Читать книгу The Sultan's Bed - Laura Wright, Laura Wright - Страница 12

The pounding in her ankle aside, Mariah was still reeling from Mr. Next Door’s compliment as he carried her down the stairs. She knew she shouldn’t be reeling. In fact, she should have told him that his cheesy lines about her lushness and soft skin sucked and then given him a good slap.

But the thing was, she didn’t want to think that what he’d said was a line. He’d looked at her with such devilishness, such sincerity, it had nearly had her wrapping her arms around his neck and demanding a kiss. And not just any kiss. From him she wanted open mouth, a little sweep of the tongue and maybe a nibble or two on her bottom lip.

Oh, it had been too long. She felt like an old, ratty plum on a tree, desperate to be picked, saved from a pruney future. Dangerous waters…

“Where are you taking me?” she asked him.

“To bed.”

There it was—the deep end of those dangerous waters. “Mr. Fandal—”

“I think it is now appropriate for you to call me Zayad.”

“And I’m thinking, after the whole bare-butt incident, it might be best to preserve some boundaries.”

“And you think formality is the way to do this?”

Not a clue. “Let’s not get off track here. We were talking about you taking me to bed.”

“That’s correct. Not to get undressed and join you, but so you may rest as I call the doctor.”

She wilted—just slightly. “Oh.” Not that she would allow herself to contemplate such a thing, but it sure would be nice to be wanted.

When he reached her bedroom, Zayad whipped back her white cotton sheets and placed her gently on the bed. “I will only be a moment,” he informed her. “I must make a phone call to the doctor, then I will return.”

“My doctor doesn’t make house calls.”

“No. But mine does.”

“Yours?” She stared up into that rough, intense and highly sensual face and wondered just who this new neighbor of hers was. Had his own doctor on call—and at eight o’clock at night, no less—had a fancy accent, worldly expression, tailored clothes, highly intelligent eyes and was impressively quick with a comeback.

A stab of pain the size of New Jersey suddenly invaded her ankle. She dropped her cheek to the pillow, closed her eyes and moaned. When she opened her eyes again, Zayad was halfway out the door.

“Hey, Zayad?”

He turned. “Yes?”

“How did you know this was my room?”

A slow, almost fiendish smile drifted to his lips. “Careful deduction. You do not seem a risk taker to me, so the first-floor bedroom seemed correct.”

Sad but true.

“And then there was your computer, law books and yellow legal pads.” He pointed to her many Hockney posters littering the white walls. “The artwork. This is you.”

The law books and such, she understood, but the artwork—that startled her. In all the time they were married, Alan had never even asked her about her love of Hockney, much less noticed if she had a connection to it. “Why is the art me?”

His gaze swept the room and he took a thoughtful breath. “Firstly, you live in a town that boasts a beach-like feel, as many of Hockney’s paintings do. You are also very colorful, Mariah, and there is an interesting humor about you, as well.”

She just stared at him. He got all that in two meetings? Oh, yeah, this guy was dangerous all right. “That was some pretty swift deducing from doorstep to backyard to bathroom to bedroom.”

He grinned, haughtiness filling his black gaze. “I am said to be intuitive as well as highly intelligent.”

“And maybe just a bit arrogant, too?” she added with a pained smirk.

“Oh, no, Mariah,” he said without humor this time. “I am far more than a bit.” And with that he turned and left.

Thirty minutes later, after a complete examination of her wrist and incredibly swollen ankle, the doctor—who was so young Mariah wondered if he’d had his first shave yet—told her in the same accent as her neighbor’s that her wrist was badly bruised. But her ankle?

“I am afraid it is a serious sprain,” he said, his dark eyes on her. “I will prescribe a mild painkiller and bring you a brace and crutches. You may want an X-ray as well. In the meantime, you must rest. You will need to remain off your foot for a few days.”

Mariah shook her head. “I can’t stay in bed. I have a ton of work to do.”

“Work that will have to be done from bed, young lady.”

She had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. The twelve-year-old doctor had actually called her “young lady.” “I’m an attorney and I have a huge case to prepare. Lives are at stake and all that,” she said, trying to appeal to him in a way he’d understand. “If I can’t get up and get to work, I can forget about court in three weeks, and getting a wonderful mother of two custody and child support.”

The doctor tried to look sympathetic. “I understand, Miss Kennedy. But if you want your ankle to heal, you will do as I say. And you will need someone to help you.”

Zayad turned to her. “Your roommate is returning—”

“In a week.”

His lips thinned. “Do you have a friend to help you?”

“Not really.” Jane was her best friend. She’d allowed no one to get close to her since Alan. Of course, she had her work colleagues, but no one who she’d feel comfortable asking for help.

“Family?” Zayad asked.

Mariah shook her head.

“A man?” asked the doctor.

