The Sultan's Bed (2 page)

A
re all men jerks, or what?

Mariah Kennedy stepped out of her '92 Escort—sans air-conditioning—and into the ninety-degree California weather.

Gorgeous, brilliant, charming—ten million dollars to his name—and yet he refuses to pay child support for his three-year-old twins.

She slammed the car door shut.

Sweat beaded at the base of her tight blond bun and threatened to drop down the back of her faux Chanel suit as she stalked up the stone pathway to her ancient—though still very charming—duplex. The early summer wind whipped off the ocean's surface just a half a mile away, trying to cool her skin as well as her I'm-so-going-to-lose-this-case mood.

No. All men can't be jerks. Dad was a real stand-up guy. It must be all the gorgeous, overly successful and far too irresistible ones that earn that label.

Mariah reached the front door and, in her usual style, fumbled around in her purse for her keys while simultaneously bending down to snatch up the newspaper she never had time to read until she returned home from work at five.

Normally she accomplished both tasks without a problem.

But today was all about problems.

The headline, Sun Exposure Blamed For Weight Gain, screamed up at her, and she hesitated a second too long in picking it up.

Something rustled behind her. Without a thought she straightened and whirled around—all at the same time.

Not a good combo.

In that same inept, awkward and very humiliating style that had plagued her all morning in the judge's chambers, she ran smack-dab into a heavily muscled chest.

A strange cross between a hiccup and a gasp erupted from her throat, and she dropped her purse. The contents spilled out all over the walkway, except for a red pen and an extra pair of nylons, which sailed west into the hydrangea bushes.

“Dammit!” Mariah dropped to her knees.

In seconds the man was beside her.

“Don't worry about it,” she said, shoving lipstick and iron pills into her purse as quickly as she could. “I've got everything under control here.”

“All signs would point to the contrary.”

Mariah stopped her manic sidewalk cleanup for a moment. In the seconds before, when she'd been off balance, smashing headfirst into strangers and letting her purse travel south, she'd barely glimpsed the man beside her.

Dark…tall—that's about it.

She glanced up.

Heat, and not from the sun this time, oozed into her bones. Never in her life had she seen the cover of
GQ
magazine live and in person. Yet here he was. Dark, soulful eyes that assessed her; short, well-groomed black hair; sharp, angular features that screamed exquisite breeding; and a full mouth that she was sure had driven far too many sane females mad with desire.

He was the kind of man who could easily utter in your ear as he was nibbling on your neck, “I'm female poison. Beware.”

She forced her pulse to slow, but it did little good as the man sat back on his haunches and gave her an amused look.

He was probably midthirties, she guessed, and ridiculously handsome. He had that look of supreme confidence in his manner and expression, the kind that usually made such a stellar impression in court—both on the men and the women. Though this man was not dressed in lawyerly garb. No suit and tie. No, he wore a simple black T-shirt under an exquisitely tailored white shirt. Of course, on that lean, hard body they looked anything but simple.

Mariah hated herself for feeling weak-kneed and ultra feminine. And she wanted to laugh. This impossi
bly beautiful man was no doubt the new tenant Mrs. Gill had told her about yesterday.

The tenant Mrs. Gill had referred to as “a sweet young man.”

The “sweet, young man” raised an eyebrow at her. “I did not mean to insult you. It is just that you seem quite out of sorts.”

A husky baritone accompanied by a sexy accent.
She mentally rolled her eyes.
Perfect.
“I'm not out of sorts at all.”

He picked up her ratty copy of
Women Who Love Men Are Morons,
glanced at it for a moment, then held it out to her. “If I could offer a suggestion…”

She snatched up the book. “What? That maybe next time I should look where I'm going?”

“There is this, yes.” He stood, offered her a hand. “Slowing one's pace is also good.”

She took his hand, let him pull her to her feet. “I've never been any good at slow.”

He didn't acknowledge her comment but continued with his advice. “And I also find that apologizing for situations you have caused is a very admirable trait.”

At that she gave him a half smile. Maybe she was wrong about all gorgeous, smart and charming men being jerks. “It
is
admirable, and I appreciate the apology. You did scare the heck out of—”

“No. I was speaking of you.”

Maybe not.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“It was you who ran into me, was it not?”

“Yes, but it was an accident.”

“I do not believe in accidents. But even so, an apology is in order.”

Everything in her lawyerly bones urged her to argue the subject, but after a day like today—when every question, every word had been challenged—she just wasn't up for it.

