosiness got the better of him.
“Your family?” he wondered.
“My friends,” she replied with an abashed frown. “I’m sorry. I posted the pictures from earlier.”
He pieced the rest together. “Of us, you mean.”
“One of all three of us, yes. You, me and Zara.” It wasn’t his faulty hearing; she emphasized Zara’s presence in the photo.
Smirking nevertheless, Faisal asked, “Did you tag me in it?”
“No. I didn’t want to send the vultures your way.” A beat passed, and then she sheepishly added, “They’re really nice, actually. Normally. Except when they scent drama.”
He laughed. Hard. Belly-heaving gusts of laughter. One, because she compared her friends to scavenging birds of prey. And two, because she looked adorably frazzled. It went at odds with the levelheaded persona she had when she confronted him about being late for the airport pickup.
“I’m glad you’re having a laugh at my expense,” she grumbled, though he caught a thread of humor belying her tone.
“Tag me. I can handle their questions.”
“No way,” she said quickly. She clutched her phone in both hands now like she worried that he’d take it from her and tag himself in the photo. Calming down, she lowered her hands and muttered, “Trust me. I’m saving you the grief of handling them.”
“You’re close, then.”
She nodded. “Friends from high school and college.”
“How much do they know about...?” He fanned a hand between them, the other clutching the handle of his mug.
“About me being here with Zara? Mostly everything...”
He chuckled when she shyly trailed off. Reading between the lines, he made an educated guess as to what she hadn’t elucidated for her friends. He could have left it there, but he felt devilish and—despite firmly being convinced he wasn’t flirting—he teased, “What don’t they know?”
She sipped her tea, commenting, “This is good.”
“I’m waiting,” he joked, seeing through her delay tactics. She wasn’t getting away with it.
Sighing, Maryan confessed quietly, “I haven’t told them about staying here.”
“At my place.” He nodded thoughtfully. “But up until a few hours ago, you were booked into a hotel.”
“True, but they’re asking for pictures of the hotel room.”
“Feel free to take photos of your guest room. Or any part of the house, for that matter.” He waved in the direction of the main house. He planned a tour of it as well when he showed her to her room, after they’d finished their tea and pulled Zara from the TV.
“That’s kind of you, but it doesn’t feel right lying to them. I’ll just ghost them for now.” She shut her phone off and placed it on the table again.
No sooner had she closed her phone did his vibrate. It hummed in his palm as he pulled it from his pocket and regarded the caller ID.
“It’s my mom.” He rose to his feet. “Do you mind if I take the call?”
She shook her head, excusing him to answer the incoming call from his mother.
He had a feeling he knew why she was calling, but it wasn’t until he answered and barely squeezed a “salaam” in before his mom pelted him with questions about Zara.
“Yes,” he said as he walked away from Maryan, casting a glance back when he added, “she arrived safely with her nanny.”
* * *
Faisal stepped into another room. Not the bedroom where Zara was watching her cartoons, the sound of the television spilling out into the hall. He walked into a room that looked like a study. Bright white bookshelves built into the walls and a wide, L-shaped mahogany desk formed the glimpse she saw before he closed the door for privacy to take his call from his mother.
She drank her tea, ruminating on the events that had brought her here. Anything to keep her from wondering what he had to be telling his mom.
A horrifying notion struck her then.
What if he tells her I’m staying here?
The mortifying thought stuck with her long enough for her tea and his to grow cold. Deciding to reheat their mugs, she walked them over to an expensive-looking microwave drawer. She figured out how to reheat and set a timer for a minute. Pacing alongside the island table, she found her eyes swiveling back to the door Faisal was behind, her mind racing over the embarrassing thought she’d had. The squalling beep of the microwave startled her.
And if that wasn’t enough, Faisal’s smooth, deep voice floating up from behind her added to her jumpiness.
Realizing he’d spooked her, he raised his hands up with palms facing out. “Sorry. I thought you heard me.” Then he noticed the spill on the countertop. Noted her clutching her hand. “You scalded yourself.”
“Nothing I can’t fix.” She clenched her teeth for a semblance of a smile and stuck her hand under cold running water briefly.
He fetched her a paper towel, but before that he took her hand, surprising her with his gentle touch and wrinkled brows emanating his worry. Faisal stroked his thumb lightly over the stinging, reddened skin on the back of her hand. Splotchy with angry color from where the hot tea had spilled onto her.
Maryan already hadn’t expected his touch.
She wasn’t even prepared for when he lowered his head and blew cool air over the heated surface of her sparking flesh. The shiver quaking through her was a force that shut down any rational thought and sharpened her primal senses. She stared at the top of his bowed dark head, his flawless deep brown skin and his slightly parted lips as he concentrated on the task of cooling her hand down.
She could probably let this go on longer.
She knew better, though, and stammered, “It’s f-fine. Really. The redness should fade.”
“And the pain? How’s that?”
She gave it a thought. It stung a bit, but no more than she believed it ought to. “I’m used to working in a restaurant. At worse it’s a little burn, at best a night’s worth of discomfort.”
“So, no first aid kit?”
Maryan gave him a headshake. “But an ice pack would be nice.”
