The Sultan's Bed

“Still fine, Miss Kennedy?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head, walked back into the bathroom. “I do not enjoy playing games. You will not send me away again, and I will help you until more suitable help arrives.”

“There is no suitable help.”

“Your roommate is not home yet?”

“No.”

“But she is returning soon, yes?”

“She’s actually going to be out of town for a week teaching some Hollywood bimbo how to cook.”

Alarm moved through Zayad. He had not heard her correctly. Jane gone for one week. Impossible. He had but two weeks to know her, make her understand her past, her family’s history, see if she was ready to return to her homeland and take up her duties as princess. How could this happen? How could he have allowed his plan to be thwarted?

Frustration swam in his blood. What was he to do now? Follow her? Rent another home in Los Angeles for one week, then return to Ventura with her?

He glanced down at the woman who needed his assistance. With great care he eased her into his arms. He had to take care of this situation first and quickly, then find a solution to his woes with Jane.

Head against his chest, Mariah groaned. “This is so humiliating.”

“What is? Falling down or being nude?”

“Oh, of course the naked part.”

A grin tugged at his lips. “Miss Kennedy, you have nothing to feel ashamed of. Your body is beautiful, lush, and your skin is softer than silk. It took great effort to tear my gaze from you, but as you were hurt, I felt compelled to do so.”

He watched her eyes widen and her lips part.

Chuckling, he lifted her up, bath mat and all, and headed out of the steamy room. “Praise be. I have found a way to keep you quiet.”

Four

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.”