The Sultan's Bed

by Laura Wright

  Zayad’s gaze shifted and he noticed a potter’s wheel was set up in one corner of the room, facing a set of charming French doors, where a cool breeze floated in.

  When the aide left, Zayad gestured to the wheel and asked Mariah, now ensconced on the red couch, “Who is the artist?”

  “Tara is.”

  “She does not share this room with another?”

  “Nope.”

  “But how would she work…?”

  “She is an amazing woman.” Mariah smiled at Zayad with eyes that read, “Just wait until you meet her.” “She lets nothing stop her—especially when she wants something badly enough.”

  He wanted to remark that Tara sounded like a wonderful, brave and interesting woman, but he felt he would wait to meet the woman first.

  “I have guests.”

  The cheerful, husky tone came from the doorway. Zayad looked up in time to see a tall, slim, long-legged woman in her midfifties with short blond hair streaked with an attractive pale gray. She wore a flowing orange dress with beaded earrings to match. She was very beautiful, but there was far more to her than her looks. This was a woman who was overflowing with life, happiness and an open spirit. Zayad understood at once why his father had been drawn to this woman.

  Tara thrust her hands to her hips. “Where’s my lovely Mariah? Why isn’t she running over here to greet me?”

  “I would run over to you, Tara,” said Mariah, her eyes bright with the warmth one felt for someone they loved greatly. “I hurt my ankle last night.”

  Hearing her voice brought Tara straight to Mariah. She sat beside Mariah on the couch, fumbled just a bit for her hand. “It is of no importance. You came, my little one, that’s what matters. Now, what’s wrong with your ankle?”

  “It’s just a little bruise.” Mariah glanced up at Zayad and smiled. “No worries.”

  Tara feigned gruffness. “It is my right to worry about you.”

  Mariah laughed. “I know.”

  “So, you didn’t drive yourself up here, did you?” Tara turned, tilted her chin and faced Zayad. “Who have you brought with you?”

  Zayad stepped back, feeling strange and slightly uncomfortable at how easily she had found him.

  “How did you…?” Mariah laughed. “Of course.”

  Of course? What, of course? He had made no sound, no movement, no indication that he was in the room. He wanted to know what the mystery was.

  “This is my neighbor,” Mariah explained. “And…well, friend. He graciously offered to bring me up here even though I’ve been a real pain in the neck to him.”

  “Ah, my girl, your spirit is your charm.” Tara stood, walked straight to Zayad and extended her hand. “Is it not?”

  Zayad took her hand. “It is.”

  Her brows drew together. “Does this friend have a name?”

  Zayad bent and kissed her hand. “My name is Zayad.”

  Confusion, then an unmistakable shadow of alarm moved across Tara’s features and she eased her hand from his. All warmth, confidence and animation seemed to melt away from her expression, and Zayad wondered how well she had known her lover. Had she known of his family? His children’s names?

  It seemed she did.

  “Are you two hungry?” Tara asked, recovering quickly and turning away from him.

  “A little,” Mariah said.

  “Good. I’ll go and get our lunch, then we can have a nice chat. I can’t wait to hear what’s been going on with you. And of course, finding out more about your new neighbor and what he’s doing so far from home.”

  “Can I help you, Mrs. Hefner?” Zayad asked.

  She headed into the other room. “No, thank you.”

  When they were alone again, Mariah turned to him. “That was a nice offer. But she likes to do these things herself. Oh, and it’s not ‘Mrs.’ She was never married. Actually I think she was over-the-top in love with Jane’s dad and couldn’t bear to think of another man after he left her.”

  In love. Zayad bristled.

  “What’s wrong?” Mariah asked, watching him.

  He shook his head. “I was thinking about this man leaving her.”

  “Yeah. What a jerk, huh?”

  “How is it you know this?”

  “Jane told me.”