“You mean my blowing didn’t help?”
She watched the teasing grin overtake his worried look; his handsomeness dialed up to high in the span of a heartbeat.
“It was nice...” She trailed off, and he picked up the ball she dropped.
“It’s not an ice pack, though.” Chuckling, he released her hand to open the freezer and pull out an ice pack. Wrapping it with the paper towel, he handed it to her.
“I’ll grab our tea. Go ahead and sit down.”
She heeded his instruction, her chest tight but not in an unpleasant or alarming way. Even if she wanted to argue, it would be hard to do it around the thickness closing off her throat, making breathing harder than it normally should be.
All because he touched me, blew on my hand, flirted with me?
He wasn’t flirting, though. He’d joked with her and been kind enough to help her ice the burn on her hand. Allowing her brain to spin the moment into a big yarn would be foolish.
Foolish and a waste of time.
She had two weeks starting today to settle Zara into her new life with her dad. What she should be doing was getting to know the man who would be taking over her role as caregiver, not weighing every gesture and every look as a gateway into a passionate fantasy starring him and her.
She had to leave her fantasizing at the door until this trip was over.
“It’s my fault the tea got cold. My fault you got injured.” He joined her at the table with their freshly reheated mugs.
“I was going to reheat mine anyway. It made sense to do the same for you.”
“Well, thank you,” he said, lifting his mug to his lips and pausing to blow over its surface before a sip.
The memory of his lips hovering over her hand and his cooling breath skating over her sent a fresh shiver through her.
“My mom says hello.”
“You told her about me.” She wished she didn’t sound so squeaky, but her nervousness was amplified at the thought of him telling his mother of their living arrangement.
Reading her mind, he replied, “I left out mention of your staying with me and Zara.”
Maryan had trouble masking her relief, because he laughed low and sexily.
“Worried?”
“A little,” she admitted blushingly. “I know how Somali parents can be.”
Faisal laughed louder this time. “Mine are no different. My mom’s especially keen for me to be married.”
“Aren’t most Somali hooyo like that?” It felt natural slipping into their native tongue with him. She’d done it on his flashy boat, and she was doing it now in his equally impressive home. Something about him lowered her normally sky-high thorny defenses.
“You mentioned your aunt and uncle. Your parents?”
“In Hamar—er... Mogadishu.” She was used to calling her Somali home city by its local moniker, Hamar.
He grinned wide. “I thought I heard an Hamari accent.”
“I must not have gotten rid of it.” She’d lived more than half her life in the States. Somalia should be well in her rearview by now. A fond thing she pulled from her memory vault when nostalgia swayed her in that direction, much as she would a childhood toy or book. It wasn’t like she ever planned to uproot her life to move back home. And yet it was home. Her family lived there. Her mother and father, and brothers and sisters. They made it impossible to fully label her childhood in Somalia as a thing of her past.
“Do you visit?” Faisal asked, taking a bigger gulp of his tea and prompting her to imbibe from her mug.
When her mouth was clear, she said, “I haven’t since I moved away. What about you?”
“My family doesn’t live in Istanbul. After retiring, my mom and dad left the city for a quieter life in a small town. My younger sister lives with them. I don’t get to visit often, but I do try to get away from work for big family occasions. Birthdays, my parents’ anniversary, the last days of Ramadan and both Eids.”
“Does Zara know her grandparents?” She’d lived with her father and mother in Istanbul for a few years. She must have gotten to know Faisal’s side of the family then.
“Oh, yeah. They love her. It’s why my mom called. She was pushing for me to bring her soon. We’ll likely go after you leave, though.”
Of course. That would make sense. It wasn’t like he could invite her to go with them. What would his family think?
“But that’s not a problem today. Right now what I’d like to know is what do you want to see most in Istanbul?”
What did she want to see in Istanbul?
A myriad of answers came to mind. The Asian side of Istanbul, the city’s many mosques, the gilded halls and salons and crystal staircases of Dolmabahçe Palace.
The famed Hagia Sophia.
“I’m still technically on the job,” she said, dampening the excitement his question unfurled in her.
Salma hadn’t stopped paying her. In fact, she’d offered an overly generous severance bonus to Maryan after she agreed to take Zara to her father. The financial incentive hadn’t been what motivated her. Being with Zara for a little longer was all the motive she needed to pause her life in California temporarily and hop on a transatlantic flight to Istanbul. But she also wasn’t unhappy to see the extra zeros on the bonus check. Especially after what had happened with her ex, Hassan.
Thinking of him annoyed her. Knowing that she’d wasted three and a half years on him boiled her blood. All of that didn’t compare to what he had done to her and her aunt and uncle at the end.
It was one thing to be angry at her, but her Aunt Nafisa and Uncle Abdi had done nothing to deserve being robbed. And by their sous-chef of all people.
The jerk.
She stewed in her chair and looked away from Faisal, afraid he’d see her anger and ask questions. She wouldn’t be able to handle any of them with grace. Talking about her thieving ex-boyfriend infuriated her. She’d told Faisal enough already about the subject. Saying any more would be assuming that he was interested in hearing her rant.
