Page 36 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

“Heather?” someone called out.

Heather didn’t bother to hide her irritation. She was in the middle of broiling red peppers for a romesco sauce, and if there was one thing that required her full attention, it was ensuring those skins blistered just right .

“What’s up?” she asked, eyes fixed on the broiler. She gave the pan a deft flip, angling it so every pepper skin faced the heat evenly.

She bent closer, squinting slightly as the peppers began to blacken and bubble.

With a satisfied smile, she nodded. “Perfect,” she whispered, yanking the tray from the oven.

In one practiced move, she dumped the charred peppers into an ice water bath.

The skins peeled away in ribbons, revealing the glistening red flesh underneath.

Only then did she glance up at the young chef in a white coat lingering nearby.

“Well?” she prompted, still fishing hot peppers from the icy water.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you,” the man said, fiddling with the hem of his tunic, “but you know that closet right outside the kitchen?”

Heather blinked, tossing another pepper into the food processor. “Yeah. Sheik Mikail was using it to store books. What about it?”

“I went in there to find cleaning solution for the back hallway since the books are gone now and…” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “I think there’s dried blood on the floor.”

That made her pause.

Slowly, she turned to look at him. “Blood?”

He shrugged sheepishly. “Could be wrong, but I worked in a morgue during culinary school to earn extra money.” He made a face, understanding the irony. “Anway, I’ve seen dried blood, and this looked exactly like it. And no one in the kitchen has reported an injury.”

Heather stilled. The food processor sat silently beside her, ready for the next step, but her brain was now spinning in a different direction—specifically, toward one very large, very delicious security chief with a growly voice and sexy forearms.

“Thanks,” she said briskly, turning to the food processor and tossing in the garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, and a pinch of paprika. “I’ll contact security. Good catch.”

The young chef’s face lit up. “Thanks, Chef!” he called as he retreated back into the fray of kitchen prep.

An hour later, Heather strode into the palace security wing. Her chef whites were clean and buttoned over a simple tee, and her hair was twisted up into a no-nonsense bun. But in her hands, she carried a peace offering—a plate piled high with freshly baked lemon cookies.

Her eyes immediately landed on him —Tom, the very security chief who’d been haunting her daydreams all week.

He stood at a bank of monitors, speaking with a tech guy wearing thick-rimmed glasses. Heather didn’t understand the scrolling data on the screens, but Tom? He looked good enough to eat.

As if sensing her thoughts, Tom turned. When he spotted her, his face lit up. “Heather!”

She smiled back, instantly at ease.

“What brings you to this side of the fortress?” he asked, walking toward her—his smile widening the moment he saw the cookies.

Several guards turned, their noses literally twitching.

Tom growled under his breath, “Back off. She made them for me !”

The men groaned like disappointed kids and shuffled away.

Heather chuckled, holding out the plate. “Okay, yes, I come bearing gifts,” she admitted. “But I also have something important to tell you.”

Tom snagged a cookie from beneath the wax paper and took a bite. “Damn, these are ridiculous,” he mumbled through the mouthful. “How are they this good?”

Heather leaned closer. “One of my staff found something odd today.”

The word odd got everyone’s attention again. Tom raised a brow, instantly alert.

She explained about the closet, the books, the blood.

“Dried blood?” he repeated, now fully serious. He turned back toward the monitors and called out something in rapid Arabic.

The other guards closed in again, peppering her with questions. She answered calmly, giving precise details about the storage space, the timing, and the staffer’s morgue background.

If several cookies mysteriously vanished during the discussion, she pretended not to notice.

Tom, however, did not.

He slapped a protective hand over the remaining cookies. “Damned vultures,” he muttered.

Heather smiled all the way back to the kitchen. She didn’t know what was more satisfying—watching his face light up at her cookies, or the way he always seemed just a little flustered whenever she showed up.