He Had Only Two Days Left With Her.

Zayad’s gut clenched. He was a fool, but he did not want her to know who he was. For the first time in his life, someone was not aware of his role, his fortune, his title. Mariah cared for him as a man, not a prince. And for that, he would always be in her debt. Starting with her court case.

“Dinnertime.”

He turned, and his body went rock hard, fast. There she stood, moonlight at her back, draped in a thin white cotton tank and little white cotton shorts. She looked ready for bed, not for dinner.

But then again, he mused as he walked to her, he could always be persuaded to eat dessert first.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for choosing Silhouette Desire, where this month we have six fabulous novels for you to enjoy. We start things off with Estate Affair by Sara Orwig, the latest installment of the continuing DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS series. In this upstairs/downstairs-themed story, the Ashtons’ maid falls for an Ashton son and all sorts of scandal follows. And in Maureen Child’s Whatever Reilly Wants…, the second title in the THREE-WAY WAGER series, a sexy marine gets an unexpected surprise when he falls for his suddenly transformed gal pal.

Susan Crosby concludes her BEHIND CLOSED DOORS series with Secrets of Paternity. The secret baby in this book just happens to be eighteen years old…. Hmm, there’s quite the story behind that revelation. The wonderful Emilie Rose presents Scandalous Passion, a sultry tale of a woman desperate to get back some steamy photos from her past lover. Of course, he has a price for returning those pictures, but it’s not money he’s after. The Sultan’s Bed, by Laura Wright, continues the tales of her sheikh heroes with an enigmatic male who is searching for his missing sister and finds a startling attraction to her lovely neighbor. And finally, what was supposed to be just an elevator ride turns into a very passionate encounter, in Blame It on the Blackout by Heidi Betts.

Sit back and enjoy all of the smart, sensual stories Silhouette Desire has to offer.

Happy reading,

Melissa Jeglinski

Senior Editor

Silhouette Desire

The Sultan’s Bed
Laura Wright

LAURA WRIGHT

has spent most of her life immersed in the world of acting, singing and competitive ballroom dancing. But when she started writing romance, she knew she’d found the true desire of her heart! Although born and raised in Minneapolis, Laura has also lived in New York City, Milwaukee and Columbus, Ohio. Currently she is happy to have set down her bags and made Los Angeles her home. And a blissful home it is—one that she shares with her theatrical production manager husband, Daniel, and three spoiled dogs. During those few hours of downtime from her beloved writing, Laura enjoys going to art galleries and movies, cooking for her hubby, walking in the woods, lazing around lakes, puttering in the kitchen and frolicking with her animals. Laura would love to hear from you. You can write to her at P.O. Box 5811, Sherman Oaks, CA 91413 or e-mail her at laurawright@laurawright.com.

To a wonderful friend, amazing writer,

brilliant critique partner—and all around

fabulous woman: Jennifer Apodaca.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Prologue

“Our father sired another child.”

With those words Zayad Al-Nayhal, Sultan of Emand, executed a perfect rotation and plunged his sword into his imaginary target’s chest. When he pulled back, he fought to keep his footing on the smooth stones of the large terrace that spanned the entire third floor of his palace. His arms were tight, his body exhausted and he could plainly see that his right hand bled.

It was no wonder after three and one-half hours of exercise.

Correction—of diversion.

Last night he had received a letter from his father’s aide, a man who had passed away quietly just one week ago. The letter had been delivered by the aide’s son and had contained a confession of such emotional intensity, Zayad immediately had called his brother and asked him to come home. Knowing nothing but the agitation in his brother’s voice, Sakir had agreed and been en route within the hour.

Through the night, Zayad had attempted to sleep. But that had been a fool’s endeavor. At two-thirty in the morning he had escaped his empty bed and his cold silk sheets and made his way to the terrace, prepared to wield his sword, to sweat and to await his brother.

Zayad returned to the present, heard the palace bustle with activity on the floors below, and nodded at the four servants who stood in readiness at opposite ends of the terrace. Beyond the palace walls the sun was slowly creeping its way across the desert, eager to plant itself firmly on the horizon.

It was daybreak, and his brother was finally here.

