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He knew the city the way he knew London and Paris and Istanbul, knew its hotels, its restaurants, its business centers.
And, though he wasn’t given to musing about romance, if pressed, he’d have said those cities were probably romantic.
Paris had a unique beauty and charm. Istanbul had a mystery that came of the blended cultures
of east and west. London had crooked streets layered in history.
But New York? Frenetic. Impatient. Crowded. Rude. Boisterous.
And yet magnificent.
Those were the words that described his adopted home.
But romantic? No. That was what he would have said, had anyone asked. Had he even thought about such things. Which he didn’t, because, after all, what did he know of romance? What place did it have in his life?
Not a thing—until ten days ago.
Rachel had changed his life.
He had lived in New York for a decade. And yet he knew he’d never really seen it before.
Central Park was no longer just a place for an early-morning run. It was, instead, a stretch of green as beautiful as the forested slopes that rose above his desert home. The cobbled streets of SoHo and Greenwich Village weren’t places to avoid because of the traffic; they were as delightful to stroll as Montmartre.
Hand in hand, they explored the city together. They discovered quite cafés, pretty little parks, places where a man and woman could be alone despite the crowds all around them.
He managed a small miracle, too, when he finally convinced his bride-to-be that there was nothing wrong in letting him take her into half a dozen elegant boutiques and buying her soft, summery dresses, delicate lingerie and pairs of shoes that made her ooh and ahh with delight.
Heels? Yes.
“But no stilettos,” she said, with a mock shudder.
That was when he learned she hadn’t been a dancer, that she’d been a waitress, that she’d hated the shoes and the spangles and the thong, and her expression had turned so grave that right there, at the crowded intersection of Spring and Mercer, he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her.
In all the ways that mattered, the city was almost as new to Karim as it was to Rachel.
Even the restaurants he took her to were places he’d never seen before … except he had. He’d taken clients to the Four Seasons, to Daniel, to La Grenouille, but they were different places when he went to them with the woman he loved.
The woman he loved, he thought as he and Rachel sat at an intimate table for two in the River Café, the lights of Manhattan reflected in the dark, deep waters of the East River visible through the wall of windows beside them.
Karim’s mouth curved in a very private smile.
He loved Rachel. And she loved him. He was still trying to get used to the idea.
There was so much to get his head around—starting with coming awake each morning with her in his arms and ending with falling asleep that same way each night.
He’d gone to his office only twice. Even he found that unbelievable. He knew his staff damned well did.
He’d had good intentions the first time he’d gone to work, but he’d left before hardly anyone had known he was there. He’d thought about phoning John for his car, thought of flagging a taxi, but the streets had been clogged with vehicles, as always, and the fastest way home was to jog.
