Page 16 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

Heather stepped into the back of the kitchen and stopped dead in her tracks.

The tray of scones Princess Nahla had baked still sat untouched—well, mostly untouched—on the counter.

That wasn’t unusual. The scones looked like miniature cement discs with powdered sugar on top.

What was unusual was the faint pink smudge on the floor.

She blinked. Then stepped closer.

Flour had been swept up…badly. There were still streaks across the tile like someone had half-heartedly pushed a mop through it during a fire drill. But it was the reddish-brown splotches that gave her pause.

That wasn’t raspberry sauce. She’d just served the last of that to the royal pain and the pretty photographer twenty minutes ago. And—was that…?

No.

Oh, hell no.

Bending slightly, Heather squinted at the small, pale object glinting beside the trash bin.

“A tooth ?” she whispered.

Straightening with a shudder, she took three generous steps back, nearly tripping over a stool. “Oh, absolutely not ,” she muttered, grabbing the wall phone with the same urgency she reserved for exploding soufflés.

This was not part of her culinary dream. She had survived three Gordon Ramsay impersonators, opened two Michelin-recognized restaurants, and once reattached a server’s pants with cooking twine and a prayer—but this ?

This was new.

Five minutes later, her kitchen staff was re-assembled. She surveyed them with hands on hips and that familiar mother-of-the-kitchen look that meant she was moments away from issuing clipboard-related consequences.

“Okay,” she said calmly. “Let’s keep this simple. Who lost a tooth yesterday?”

Dead silence. Everyone looked around, waiting for someone to ‘fess up about a missing tooth.

Nothing. No one raised their hand.

Impatiently, she straightened and looked at her staff. “You heard me. Tooth. Out.” She flicked her cheek. “Missing from your face. Possibly fell on the floor.” She gestured to the offensive tooth as if it were a crime scene.

More silence. A few more side glances. One shrug.

Heather pursed her lips. “Look, I’m not mad. Accidents happen. I just need to know how your tooth ended up in the middle of my almost-clean kitchen.”

Still nothing.

Okay, this wasn’t good. She had a gut feeling this wasn’t a case of aggressive chewing. Something was wrong. And Heather trusted her instincts more than she trusted half her pastry staff with piping bags.

“Thank you everyone.” As the staff dispersed, she snatched the phone again and called security.

Which is how Tom entered her kitchen ten minutes later.

Big. Broad. Blue-eyed. With a face like a carved mountain and a voice that sounded like it had been aged in whiskey and sharpened with gravel.

He walked in, scanned the room with all the calm menace of a lion at a buffet, and locked eyes with her.

Heather blinked up at him.

Okay. Fine. Maybe her ovaries hiccuped.

Just once.

“What’s going on?” he asked, stepping closer.

Did he growl that, or was she imagining it?

“I found blood on the floor,” she said, forcing her voice to stay crisp and professional. “And a tooth. Like, an actual molar. Not part of a meal. Just… there.”

Tom’s eyes moved to the spot she pointed at. “No one claimed it?”

“Shockingly, no,” she replied dryly. “Apparently it’s totally normal to drop a body part in my kitchen and not leave a note.”

He huffed, which she suspected was his version of a chuckle. “Could be nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve seen this kind of thing before?”

He nodded. “Last time, it was an overzealous bodyguard with a popcorn kernel stuck between his molars.”

Heather sighed, rubbing her temples. “I just want my kitchen free of… dental evidence. And murder. That’s all I ask.”

Tom stepped even closer. “We’ll look into it. Anything else suspicious?”

Heather opened her mouth to say no… but paused. That feeling again. That gut whisper that something wasn’t quite right.

“Maybe. This might be nothing but it left me with a weird vibe. Some scones were... missing.”

He lifted one brow. He looked around, almost as if he were trying to figure out why that was significant. It was a kitchen, after all. “Is that code for something?”

She shrugged. “Yes. Sort of.”

Heather hesitated. She didn’t want to betray Nahla, but something about this felt…

bigger. “The scones were baked by someone—who shall remain nameless—but they were completely inedible. Rock-hard. Like hockey pucks, but with powdered sugar.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice.

“I think that’s how someone lost their tooth. ”

Tom’s brow rose.

“They really were that bad,” she added seriously.

Tom studied her, that sharp, assessing look in his blue eyes making her feel like he saw everything—down to her borrowed apron and messy ponytail. Then he nodded. “Understood.”

Heather crossed her arms, trying not to squirm under his focused gaze. Was it getting warmer in here?

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Um…” she faltered, getting momentarily distracted by the sheer intensity of his stare. “Yes. Blood.”

That got his attention.

“Blood?” he repeated, already scanning the area.

“And the tooth,” she added quickly. She gestured toward the small baking area off to the left. “We rarely use that corner, but yesterday, Princess Nahla wanted to learn how to bake. I set her up there so we wouldn’t be in the way of the main kitchen staff.”

Heather led him across the space and held out a hand to stop him just before the light dusting of flour. “There—see that? Footprints. Not ours.”

Tom’s eyes dropped to the floor, instantly taking in the irregular tread pattern and scattered splotches.

“We wear slip-resistant soles in the kitchen,” she explained. “These prints aren’t the right kind. And over there?” She pointed at the dark dots on the tile. “That’s not raspberry sauce. I think that’s blood.”

He bent closer, squinting at the dried smudges and the small, unmistakable shape on the ground. “You’re sure that’s a tooth?”

“Either that or someone’s baking with jawbreaker candy,” she said dryly. “Which, to be clear, I don’t allow.”

Tom didn’t smile, but his mouth twitched at the corners.

“When did you first notice all this?” he asked, still scanning the area.

“Just a bit ago.”

“Why wait to call me?”

“I thought one of my staff had taken a bite out of the scones and tried to cover it up,” she said with a shrug. “But I lined them up, counted their teeth, and…” She held up both hands. “All smiles were intact.”

That earned her a low chuckle, deep and unexpected. It rippled through her stomach like a sensuous cream sauce over chicken!

He stood and faced her again, and wow—he was even taller when not crouched beside a bloody flour patch.

“I’ll have someone secure this area,” he said. “No one’s to touch anything until we finish our sweep.”

Heather nodded. “Understood.”

Tom turned to leave, then hesitated. He looked back at her, one hand resting on his hip, and for a moment, the professional mask slipped just enough to reveal a grin that could short-circuit a stand mixer.

“I think you’re beautiful,” he said simply. “Would you want to grab a coffee sometime?”

Heather blinked.

And then she smiled so hard, her cheeks ached. “Yes. Absolutely. I’d love that.”

His grin deepened. “Great.”

With that, he turned and left the kitchen, all calm efficiency and broad shoulders.

Heather watched him go, unabashedly admiring the view. “Nice,” she murmured, then turned on her heel, her steps practically bouncing.

Coffee and scones, she thought—but then glanced at the tray of Nahla’s lethal scones still sitting on the counter.

Nope. No scones.

Shortbread. Buttery, sweet, safe-for-dental-health shortbread. Much better seduction strategy.