Laura Wright - The Sultan's Bed

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

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.

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

“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.