The Sultan's Bed (4 page)

“Y
ou 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.”

“I having no feeling either way.”

“I do not believe you, brother. Seduction is on your brain, I sense it. Is she pleasing to look at?”

A flash of heat moved through Zayad. He found the feeling most disconcerting. “She is blond and small with heavenly curves. Her eyes are the color of Emand's softest sand and her lips the color of wine. She is far more than pleasing, my brother. But—”

“But? There should be no reason for you not to—”

“She is an American and I am Sultan. That is reason enough, but I will give you more. She is angry at something or someone, and I feel in no mood to soften her.” He opened a cabinet and grabbed a blue bowl. “No matter how strong my desire might be, I am only staying here to gather information—”

“Staying there? In her home?” Sakir roared with laughter.

The bowl dropped from Zayad's hand into the sink with a loud crash. He barked at his brother. “It is the only way to ensure that my mission is successful. I must be around her to acquire information. I have but two weeks to learn all I can about our sister, and then I must return to Emand.”

“The mission, yes. It must be the most important thing.” Sakir switched gears for a moment. “You will not return to Emand without another stop in Texas, as promised?”

“Of course. But it is only to see your beautiful wife.”

“Rita is looking forward to it, although she is a bit under the weather.”

“Your son or daughter is already causing their mother trouble, yes?”

Sakir chuckled, light and familiar. The sound bore into Zayad's hardened heart. He missed his brother greatly. Their friendship. Their battles, both verbal and with sword. And now, with the talk of family so prevalent as of late—his sister, his son and Sakir's child on the way—Zayad wanted nothing more than to have his entire clan together, safe, under one roof. If that were only possible.

“Do you want me to come to California?”

Zayad smiled at his brother's offer while he grabbed something Fandal had called a “can's opener” from the drawer. “No. You should not leave your wife just now. You will meet our sister soon enough. And besides, two sheikhs would surely stand out in this small town.”

Sakir laughed. “Indeed.”

Zayad cursed as large droplets of chicken broth hit the floor.

“What is it?” Sakir asked.

“I am attempting to open a can of something called ‘chicken and stars soup.' It's my patient's favorite.”

“You are not actually cooking?”

“I am,” Zayad replied indignantly.

“Why not get one of the servants to see to the meal?”

Zayad leaned over the sink and turned on the faucet. Water shot into the sink. “I must act as a normal man.”

“A normal man would have called a pizzeria by now.”

Again Zayad cursed. “I must go. I have added too much water to this mess.”

Zayad ignored his brother's laughter and hung up the phone. He had battled lions, six warriors at one time and the fiercest of swordsmen, he could see to one simple meal. He only had to concentrate.

Ten minutes later he walked into Mariah's bedroom. The clock on the wall chimed nine. A little late for dinner, but she had claimed she had not eaten a thing since noon and had looked very pale when he had left her.

On a tray he had found under the kitchen sink Zayad had placed the watery soup, some cheese, a slice of anemic-looking bread, a second pain pill, a glass of water and a glass of wine for himself.

He stopped just before the bed, tray still in hand, and took in the sight before him. She was sitting up, white blanket tucked in at her waist. She looked young, her face free of makeup and frustration. Her long, blond hair hung loose. She had put on the robe he had brought her, and at first glance he thought it very prim and proper. But at second glance he noticed that its white fabric was fairly thin. He could see the outline of her breasts through the cotton.

An invisible vise gripped his chest as he stared. She was no practiced seductress, sitting there in her virginal white world, but to him she could not be more disturbingly sexy.

He placed the tray on her lap, and fought his roguish impulse to catch a closer look at what lay beneath that flimsy robe.

He lost the fight.

The robe gaped slightly at the chest, and he could not help but see one slope of full breast, one rise of pink nipple.

His groin tightened painfully and he moved away, fell back into a chair beside the bed. He was surprised by his lack of restraint. Surprised and bothered.

“Thank you for this,” she said, placing the napkin in
her lap. “I may not show it, but I really appreciate your help.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Wait until after you have tasted the soup before thanking me. I am afraid I am not much of a chef.”

“I'm sure it's great. I can't cook, either. I can barely nuke a hot dog without incident.” She picked up her spoon. “The cooking is Jane's department. She's a genius.”

“Is she in food preparation?” As if he did not know.

“She's a professional chef. Works downtown at an Italian restaurant. She should have her own restaurant already, but, you know, money is always an issue.”

He did not know, but he nodded anyway.

She took a bite of cheese and asked, “What is it you do, Zayad?”

It was the answer he had always longed to give. Impractical and unbecoming a sultan. But quite right here. “I am in art. Collecting, preserving, then selling if the buyer is right.”

“Really? Well, that explains the Hockney thing. Do you collect paintings? Sculpture?”

“Swords, actually.”

“Swords.” Her bite of cheese fell back on the plate. “As in slice and dice, battles,
Braveheart
—those kinds of swords?”

An amused smile played on his lips. “In my country swords are revered. Even swordplay is considered an art form, a sport. Like fencing. Boys as young as five are taught the art of swordplay.”

She picked up her spoon, looking a little uneasy.
“And to think, LEGOs and monster trucks are as far as most American five-year-old boys get with play and sport. What country are you from?”

“A little place you probably have never heard of.”

“Try me.”

“It is called Emand.”

“Nope, never heard of it.” She smiled—a smile wide and open and just a little teasing—and it was the first time Zayad had seen her without a mask of acerbity. With the mask she was beautiful, but without it she was stunning, irresistible.