Swathed in a backdrop of stone balconies, terra-cotta silk curtains and golden domes that stretched high into the blue sky, Sakir Al-Nayhal stood tall, his arms crossed at his chest, a frown tugging at his full mouth. “You have done many things to get me back to Emand, but creating this story—”

His sword at his side, Zayad shook his head. “This is no story, brother.”

“I do not believe you,” Sakir returned. “I have left a beautiful pregnant wife because you sounded as though—”

“As though there were an emergency?” Zayad lifted his eyebrow.

“Yes. And I find you here trifling with your sword.”

His eyes fixed on his brother, Zayad steered the tip of his blade toward a small round table situated beside a man-made waterfall and a hundred flowering plants. On the table was a gold tray containing Zayad’s uneaten breakfast. And beside the plate sat a two-page letter, its thin edges flickering in the warm breeze. “Draka wrote that letter to me before he died. What he has to say is quite extraordinary and of such import that I thought it wise to take you from Rita.”

Sakir stared at the letter but made no move to pick it up. “What does it say?”

“It states that twenty-six years ago our father traveled to America to meet with the two senators of California on modern oil-drilling practices.” His lips thinned with irritation. “There he met a woman.”

Sakir’s brows knit together. “A woman?”

“She was a young aide who worked for one of the senators. It seems that our father was instantly captivated by her beauty and spirit. He asked her to take a meal with him that night, and she accepted. After dinner they took a long drive up the coast—” he paused, inhaled deeply “—then she invited him to her home.”

It was a moment before Sakir spoke, but his eyes glittered with bewilderment. “This is very hard for me to believe. Our father detested Americans.”

“I thought so, as well, but Draka says that the sultan told him that this woman was different.”

For the second time in twenty-four hours, anger inched its way into Zayad’s blood, and he hated himself for it. He was no romantic. He did not believe in true love, at least for himself. He understood the ways of men in his position—even married men. But his father had been different. Or so Zayad had thought. The Sultan had never taken another woman to his bed. Only his wife. He had always claimed his love for Zayad’s mother was true and without competition and that the old ways had not, and would not, claim him.

“How long was our father in America?” Sakir asked.

“Three days.”

“And his nights were spent with this woman?”

“It would appear so.”

“You spoke of a child,” Sakir said, his jaw tight.

“One month after the sultan returned to Emand, the woman contacted Draka.”

“And?” Sakir prompted when Zayad paused.

“She claimed she was with child. She claimed the sultan was her child’s father. She wished to speak with him, to tell him of this news.”

“And what did our father say to her?”

Zayad walked to the balcony, searched for calm in the rugged landscape, the desert floor and the mountains beyond. “Draka did not tell our father of her call or her news.”

“What?” Sakir fairly snapped.

“Draka did not believe that the woman was speaking the truth.”

“Yes, but an investigation should have been made.”

“Of course it should have.” Zayad’s gaze fell to the acres of lush garden that held fruit trees and herbs, but more importantly, held the grave of his youngest brother, Hassan. The boy had died many years ago in a military training accident, and for Zayad, grief still spread through his bones every time he thought about losing his brother.

Butterflies flew and fed at the red and purple flowers by Hassan’s grave-site. A reminder that his spirit remained, yet would always be able to fly free. Zayad knew in that moment that even if there was the smallest possibility that he and Sakir had another sibling, he had to pursue it.

“What are you thinking, brother?” Sakir asked.

Zayad turned, his back to his beloved land. “This is a personal matter, a family matter, but one that needs to be addressed. I am thinking that at long last an investigation will be made.”

Sakir nodded. “Yes. We will find this child.”

“I will find the child.”

“But—”

“As you said, brother, you have a beautiful pregnant wife at home who needs you. You cannot be away from her for longer than a few days. I feel selfish in taking you away for that long, but I was convinced a phone call would not do here.”

“You were right.”

“And I am right about you going home and staying there with your Rita.”

Sakir’s mouth formed a grim line, but he nodded. “The child’s DNA must be tested.”

“It will be. But, Sakir, you understand that this is no child. Not anymore.”

“Of course. He must be a full-grown man by now.”

With a quick flick of his wrist Zayad stabbed at the letter with the tip of his sword, piercing the paper. He thrust it at his brother. “Read the last paragraph.”