Heat rushed Mariah’s cheeks. “No. No man.”

Zayad felt relieved at the news, though he did not wish to examine why. He had more important matters to see to than his attraction to this woman, such as seeing to his sister.

Beside him Mariah shifted on the bed. She looked so beautiful, so soft and needful, lying there still draped in her large white towel, her legs exposed. It took all he had to force his mind to shut down, to remind his body that it would be foolish to climb in beside her, remove that towel and explore.

She was injured, and he had to think of his mission.

Right now he should be following his sister to Los Angeles, finding out about her passions and pursuits, as he should have done so many years ago. He should be telling her the truth. But he had given it much thought on the way to get the doctor and he knew that wouldn’t be wise. He would look like a stalker, following her from Los Angeles back to Ventura, and he would never get the answers he needed.

Mariah looked up, found his gaze.

Answers Jane Hefner’s best friend might be able to reveal as she recovered from her injury.

Zayad paused, his mind circling a new path.

He was no nursemaid, but his need to uncover the truth about his sister and her past and present could force his hand—could draw him in to Mariah Kennedy’s world for a few days.

An interesting, though risky prospect.

He turned to Dr. Adair, the son of his physician in Emand. “I will care for the girl myself.”

Adair’s eyes went wide. “Your— Sir, I do not think…”

“It is done,” Zayad said swiftly.

“Excuse me?” Mariah fairly sputtered.

Zayad continued speaking to Adair. “I live next door. I will cook for her, bathe her—”

“Are you certain that is wise, sir?”

“I am.” His answer was firm, unmovable, and the doctor nodded.

“Excuse me.” Mariah actually sat up, her anger evident in those beautiful tiger’s eyes and irritated tone. “First of all, I’m not a girl. And second of all, there’ll be no bathing by anyone other than me.”

Zayad began, “I was merely suggesting that I remain on hand to assist—”

“I don’t need any extra hands,” she uttered through pain.

“I am afraid you do, Miss Kennedy.” The doctor eased a brown brace that resembled a boot over her foot and ankle and set the Velcro straps in place. “As I said, you must remain in bed, off that ankle for at least two days. If Mr. Fandal does not help, who will?”

She opened her mouth, then promptly shut it. What a question. And one that made her feel like a gigantic loser. Seriously, Jane was gone and Mariah couldn’t ask her to come home—not with that kind of money at stake.

Mariah frowned, winced. Her ankle hurt. Dammit! There really was no one who could come to her rescue. Except…she lifted her lids, found his black gaze, and her belly softened and warmed.

“Why in the world would you want to do this?” she asked him. “You hardly know me.”

Zayad sat beside her on the bed. Behind him Dr. Adolescence discreetly left the room.

“Have you never felt compelled to help a stranger in need, Mariah?” he asked.

Every day of her life since she’d climbed out of the depression-coma her ex had sent her reeling into after he’d not only cheated on her with his fitness instructor but also had announced he wanted to marry the woman. From that day on she’d felt compelled to help others in similar situations—hopeless and alone and without much in the way of funds. She’d gone back to school, passed the bar with flying colors and opened up her own practice a few months later.

She dropped back against the pillows and sighed. “After our conversation tonight in the yard, I think you know I fight for the underdog. And I bet you can also guess that it’s become a passion of mine.”

A passion Mariah had hoped would help her heal a little with each case she took and won. Sad thing was, she didn’t think she had healed all that much.

“I will see the doctor to the door,” Zayad told her. “And when I return, we will talk about dinner, yes?”

“Listen,” she said as he stood up. “I’m sorry if this seems ungrateful, because I really do appreciate what you’re trying to do—”

“But?”

“But I don’t trust you.”

“I understand.”

She lifted herself up on her elbows. “You do?”

“It is your nature.”

“It’s my past,” she corrected.

He nodded.

She said, “You’re clearly after something here, and I don’t know if it’s me or Jane or if it’s a way of repenting for some horrible sin you’ve committed, but know this—I’ll be watching you like a hawk.”

Sensuality fairly dripped from his smile. “I would expect nothing less from you, Mariah.”

She swallowed thickly. “Good.”

“Incidentally, the only sin I cannot seem to shake is continually wanting the one thing I definitely should not have.” His grin widened as his gaze flickered to the white towel she held firmly to her breasts. “But I will never repent.”

Lust ripped through Mariah’s core at his words. The pain in her ankle was nothing to it.

She watched him walk out her bedroom door, leaving an aura of irrepressible and highly erotic male in his wake. For the past four years she’d often wondered if she might be dead from the waist down. But now she knew the truth. She was alive and well and tingling and hot and she wanted to feel a man on her skin again.

But not just any man.

She closed her eyes and inhaled.

That man.

And the knowledge scared her to death.