Yet she wasn't in the mood to apologize, either.

So she went halfsies.

“I feel deep regret for plowing into you.” She brightened. “How's that?”

He didn't look appeased. “I suppose it will have to do, Miss…” His dark gaze traveled over her.

“Mariah Kennedy,” she said, through a severe case of the belly flips.

“I am Zayad Fandal. I live beside you.”

Of course he did. Her guess had been right on target. After all, it was her destiny to live beside, work beside, be divorced from and argue against tall, dark and irritatingly gorgeous men.

Remember…look but don't touch, M.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fandal. Welcome to the neighborhood. And again, deep regret about the head in the chest thing.” She turned to her door and shoved the key in the lock.

“Wait a moment, Miss Kennedy.”

She glanced over her shoulder just in time to catch him checking out her backside. “Yes?”

“I wonder if I might ask you something?”

She mentally shook her head.
Not interested, playboy. But thanks.
After the hellish divorce that had claimed her life for nearly four years, then seeing the daily nightmares that her female clients went through
with guys just like this one, she had sworn to only date men under five-seven with unhypnotic eyes and thin lips. Men who neither dazzled her brain nor her body.

Stupid idea? Yes, probably. But safe. Very, very safe. And she was all about safety now.

“What is it, Mr. Fandal?” she asked with a patient smile.

“I wish to know if your roommate, Jane Hefner, is at home.”

What a loser!

Waves of embarrassment moved over Mariah as she took in the tender look in this guy's eyes. Here she was thinking Mr. Next Door was coming on to her when he was clearly interested in Jane. And who could blame him? Her beautiful, raven-haired roommate had men drooling night and day. Mariah's dirty-blond hair and short, curvy figure were no match for Jane's slender, long legs and bright green eyes. No doubt Zayad had met Jane this morning—without the sweat, the acerbic lawyerspeak and the head-on collision—and wanted to ask her out.

What a total idiot.

“Jane's working right now, but she'll be back later.”

“Thank you.” He grinned. “Goodbye, Miss Kennedy.”

He inclined his head, then walked past her down the steps before disappearing into a shiny black SUV. Her hand on the doorknob, Mariah stared after him thinking about how great he looked, both from the front and from the back.

Mariah released a weighty breath. More than anything in the world she'd love to delve into a nice sum
mer romance. She had been pretty lonely lately. No dates, even with the under-five-seven crowd. A summer fling with Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome could be fun. But fantasies needed to remain just that. Men like that one cheated and lied and jumped ship when the going got rough.

For a moment Mariah just stood there mulling over her thoughts, her beliefs and theories. It wasn't a pretty picture. If truth be told, she hated how bitter she'd become. Sure, it had made her a better lawyer, but what had it done to her as a woman?

She couldn't help but remember a time, long ago and oh-so far away, when she'd lived in an eternal springtime. Love had bitten her and sent her reeling. Like some Disney cartoon. But a man had stripped her raw of that feeling and taken her trust and hope along with it.

Her faux leather briefcase felt like a bag of rocks as she headed into the house to her beloved Little Debbie snack cakes and later a long, hot bath.

 

The sultan had taken a risk in coming to America with only a handful of security. But he refused to be under guard. He had brought just three men, and all were under strict orders to protect only when commanded.

With a quick glance in the rearview mirror at the beautiful and highly spirited woman who lived next door, Zayad pulled away from the curb and headed down the street. Behind him another car also moved from the curb. Zayad had an almost irresistible urge to floor the black Escalade and give his men something
to chase, but as always, he would resist impulses and desires that did not serve his country's purposes.

His cell phone rang. He took his time in answering.

“Yes, Harin?”

“Where are you going, sir?”

“To the beach.” His body was tight. He needed exercise, something to calm his nerves. His sword lay in the backseat, ready for work.

“If I may suggest Dove Cove, sir. It is deserted at this time. You will not be disturbed.”

“Very good, but I will go alone.”

“Sir—”

“Take the next exit and return home. I will let you know when I have need of you again.” Zayad snapped the phone shut. He was only going to the beach. Surely he could protect himself if the need arose. He was, after all, a master swordsman. A man who had studied under the great warrior, Ohanda. All knew that at the age of twelve the young sultan had been able to hear a predator—animal or otherwise—ten feet away and easily take him down.