Sakir slipped the paper from the blade and read.

With curious eyes Zayad watched his brother, watched as his face turned from interest to unease to shock.

When Sakir finally looked up, his green eyes were wide. “A girl?”

“Yes.” Zayad had been just as stunned when he had read this. After three men of Al-Nayhal, the thought of a girl child born to his father hadn’t occurred to Zayad.

“Where is she?” Sakir asked.

Walking over to the table, Zayad grasped the glass of plum juice from his tray and drained it. “She lives in a town one hour from Los Angeles, California. It is called Ventura.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. My investigation is already under way. I must have more information on this woman and her life before I leave, before I attempt to get close to her. I will fly with you to the States, then continue on to California.”

“Then what?”

“I will live as an American, get to know this Jane Hefner, see if she is truly an Al-Nayhal, see if she is capable of knowing and accepting her truth.”

“You will keep me updated, yes?”

“Of course.” Zayad motioned for a servant to come and remove his breakfast tray and for another to take his sword. They were swift in their tasks, and soon Zayad and Sakir were heading inside the palace.

Sakir stopped at the doorway to the ballroom, turned to Zayad and grinned. “We could have a sister.”

Not sharing his brother’s enthusiasm, Zayad continued walking down the marble hallway. “Do not get your hopes up just yet, Sakir. We could have a sister. But we also could have an impostor.”

One

Are 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 impossibly 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 summer 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?

Two

Jane 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.

Three

“…I know I should have photographs of him with that other woman, but I can’t find a thing, Miss Kennedy. Please call me back, okay?”

Through the pain in her wrist and ankle, Mariah listened to the end of her client’s message, then the beep of her answering machine.

Nude, angry and lying in quasifetal position on the bathroom floor, Mariah sincerely wished she’d installed a telephone next to the bathtub. Such luxury had just proven itself a necessity, as she’d slipped trying to get out of the tub and into Jane’s room for the phone.

Wondering if she could roll over, get her weight on her good leg, she rose slightly and made the effort. But when sharp pain whipped up and around like a tornado in her ankle, she collapsed.

What the hell was she going to do? Lie here all night like a fish? Maybe inch her way across the bathroom floor, down the hall and into—

Just then Mariah heard something. A crash. Downstairs. Wood splitting. She sucked air, and her pulse jumped in her blood. Not good. Robbery and incapacitated naked girl did not go well together.

She tried to work herself up into a sitting position, but her wrist and ankle hurt like hell, and she was slow.

There were footsteps on the stairs, a rustle outside the bathroom door. A thought poked into Mariah’s brain—one she clung to for dear life. Jane. Maybe she’d forgotten something.

She called out, “Jane!” I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

“Do not be alarmed. I am here to help you.”

Sick, gut-tight fear gripped Mariah, made her forget the pain screaming up her ankle.

Not Jane.

Had she locked the bathroom door?

“I have a knife and a baseball bat in here,” she shouted, scanning the room for anything that resembled those two items. Emery board, toilet plunger… “And I’m not afraid to use them.”

“I am sure that you could do great damage if provoked, but I am not here to hurt you, Miss Kennedy.”

Was it Mr. Sexy Accent?

Mr. Next Door?

Oh my God.

“Don’t come in here,” she warned, more afraid of him seeing her naked than she was of him attacking her.

She was such an idiot.

“Miss Kennedy, I heard you scream.” He was right outside the door now and probably unstoppable.

“I’m fine.” She sounded embarrassingly hysterical. “Nothing’s wrong. I just saw a mouse and—”

“I do not believe you.”

The door squeaked open.

“Oh my God, don’t come in here—”

He didn’t listen. “Perhaps you need a doc—”

“Dammit!” Completely nude and in a most unflattering position, she tried to roll into the bath mat. “Get out. Get out.”

“You are hurt.”

“I’m also naked. Get out.”

He went to her, knelt beside her. “I would never take advantage of such a situation.”

She glared up at him. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

A glimmer of humor lit his eyes. “Smart girl.” He grabbed a towel and draped it over her. “But I give you my word this is no attempt at seduction, merely a rescue.”

