Laura Wright - The Sultan's Bed

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.