Would she fight him if he kissed her?

He imagined she would.

“What is your country like?” she asked.

He sighed, his mind falling away from seduction to his homeland. “It is magical, beautiful, yet still a little wild.”

“Wild, huh? The deserts or the people?” She looked down her nose at him. “The men don't drag the women around by their hair or anything, do they?”

“The ruler of Emand abolished the ways of the caveman long ago.” When she smiled, he did, too. “The truth is while some choose to follow the ancient, more traditional ways, most of the women in my country are educated, feministic and have no qualms about telling their men what is on their mind.”

“I like this ruler of yours.”

And he likes you.

Aloud he said, “And what of you? I know that you are an attorney. What I do not know is why you seem so on edge, full of tension.”

“You mean stressed out?”

“This sounds appropriate, yes.”

She paused, stared at him, then sighed and shook her head. “I have a case that's not going very well. I tried to get the parties to settle out of court, resolve their issues without involving a long legal battle, but the ex-husband won't agree. Now I'm trying to find information that will help my client win.” She gestured to her ankle. “And look what I have to contend with.”

“What is the case?”

“Child custody.”

“In specifics, Miss Kennedy,” he said with a grin.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I would not ask if I was not interested.”

In between small sips of soup, she explained. “The woman I'm defending was a wonderful wife and mother for fourteen years. Her husband was verbally abusive, had numerous affairs. He didn't want to spend time with his kids. They've been divorced for about a month now, and she got custody of the kids. A few weeks ago she met a man and has been dating him. Well, the ex-husband heard about this and flipped out—though he has a girlfriend.” She sighed, put down her spoon. “He's suing for full custody of the kids. Kids he couldn't care less about. My client never asked for alimony. She didn't want anything from him for herself, just child support for the kids. But the husband's pride has been nicked. His affairs never came up in court, and now he's claiming he was a faithful, devoted husband and father and she was the slut and that his kids shouldn't be around a mother like that.”

Zayad's jaw was rigid. He detested men like this one—cowards. “He wants to use the children as revenge.”

“Exactly. This guy is rich and powerful and has no trail for his affairs that his ex-wife or I could find. The women aren't talking. His friends and business associates aren't talking. The hotel and flower receipts my client had found have suddenly vanished.”

“There is always a way to recover these things.”

“I've tried. She's tried. Nothing.” She nibbled on the bread. “I don't want to lose this case.”

The male protector inside Zayad sprang to life, and he made an imprudent vow. “You will not lose.”

“I have a killer sprain and no way to do any legwork on this case.”

“We will find this man's trail.”

Her eyes narrowed with surprise. “We?”

He moved from the chair to her bedside. “This case reminds me of my own struggles. I, too, had to fight to reclaim a child from a parent who only wished to use him.”

“What are you talking about? What child?”

“Mine. I have a son.”

Mariah's mouth dropped open. “You do?”

“You do not see me as parental?”

“Well, no.” She shook her head, felt cruel for saying something like that. “What I mean is that, well, you're so…”

“What?”

“I don't know.”
Gorgeous, charming, cultured.
The men she knew with those traits were usually the kind of men she fought in court. The kind of men who wanted to get rid of their baggage—wife, kids—and start fresh. Her mind whirled. This man had a child? This man had fought for his child? “I don't know what to make of you, Zayad.”

He leaned toward her, brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It was falling in the soup.”

He didn't move away. He stayed close, his mouth just inches from hers. She felt his warmth, and her heart jumped her in chest. “It's really bad soup, by the way,” she whispered.

His gaze moved over her face, pausing at her lips. “I did warn you.”

Mariah paused, let those words sink in, cool her heated skin. She couldn't believe herself. She actually had been ready to kiss him, throw her arms around his neck and go for it. This man she hardly knew. This man who represented everything that terrified her in a lover.

She swallowed hard. “I'd better get some sleep. That last pain pill is starting to wear off.”

For a moment he remained, deliciously close and still tempting. Then his gaze flickered and he pulled back, a vein in his temple pulsating. “If you need anything, I will be in the living area.”

Her heart dropped into her belly. “
My
living room?”

He nodded. “On the couch.”

“The couch.” Just outside her bedroom door? Him in his boxers, or whatever he wore to bed, on her couch, in her living room?

“This is all right, yes?” he asked, standing. “If you need assistance in the night.”

“Yes, of course,” she sputtered.

“Good night then.”

“'Night,” she called after him. “And again, thanks.”

When he left, she fell back on the pillow and sighed. Oh, what she had to be missing right now. The feeling
of his face so close to her own had been heaven. She could just imagine that a kiss would be absolute magic.

Just the thought had her body glowing, had her senses high and heady with a feeling she hadn't wanted to feel ever again—a feeling that made her vulnerable.

Pure, unadulterated lust.

 

“Well, I'm here,” Jane said over the phone ten minutes later. “The house is enormous and the actress is anorexic, but she seems pretty into the cooking lessons so—” She paused. “Wait, what's wrong?”

“What makes you think something's wrong?” Mariah asked, kicking off her covers with her good leg and reaching for the wine Zayad hadn't touched.

“You haven't interjected or snorted when I said the anorexic thing. What's going on?”

After a healthy swallow of wine, she admitted, “Well, there is something.”

“I knew it. Spill.”

“Funny you should say that word, because after you left today, I took a bath. And, well, I sort of had a spill when I tried to get out.”