But as an adult Zayad also understood that in certain situations it was wise to have protection. His people must have him back safe and sound. As must his son, who was young yet, just thirteen, and not ready to take his father's place as ruler if something were to happen.

The thought of his son sent Zayad's mind racing toward another child. A female. One who could be his father's daughter. A young girl who might never have known she was of royal blood. A girl who might never have known she had two brothers who would give much to know her.

Zayad glanced to the seat beside him and flipped open a file folder. A photograph stared up at him. A beautiful young woman with the late sultan's cheekbones and Sakir's green eyes. Zayad did not need a DNA test. This woman felt like family even in her photograph. But he knew it would be necessary for others. So, while his doctor performed the test, he would get to know her. Tonight.

A child's excitement moved through him. He had been born to rule. To remain impassive. He had been taught to live well, think great thoughts and be lenient when the time arose and severe when it was demanded. And like his brother, Sakir, understand that wishes and dreams were for others and death came too quickly with little mercy. But then there was the rare occasion, like the birth of his son, when the purest of joy had threatened to overtake him. Meeting his sister for the first time certainly would be one of those moments. He would allow himself the pang of excitement.

Zayad swung left at the farm stand and headed toward Dove Cove. He would only take a few hours of exercise on the warm sand, as he needed to return to the duplex. He had much to accomplish, including keeping his true mission a secret to those around him. His council, like the men he had brought with him—save Fandal—believed his purpose here to be one of rest and relaxation. Of course, they did not question his living quarters or his interest in his neighbor. They dared not. And Zayad expected that they would remain devoted servants for his two-week stay.

Ah, yes, he thought. Two weeks with no questions, no interruptions and no diversions.

A pretty blond attorney with a voluptuous body and angry eyes the color of the hot Emand sand at sunset flashed into his mind. His sister's roommate was tough and spirited, and if he had more time, he might consider pursuing an affair with her.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

His father had once said, “A man is not a man without restraint. Especially in matters of the state.”

Sea air blew in through his window, but Zayad did not calm in its caress. The irony was too plain. His father, the great sultan, had overlooked his own counsel when coming to America.

Should he expect any less from his son?

J
ane Hefner was to food what Manolo Blahnik was to shoes.

Perfection.

Mariah took another bite of the sublimely delicious, strangely refreshing basil ice cream and sighed. “Tell me again why you have to leave?”

Jane folded a pale yellow shirt with faultless precision and gently placed it between two pieces of parchment in her suitcase. “The restaurant wants publicity, so it's me to the rescue. And teaching some pampered movie star how to make veal piccata and garlic mashed potatoes for her next film might sound like a chore to some people, but to me it's—”

“A dream come true?”

Jane laughed. “Hey, it's Cameron Reynolds.”

“Right.” Mariah sat on the bed, folded a pair of jeans for Jane. “You understand that you're forcing me to eat a week's worth of frozen dinners?”

Jane eased the jeans from Mariah and refolded them. “Dry fish sticks, watery mashed potatoes, mushy pea-and-carrot medley and fig compote?” She shrugged. “I don't see the problem.”

“You may be a genius in the kitchen, but you have absolutely no compassion on my poor stomach.”

“I know. But I'll be back before you know it.”

Mariah paused, realized how pathetic she sounded with all the Miss Lonely Hearts prattle. Seemed she relied on her friend too much. After her divorce from Alan, she'd clung to Jane as a sister, as a friend—the way she had when they were kids, when her parents had died and her feeble grandmother had given her a home but little else.

Mariah fell back on the bed. “Can I just say that your boss is pretty ballsy for making you go on such short notice?”

“It's cash, M.”

Jane's sudden serious tone and slight grimace made Mariah pause, ease up on the semiphony guilt trip. She knew Jane was saving up to open her own restaurant. It was her dream. And as her friend, Mariah wasn't about to be anything but all-the-way supportive. “All right, but if your boss doesn't compensate you big time for this, you know I can always sue him. Or, hey, I have a friend down at the board of health and he's really into closing down Italian restaurants.” Mariah leaned on her elbows. “I think his brother was taken out by the mob or something.”

Jane laughed, shut her suitcase. “Thanks, M. I'll think about it.”

“No you won't. You're too damn nice to think about it.”

She grinned. “So, I hear our new neighbor's moved in. Have you met him yet?”

Mariah rolled her eyes. “Have I met him? You could say that.”

“What happened?”

“Let's just say I was in rare form—there were bruises and razor-sharp banter on the menu.”

