Читать книгу The Sultan's Bed - Laura Wright, Laura Wright - Страница 9

Are all men jerks, or what?

Mariah Kennedy stepped out of her ’92 Escort—sans air-conditioning—and into the ninety-degree California weather.

Gorgeous, brilliant, charming—ten million dollars to his name—and yet he refuses to pay child support for his three-year-old twins.

She slammed the car door shut.

Sweat beaded at the base of her tight blond bun and threatened to drop down the back of her faux Chanel suit as she stalked up the stone pathway to her ancient—though still very charming—duplex. The early summer wind whipped off the ocean’s surface just a half a mile away, trying to cool her skin as well as her I’m-so-going-to-lose-this-case mood.

No. All men can’t be jerks. Dad was a real stand-up guy. It must be all the gorgeous, overly successful and far too irresistible ones that earn that label.

Mariah reached the front door and, in her usual style, fumbled around in her purse for her keys while simultaneously bending down to snatch up the newspaper she never had time to read until she returned home from work at five.

Normally she accomplished both tasks without a problem.

But today was all about problems.

The headline, Sun Exposure Blamed For Weight Gain, screamed up at her, and she hesitated a second too long in picking it up.

Something rustled behind her. Without a thought she straightened and whirled around—all at the same time.

Not a good combo.

In that same inept, awkward and very humiliating style that had plagued her all morning in the judge’s chambers, she ran smack-dab into a heavily muscled chest.

A strange cross between a hiccup and a gasp erupted from her throat, and she dropped her purse. The contents spilled out all over the walkway, except for a red pen and an extra pair of nylons, which sailed west into the hydrangea bushes.

“Dammit!” Mariah dropped to her knees.

In seconds the man was beside her.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, shoving lipstick and iron pills into her purse as quickly as she could. “I’ve got everything under control here.”

“All signs would point to the contrary.”

Mariah stopped her manic sidewalk cleanup for a moment. In the seconds before, when she’d been off balance, smashing headfirst into strangers and letting her purse travel south, she’d barely glimpsed the man beside her.

Dark…tall—that’s about it.

She glanced up.

Heat, and not from the sun this time, oozed into her bones. Never in her life had she seen the cover of GQ magazine live and in person. Yet here he was. Dark, soulful eyes that assessed her; short, well-groomed black hair; sharp, angular features that screamed exquisite breeding; and a full mouth that she was sure had driven far too many sane females mad with desire.

He was the kind of man who could easily utter in your ear as he was nibbling on your neck, “I’m female poison. Beware.”

She forced her pulse to slow, but it did little good as the man sat back on his haunches and gave her an amused look.

He was probably midthirties, she guessed, and ridiculously handsome. He had that look of supreme confidence in his manner and expression, the kind that usually made such a stellar impression in court—both on the men and the women. Though this man was not dressed in lawyerly garb. No suit and tie. No, he wore a simple black T-shirt under an exquisitely tailored white shirt. Of course, on that lean, hard body they looked anything but simple.

Mariah hated herself for feeling weak-kneed and ultra feminine. And she wanted to laugh. This impossibly beautiful man was no doubt the new tenant Mrs. Gill had told her about yesterday.

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.

Zayad swung left at the farm stand and headed toward Dove Cove. He would only take a few hours of exercise on the warm sand, as he needed to return to the duplex. He had much to accomplish, including keeping his true mission a secret to those around him. His council, like the men he had brought with him—save Fandal—believed his purpose here to be one of rest and relaxation. Of course, they did not question his living quarters or his interest in his neighbor. They dared not. And Zayad expected that they would remain devoted servants for his two-week stay.

Ah, yes, he thought. Two weeks with no questions, no interruptions and no diversions.

A pretty blond attorney with a voluptuous body and angry eyes the color of the hot Emand sand at sunset flashed into his mind. His sister’s roommate was tough and spirited, and if he had more time, he might consider pursuing an affair with her.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

His father had once said, “A man is not a man without restraint. Especially in matters of the state.”

Sea air blew in through his window, but Zayad did not calm in its caress. The irony was too plain. His father, the great sultan, had overlooked his own counsel when coming to America.

Should he expect any less from his son?