Laura Wright - The Sultan's Bed

“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.

“…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.