“I don’t need to be rescued.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Listen, Mr. Fandal, this is my house and I want you to leave.”

“Who will help you if I leave?”

“I’ll think of someone or I’ll get out of here myself.”

“Crawling around on the floor like a lame pup?”

“Did you just call me a dog?”

Zayad gave an impatient groan, flashed his gaze to the ceiling. Never had he known a woman like this one—obstinate, headstrong, ready to injure herself further in the name of pride. He was not used to following the orders of others, but with her he felt it would be far more productive. “If you prefer to wallow in your mulishness, I shall stand behind the door in case you have need of me.”

“No. Thank you. Seriously I appreciate the gesture, but you can leave. I’m fine.”

He stood up, walked out of the bathroom and waited behind the door. “I shall stand behind the door until you realize you need my assistance.”

She snorted. “Well, you’ll be waiting all night for that, buddy.”

Moments later he heard her groan with pain.

“Miss Kennedy?”

“I’m fine. Just fine.”

Seconds later there was another cry of pain and a soft thud.

“Still fine, Miss Kennedy?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head, walked back into the bathroom. “I do not enjoy playing games. You will not send me away again, and I will help you until more suitable help arrives.”

“There is no suitable help.”

“Your roommate is not home yet?”

“No.”

“But she is returning soon, yes?”

“She’s actually going to be out of town for a week teaching some Hollywood bimbo how to cook.”

Alarm moved through Zayad. He had not heard her correctly. Jane gone for one week. Impossible. He had but two weeks to know her, make her understand her past, her family’s history, see if she was ready to return to her homeland and take up her duties as princess. How could this happen? How could he have allowed his plan to be thwarted?

Frustration swam in his blood. What was he to do now? Follow her? Rent another home in Los Angeles for one week, then return to Ventura with her?

He glanced down at the woman who needed his assistance. With great care he eased her into his arms. He had to take care of this situation first and quickly, then find a solution to his woes with Jane.

Head against his chest, Mariah groaned. “This is so humiliating.”

“What is? Falling down or being nude?”

“Oh, of course the naked part.”

A grin tugged at his lips. “Miss Kennedy, you have nothing to feel ashamed of. Your body is beautiful, lush, and your skin is softer than silk. It took great effort to tear my gaze from you, but as you were hurt, I felt compelled to do so.”

He watched her eyes widen and her lips part.

Chuckling, he lifted her up, bath mat and all, and headed out of the steamy room. “Praise be. I have found a way to keep you quiet.”

Four

The pounding in her ankle aside, Mariah was still reeling from Mr. Next Door’s compliment as he carried her down the stairs. She knew she shouldn’t be reeling. In fact, she should have told him that his cheesy lines about her lushness and soft skin sucked and then given him a good slap.

But the thing was, she didn’t want to think that what he’d said was a line. He’d looked at her with such devilishness, such sincerity, it had nearly had her wrapping her arms around his neck and demanding a kiss. And not just any kiss. From him she wanted open mouth, a little sweep of the tongue and maybe a nibble or two on her bottom lip.

Oh, it had been too long. She felt like an old, ratty plum on a tree, desperate to be picked, saved from a pruney future. Dangerous waters…

“Where are you taking me?” she asked him.

“To bed.”

There it was—the deep end of those dangerous waters. “Mr. Fandal—”

“I think it is now appropriate for you to call me Zayad.”

“And I’m thinking, after the whole bare-butt incident, it might be best to preserve some boundaries.”

“And you think formality is the way to do this?”

Not a clue. “Let’s not get off track here. We were talking about you taking me to bed.”

“That’s correct. Not to get undressed and join you, but so you may rest as I call the doctor.”

She wilted—just slightly. “Oh.” Not that she would allow herself to contemplate such a thing, but it sure would be nice to be wanted.

When he reached her bedroom, Zayad whipped back her white cotton sheets and placed her gently on the bed. “I will only be a moment,” he informed her. “I must make a phone call to the doctor, then I will return.”

“My doctor doesn’t make house calls.”

“No. But mine does.”

“Yours?” She stared up into that rough, intense and highly sensual face and wondered just who this new neighbor of hers was. Had his own doctor on call—and at eight o’clock at night, no less—had a fancy accent, worldly expression, tailored clothes, highly intelligent eyes and was impressively quick with a comeback.