Jane laughed, sat down beside her. “Is he good-looking, or a toad like the last one?”

“Why are you asking me all this? You've met him, too.”

“No, I haven't.”

“Sure you have.”

Jane shook her head.

Mariah blinked at her. “Maybe you said hi in passing or something, because he knows you.”

“He knows me? What are you talking about?”

“He asked about you when he bumped into me—well, when I bumped into him. He wanted to know when you'd be home. It was like you'd met and talked and he was more than ready to ask you out.”

Jane sniffed. “That's bizarre. Maybe Mrs. Gill told him about us, and after he met you he wanted to meet me…some neighborly, friendly kind of thing?”

“I dunno.” Mariah shrugged. “But whatever his story is, be careful. He's trouble.”

“Why?” Jane slid her feet into a pair of pink flip-flops that were placed neatly by the foot of the bed. “Because he's tall, dark and handsome?”

“For a start.”

All humor dropped away from Jane's pretty face. She put a hand on Mariah's shoulder and took a breath. “Listen, M, someday you're going to have to see the world and every man in it with fresh eyes.”

Mariah bristled, looked away. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Yeah, all right, I do. But that day's not today.”

“Okay.” Jane gave her a huge hug and said, “I'll call you,” then stood, grabbed her suitcase and left the room.

After she had gone, Mariah headed into the kitchen to make herself one of the aforementioned TV dinners and contemplate her next move in the custody case she was working on. Her client's ex was smart and had hidden his affairs well. It was going to take some serious digging to find anything she could use.

When the breaded fish and compote were ready, she went outside and sat at the pretty picnic bench Jane had set up on the brick patio. The backyard looked lovely bathed in the night's light. Moon, stars, a few clouds…and soggy carrot-and-pea medley.

Ah, did it get any better than this?

“May I join you?”

Mariah gave a tiny jump, then glanced over her shoulder. Her new neighbor was walking through his patio doors toward her. He looked unbelievably handsome in the moonlight, with that dark-eyes-dark-hair-dark-tailored-clothes thing happening. He was also clean shaven, and it made all the sharp angles in his face look harder and sexier.

Her heart kicked to life in her chest, but she held fast
to a calm exterior. “I have some square fish and a few peas left, if you're interested.”

His mouth curved into a smile as he sat opposite her at the picnic table. “I am not very hungry, but thank you.”

“Just checking out the backyard? Or were you looking for someone?”

“Perhaps a little of both.”

“Jane's not here.”

His gaze went thoughtful. “I did not say I was looking for Jane.”

“You didn't have to.” Her tone sounded dry and acerbic, but he didn't seem to notice.

He said, “Perhaps I was looking for you.”

Her heart literally fluttered. Foolish, foolish girl. “And why would that be?”

“Perhaps I wish to know more about this—” he studied her with a lazy, hooded gaze “—fiery woman who lives beside me.”

Fiery!
She nearly blushed.

Nearly.

“Well, there's not much to tell,” she said, running her fork back and forth through the fig compote.

“I doubt that.”

Lord, he had extraordinary eyes—so black, but flecked with gold. A woman could get lost in those eyes if she wasn't careful. Good thing Mariah was careful.

“Listen,” she said with more regret in her tone than she would have liked. “I've got a ton of work to get to, so I'll say good—”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I'm a lawyer.”

His brow lifted a fraction.

“I help women who've been treated badly in their marriages get what they deserve.”

“Interesting. And what do they deserve?”

“It depends. But first and foremost, respect. If they've given up their careers to take care of the home, I help them gain financial stability. If they've been cheated on during their marriage, their self-esteem robbed from them, I help them find a new life. Which is just like the case I'm working on now—”

Mariah came to a screeching halt. What was she doing? This man was no friend, no confidant, and here she was about to tell him the ins and outs of her case.

“What were you about to say, Miss Kennedy?”

She stood and grabbed the remains of her dinner. “Nothing, just that I'm working on a case and I'd better get inside and get to it.”

She started to walk away, but he stopped her. “Miss Kennedy?”

She turned. “Yes?”

“You do not like men, do you?”

Walls shot up around her like steel plates. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “You make them sound like the enemy.”

She lifted her chin. “In court, they are.” And in life, her life, she thought, they weren't terribly far from that. She gave him a little wave. “Good night, Mr. Fandal,” she said and headed into the house, where she could think and breathe again.