  Black fury ignited in Zayad’s belly at his father’s foolish aide. For his sister to think that her own father did not want her—it was despicable. Even though Zayad’s son came from a mother who only wanted to see gold, Zayad had only told him good things about Meyaan and that she did not come to see him because she was not well, but that she loved him a great deal.

  “To not even want to know your own child.” Mariah shook her head. “Horrible.”

  “Perhaps he did not know he had a child.”

  Mariah’s face contorted with dismay. “What makes you say that?”

  He could not answer, nor did he want to, as Tara rejoined them. She carried a platter laden with food. “My cold lemon chicken, potato salad and biscuits.”

  Zayad helped her with the platter and the serving until they were ready to eat. As they sat around a small iron table in a tiny though peaceful yard overlooking the mountainside, Tara spoke mostly to Mariah. She wanted to know all about her upcoming case and what her strategy was. When Mariah mentioned that Zayad was going to help her, Tara put down her uneaten biscuit on her plate full of uneaten food and faced him. “So, where are you from, Zayad?”

  She knew exactly—he could see it on her face—but he replied anyway. “From a small country called Emand.”

  Sadness etched her features. “And is it a beautiful place? Ripe with olive groves and fig trees? Scented with spice and the warm sand at sunset?”

  “It is.” His father had told her much, and he almost felt badly for her.

  “Sounds like you’ve been there, Tara,” Mariah remarked, using the table to get herself into a standing position and grab her crutches.

  “Perhaps in my mind,” Tara said softly.

  “Where are you going?” Zayad asked Mariah.

  “The little girls’ room to freshen up.” She grinned. “Wanna come?”

  “I will help you there, of course.”

  After Zayad had helped Mariah to the bathroom and told her to call for him when she was ready, he returned to the table and to Tara.

  “Could you pass me a lump of that sugar, Zayad,” she said. “As you have probably surmised by now, I cannot see well.”

  He did as she requested, watched as she placed the sugar in her glass of lemonade. “I think you see very well, madam.”

  “Thank you. I work very hard for normalcy.” She smiled in his direction. “As Mariah has probably told you, I wasn’t always blind. The furnishings you see around you have been with me for ages, and five years ago, when my sight began to wane, the comfort of being able to still detect color helped me for the rough months to come.”

  “It must have been very difficult for you.”

  “It was at first. But like all things, I grew accustomed to the darkness. I looked for the light in other things—and other people.”

  That made him think of Mariah. Under her mask of ire she was all light, all heat, fire and female. “I must return for Mariah.” He stood, then paused. “Perhaps we can talk another time.”

  She sipped her lemonade. “I will see if my schedule—”

  “We must talk, Tara.”

  She did not answer him. Her lips thinned and she placed her glass on the table with a little too much force. “I know why you’ve come.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Jane. She’s a good girl, Zayad. She doesn’t need to know the truth. Not now. Not yet. She doesn’t need this kind of attention paid to her.”

  “I understand the wish for anonymity, believe me. But the truth remains—Jane is a princess.” And whether her mother agreed with him or not, Jane deserved to know of her birthright.

  A blanket of anguish seemed to encompass Tara as she thought about what he had said. Fin
ally she gave him a nod. “Come back on Friday, then.”

  “I will be here.”

  “And you will not deny a semiaged woman her chance to explain?”

  “Of course not.”

  An explanation, a true and full story, was the last thing—and the first thing—he wanted. He asked her to excuse him, then left the table to catch his breath and to help Mariah.

  Seven

  As they drove along the 101 freeway toward home, Mariah kept stealing glances at Zayad. Though he remained gorgeous and sexier than silk, he was also as stiff as a poker and incredibly pensive. She wondered at his mood, wanted to know if something had happened at Tara’s, if the woman had said something to him while Mariah had been in the bathroom. But what? What would make him so rigid and thoughtful?

  Her heart dropped a foot. She sure hoped it wasn’t something about matchmaking. A quick setup was right up Tara’s alley.

