The Sultan's Bed

“Of course.” Zayad motioned for a servant to come and remove his breakfast tray and for another to take his sword. They were swift in their tasks, and soon Zayad and Sakir were heading inside the palace.

Sakir stopped at the doorway to the ballroom, turned to Zayad and grinned. “We could have a sister.”

Not sharing his brother’s enthusiasm, Zayad continued walking down the marble hallway. “Do not get your hopes up just yet, Sakir. We could have a sister. But we also could have an impostor.”

One

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.