A stab of pain the size of New Jersey suddenly invaded her ankle. She dropped her cheek to the pillow, closed her eyes and moaned. When she opened her eyes again, Zayad was halfway out the door.

“Hey, Zayad?”

He turned. “Yes?”

“How did you know this was my room?”

A slow, almost fiendish smile drifted to his lips. “Careful deduction. You do not seem a risk taker to me, so the first-floor bedroom seemed correct.”

Sad but true.

“And then there was your computer, law books and yellow legal pads.” He pointed to her many Hockney posters littering the white walls. “The artwork. This is you.”

The law books and such, she understood, but the artwork—that startled her. In all the time they were married, Alan had never even asked her about her love of Hockney, much less noticed if she had a connection to it. “Why is the art me?”

His gaze swept the room and he took a thoughtful breath. “Firstly, you live in a town that boasts a beach-like feel, as many of Hockney’s paintings do. You are also very colorful, Mariah, and there is an interesting humor about you, as well.”

She just stared at him. He got all that in two meetings? Oh, yeah, this guy was dangerous all right. “That was some pretty swift deducing from doorstep to backyard to bathroom to bedroom.”

He grinned, haughtiness filling his black gaze. “I am said to be intuitive as well as highly intelligent.”

“And maybe just a bit arrogant, too?” she added with a pained smirk.

“Oh, no, Mariah,” he said without humor this time. “I am far more than a bit.” And with that he turned and left.

Thirty minutes later, after a complete examination of her wrist and incredibly swollen ankle, the doctor—who was so young Mariah wondered if he’d had his first shave yet—told her in the same accent as her neighbor’s that her wrist was badly bruised. But her ankle?

“I am afraid it is a serious sprain,” he said, his dark eyes on her. “I will prescribe a mild painkiller and bring you a brace and crutches. You may want an X-ray as well. In the meantime, you must rest. You will need to remain off your foot for a few days.”

Mariah shook her head. “I can’t stay in bed. I have a ton of work to do.”

“Work that will have to be done from bed, young lady.”

She had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. The twelve-year-old doctor had actually called her “young lady.” “I’m an attorney and I have a huge case to prepare. Lives are at stake and all that,” she said, trying to appeal to him in a way he’d understand. “If I can’t get up and get to work, I can forget about court in three weeks, and getting a wonderful mother of two custody and child support.”

The doctor tried to look sympathetic. “I understand, Miss Kennedy. But if you want your ankle to heal, you will do as I say. And you will need someone to help you.”

Zayad turned to her. “Your roommate is returning—”

“In a week.”

His lips thinned. “Do you have a friend to help you?”

“Not really.” Jane was her best friend. She’d allowed no one to get close to her since Alan. Of course, she had her work colleagues, but no one who she’d feel comfortable asking for help.

“Family?” Zayad asked.

Mariah shook her head.

“A man?” asked the doctor.

Heat rushed Mariah’s cheeks. “No. No man.”

Zayad felt relieved at the news, though he did not wish to examine why. He had more important matters to see to than his attraction to this woman, such as seeing to his sister.

Beside him Mariah shifted on the bed. She looked so beautiful, so soft and needful, lying there still draped in her large white towel, her legs exposed. It took all he had to force his mind to shut down, to remind his body that it would be foolish to climb in beside her, remove that towel and explore.

She was injured, and he had to think of his mission.

Right now he should be following his sister to Los Angeles, finding out about her passions and pursuits, as he should have done so many years ago. He should be telling her the truth. But he had given it much thought on the way to get the doctor and he knew that wouldn’t be wise. He would look like a stalker, following her from Los Angeles back to Ventura, and he would never get the answers he needed.

Mariah looked up, found his gaze.

Answers Jane Hefner’s best friend might be able to reveal as she recovered from her injury.

Zayad paused, his mind circling a new path.

He was no nursemaid, but his need to uncover the truth about his sister and her past and present could force his hand—could draw him in to Mariah Kennedy’s world for a few days.

An interesting, though risky prospect.

He turned to Dr. Adair, the son of his physician in Emand. “I will care for the girl myself.”