  “Get the girl back on the horse” was her motto.

  “A good ride will wipe that frown off your face, Mariah.”

  Ugh.

  Maybe Mariah needed to set Zayad’s mind at ease about her intentions to procure a date or a wild night of sex. “Say, Zayad, why don’t you take the night off tonight?”

  A semitruck passed them on the left, and he waited a moment before saying, “Pardon me?”

  “Take a night off. From your ‘duties.’”

  “My duties?” He glanced over at her. “Do you mean you?”

  “Yes. See, the thing is, I’m really jonesing for a pizza, and that’s easy enough to order and have delivered. I’ll make a place for myself on the couch, watch some TV—maybe an old black-and-white movie—and if I’m really feeling adventurous, dip into my work. Something tells me you need to get back to your work, too.”

  He sniffed almost regally. “There is plenty of time for my work.”

  “But isn’t that little house you rented in the backyard calling you? I’m assuming it’s an office space?”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I’ve coveted that place for as long as I’ve lived here. I actually thought I might make it my office.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s not in my budget.”

  “Ah.”

  “Anyway, the point is you’ve done enough for me.” And to me, she mused, her skin warming at the memory of his arms around her and his mouth on hers. “Take some time for yourself.”

  His brow lifted. “Are you trying to get rid of me, Mariah?”

  Just trying to keep myself a born-again virgin.

  No.

  Just trying to save myself the embarrassment of your rejection when I fling myself at you—and totally sober this time.

  “Zayad, the truth is that you deserve a break. You’ve been amazing looking after me, making me meals, driving me to see Tara.”

  “I appreciate the thought, but I feel responsible for you and your well-being now.”

  “That’s very gallant, but the knight-in-shining-armor routine is…” Well, actually, it’s so great I want to melt.

  “My mind will not be changed.”

  “But—”

  “Like you, Mariah, I am a highly skilled debater.”

  “Yeah, I see that.” She smiled.

  He shifted into fourth gear, then third as he came off the highway and onto the main drag. When he turned onto their street, he asked, “Do you know much about swords?”

  “Not much. But I find antiques and artwork very interesting.” Actually she found it so interesting that she’d looked on the Internet this morning when Zayad had gone over to his apartment to change his clothes.

  He pulled into the driveway with just a little too much speed, brought the SUV to a halt, then flicked off the ignition. “If you would like, we could share our worlds for the evening.”

  Fingers gripping the door handle, Mariah turned. “What do you mean?”

  “You will come to my home for the pizza and, if it amuses you—if you are truly interested—you could see some of my collection.”

  Her insides went tingly and raw. Weekend nights for old-maid Mariah Kennedy usually consisted of frozen food or takeout—because Jane was working—and a movie, just as she’d said she was going to do earlier. But this—this addition of a sexy man showing her his passion for antique weaponry… Well, strange as it may seem, that just couldn’t sound any more fabulous.

  But she smiled with only mild enthusiasm. After all, he didn’t need to know how interested she was. “Maybe I could give you a fresh opinion on the pieces? Which ones you should sell and to whom? That kind of thing?”

  A flash of humor crossed his face. “We will see.”

  Oh, he was so arrogant.

  He got out of the car, came around to her side and helped her out. For a second he stood there, easing her arm about his shoulders, placing his hand unnecessarily on her hip. “We will see where the night takes us, yes?”

  Heat snaked through Mariah and she found herself nodding as he lifted her into his arms.

  “The man’s name is Charles Waydon.”

  Thirty minutes later Zayad stood in his sparsely furnished living room, surrounded by yellow shag carpeting and badly stuccoed walls, and gave one of his most trusted aides the address of Mariah’s client’s unscrupulous husband. “He is to be watched twenty-four hours a day. I want to know where he goes, who he sees. I want photographs, Fandal. Even his refuse should be checked.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is very important.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Zayad turned his back on the man, snatched up the phone book. He would serve Mariah this pizza himself, order it himself. And he would not question his motives for wanting to perform such an inane act, for wanting to be just an ordinary man for tonight and for the next two weeks.