Moments later she had rid herself of “dinner” and
was walking into the bathroom. What she needed was a long, hot bath, to get that man's questions, comments and deliciously probing gaze out of her mind.

Hate men! What a notion.

Sure, she didn't trust men, she thought as she turned on the hot-water tap and let the tub fill up. There was a big difference.

Peeling off her clothes, she spotted her reflection in the mirror and took a moment to look herself over. The view surprised her a little. Under those bargain power suits of hers lay a pretty nice figure.

Her hands found their way to her flat stomach, up her rib cage to her large breasts. Her skin was pale and so sensitive, and as she ran her fingers over her nipples, she wanted to cry. She hadn't been touched in four years, and even then it had been seldom, as Alan had been far too busy making his mistress happy to help his wife find some pleasure.

She bit her lip. The truth was, she didn't hate men at all. In fact, if the right one came along, she was ready to go crazy with desire. But the fear in her heart was stronger than her need, and she couldn't imagine that changing anytime soon.

She turned away from the mirror and stepped into the hot bath.

 

Zayad cursed and pitched the bag of microwave popcorn across the room. The corn was black as night and had thoroughly stunk up the two-bedroom duplex he would be calling home for the next two weeks.

“I could hire a staff, Your Royal Highness.”

Zayad turned, his back to the kitchen counter, and
eyed his aide and the closest thing he had to a friend—the man from whom he had borrowed his last name. “No, Fandal. I have told you there can be no show of wealth and consequence. And do not call me ‘Your Highness.'”

“Yes, Your—” Fandal lifted his chin. “Yes, sir.”

Zayad turned around, opened the cupboards, found nothing as simple as the popcorn was purported to be and moved on to the refrigerator. “I was hoping to bring something with me when I meet with my sister this evening. An offering, a meal. But alas, I am without.”

“Flowers are usually well received, sir.”

“I am to meet my sister, Fandal, not court the lovely Miss Kennedy.”

“Of course, sir.” With a quick bow of understanding, Fandal went to the bag of ruined popcorn and began to clean up the mess.

Court the lovely Miss Kennedy? Zayad sniffed. His mouth was without restraint. Perhaps because he could not get the woman out of his head after their little discussion in the yard. It was most irritating. She had looked so soft, so appealing, as she verbally annihilated her client's ex-husband.

“May I say that the golden-haired woman seems unlike the women in our country,” Fandal remarked with just a hint of warning in his tone.

“She is at that.” Blond, fair, a lioness with claws outstretched. But something warned him that once tamed, once her anger was released and desire ruled her body, Mariah Kennedy would not let go those claws. “Not that I would pursue it, but I imagine an affair
would not be casual with her. I fear that most American women want far more than a lover.”

“Is it not true for all women, sir?”

“Not the women of my acquaintance.”

“There was one.”

The words had slipped from Fandal's lips far too easily. Zayad stopped short, his blood thundering in his ears at the memory of the woman who had left his company and that of her son with little regret. Turning around, he stood over a sheepish Fandal. “As you know, Meyaan did not want a true marriage. She did not want to share my life—or her son's, for that matter. She wanted to benefit from my power and the comfort allowed by the riches of a sultan.” His chin lifted, though his ire sank deeper into his belly. “And she received both. But in the end I was the victor. I received the far more precious gift.”

His face still ashen from his foolish remark, Fandal had the good sense to turn the subject to Zayad's child. “And how is His Highness?”

“Redet is well, happy at school.” Getting far too mature at thirteen. Zayad missed his little boy.

Just then a loud thud reverberated off the walls. Zayad and Fandal ceased talking. Glancing around, they listened for a clue to its origin. When none came, Zayad uttered, “What the hell was that?”

Fandal shook his head. “I know not.”

A woman's cry came next.

“Stay here,” Zayad commanded. “I will go.”

“Your Royal Highness, it could be dangerous.”

“It is from next door. It could be my sister.”

“I will go with you.”

But Zayad was already at the door. “Do not leave this
house, Fandal, or you will find yourself swimming back to Emand. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And say nothing to the others.” Zayad was out of his house and at Jane and Mariah's door within seconds. He knocked swiftly, but there was no response. He gripped the door handle, but it was locked.

His chest constricted and he did not think, only reacted. He stepped back and lunged at the door with all of his strength. The lock pitched but remained intact. He tried again. Then again. Finally the lock collapsed and he was inside.