Adair’s eyes went wide. “Your— Sir, I do not think…”

“It is done,” Zayad said swiftly.

“Excuse me?” Mariah fairly sputtered.

Zayad continued speaking to Adair. “I live next door. I will cook for her, bathe her—”

“Are you certain that is wise, sir?”

“I am.” His answer was firm, unmovable, and the doctor nodded.

“Excuse me.” Mariah actually sat up, her anger evident in those beautiful tiger’s eyes and irritated tone. “First of all, I’m not a girl. And second of all, there’ll be no bathing by anyone other than me.”

Zayad began, “I was merely suggesting that I remain on hand to assist—”

“I don’t need any extra hands,” she uttered through pain.

“I am afraid you do, Miss Kennedy.” The doctor eased a brown brace that resembled a boot over her foot and ankle and set the Velcro straps in place. “As I said, you must remain in bed, off that ankle for at least two days. If Mr. Fandal does not help, who will?”

She opened her mouth, then promptly shut it. What a question. And one that made her feel like a gigantic loser. Seriously, Jane was gone and Mariah couldn’t ask her to come home—not with that kind of money at stake.

Mariah frowned, winced. Her ankle hurt. Dammit! There really was no one who could come to her rescue. Except…she lifted her lids, found his black gaze, and her belly softened and warmed.

“Why in the world would you want to do this?” she asked him. “You hardly know me.”

Zayad sat beside her on the bed. Behind him Dr. Adolescence discreetly left the room.

“Have you never felt compelled to help a stranger in need, Mariah?” he asked.

Every day of her life since she’d climbed out of the depression-coma her ex had sent her reeling into after he’d not only cheated on her with his fitness instructor but also had announced he wanted to marry the woman. From that day on she’d felt compelled to help others in similar situations—hopeless and alone and without much in the way of funds. She’d gone back to school, passed the bar with flying colors and opened up her own practice a few months later.

She dropped back against the pillows and sighed. “After our conversation tonight in the yard, I think you know I fight for the underdog. And I bet you can also guess that it’s become a passion of mine.”

A passion Mariah had hoped would help her heal a little with each case she took and won. Sad thing was, she didn’t think she had healed all that much.

“I will see the doctor to the door,” Zayad told her. “And when I return, we will talk about dinner, yes?”

“Listen,” she said as he stood up. “I’m sorry if this seems ungrateful, because I really do appreciate what you’re trying to do—”

“But?”

“But I don’t trust you.”

“I understand.”

She lifted herself up on her elbows. “You do?”

“It is your nature.”

“It’s my past,” she corrected.

He nodded.

She said, “You’re clearly after something here, and I don’t know if it’s me or Jane or if it’s a way of repenting for some horrible sin you’ve committed, but know this—I’ll be watching you like a hawk.”

Sensuality fairly dripped from his smile. “I would expect nothing less from you, Mariah.”

She swallowed thickly. “Good.”

“Incidentally, the only sin I cannot seem to shake is continually wanting the one thing I definitely should not have.” His grin widened as his gaze flickered to the white towel she held firmly to her breasts. “But I will never repent.”

Lust ripped through Mariah’s core at his words. The pain in her ankle was nothing to it.

She watched him walk out her bedroom door, leaving an aura of irrepressible and highly erotic male in his wake. For the past four years she’d often wondered if she might be dead from the waist down. But now she knew the truth. She was alive and well and tingling and hot and she wanted to feel a man on her skin again.

But not just any man.

She closed her eyes and inhaled.

That man.

And the knowledge scared her to death.

Five

“You have done what?”

Standing at the kitchen counter, a can of soup in his hand, a cell phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, Zayad tried to explain to his brother the realities of this strange situation he had found himself in tonight. “I have agreed to care for our sister’s roommate until she is back on her feet.”

Sakir snorted. “This is madness. You know nothing about care. You cannot cook, clean, make small talk. She will see through you in an instant.”

“Perhaps, but she has little choice in the matter. She has no other help. Her family is deceased, her friend is gone and…she has no man.”

“No man?” Sakir said all too slowly, a reminder that he still lived most of the year in Texas. “You say this as though it pleases you.”

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