  Though his servant might.

  “If I may ask, Your Royal—sir?”

  “Yes, Fandal?”

  “Why are you helping this woman?”

  “I have given her my word.”

  “Yes, but why? She is not the woman you seek.”

  No, she was not. But she was intriguing and beautiful and angry at the world. Her fire made him want to stay close, even though the warmth was not a sweet one. Her need for more than physical help intrigued him, made him want to give. Yes, he was used to handing out monetary assistance, but never had a woman wanted his friendship, needed his kindness of spirit.

  It was somehow addicting.

  But he could not allow his aide to know this. “She is the key to what I want. She is my sister’s closest confidante. I am convinced that to know her is to know Jane.” Zayad flipped through the Yellow Pages, looking for a pizzeria that sounded remotely distinctive. “Mariah Kennedy must be appeased, must be given all that she requires.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “You may go, Fandal.”

  The man bowed and left the room.

  Zayad grabbed his cell phone. What he did not understand was the intensity of his attraction to Mariah. His sympathy, yes. But gut-wrenching need?

  In Emand when a woman caught his interest, he would offer her a night of pleasure, then anything she desired—anything but his heart. There had never been any mystery or deep ache of want with any of those women. Both he and his lover had always had their needs fulfilled and both had left content.

  Mariah Kennedy was somehow different. With her caustic humor and the shadow of a deeply pained heart behind her eyes, Zayad felt he knew her. She had once said she did not believe in soul mates and he had concurred. If he was ever to believe in such a foolish notion, he might entertain the thought that this woman was his.

  And he had only tasted her once.

  His finger stabbed the keypad of his phone, dialing the number of Harrison’s Pizza Shack. He could hold on to his desire for only a short time longer. If she were to kiss him again, he would not be stopped for something as irrelevant as honor.

  He would have her.


  “I’m a pepperoni kinda gal. Classic, a little spicy, but always satisfying.” Booted foot propped up on a pillow, dressed in jeans and a black tank and bottom sunk into the same yellow shag that covered her own living room floor, Mariah grinned and slid a piece of the cheesy pizza into her mouth.

  Across from her, leaning back against his tan couch, Zayad ate his own slice of olive-and-mushroom. “Are you sure you are describing the pizza, Mariah?”

  Mariah paused, ran the description back over in her head. “Sure, that could be me—but alas, only in the courtroom.”

  “Why is that?”

  “In the courtroom I dress classically and am a pretty spicy litigator.”

  “And how are you satisfying?”

  Now that is a question, Mariah thought, her pulse kicking. And asked with such a devilish twinkle in his eye, too. “Well, I hope in my victories.”

  “Of which there are many, I am sure.”

  Mariah took another bite of pizza, not wanting to correct his statement. In part because for the past year she’d rarely lost a case. Then, about a month ago, something had changed. Her attitude? Her drive? Something to do with confidence? She wasn’t sure, but she’d lost her last three cases.

  “What about you?” she asked, quickly deflecting.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, what kind of pizza are you?”

  “I do not do well in describing myself.”

  “Well, give it a try. C’mon, we’re being stupid and silly here—a rare thing for us both, I imagine.”

  He stared at her, grinned, and she wondered if he liked her quick, dry humor. Most men didn’t seem to, or maybe they weren’t sure how to respond.

  “Green olives,” he began thoughtfully. “Mushrooms and hot red pepper.”

  “Interesting. What’s the description?”

  “I have an acerbic nature, like the green olive. Mushrooms tend to grow and mature in dark, remote places.”

  His expression looked pinched and he didn’t elaborate on the mushroom thing. Something warned Mariah not to push him.

  “And then there is the red pepper.” He grinned, his eyes full of sin once again. “I, too, enjoy a little spice.”