The Sultan's Bed. Laura Wright

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?

      Two

      Jane Hefner was to food what Manolo Blahnik was to shoes.

      Perfection.

      Mariah took another bite of the sublimely delicious, strangely refreshing basil ice cream and sighed. “Tell me again why you have to leave?”

      Jane folded a pale yellow shirt with faultless precision and gently placed it between two pieces of parchment in her suitcase. “The restaurant wants publicity, so it’s me to the rescue. And teaching some pampered movie star how to make veal piccata and garlic mashed potatoes for her next film might sound like a chore to some people, but to me it’s—”

      “A dream come true?”

      Jane laughed. “Hey, it’s Cameron Reynolds.”

      “Right.” Mariah sat on the bed, folded a pair of jeans for Jane. “You understand that you’re forcing me to eat a week’s worth of frozen dinners?”

      Jane eased the jeans from Mariah and refolded them. “Dry fish sticks, watery mashed potatoes, mushy pea-and-carrot medley and fig compote?” She shrugged. “I don’t see the problem.”

      “You may be a genius in the kitchen, but you have absolutely no compassion on my poor stomach.”

      “I know. But I’ll be back before you know it.”

      Mariah paused, realized how pathetic she sounded with all the Miss Lonely Hearts prattle. Seemed she relied on her friend too much. After her divorce from Alan, she’d clung to Jane as a sister, as a friend—the way she had when they were kids, when her parents had died and her feeble grandmother had given her a home but little else.

      Mariah fell back on the bed. “Can I just say that your boss is pretty ballsy for making you go on such short notice?”

      “It’s cash, M.”

      Jane’s sudden serious tone and slight grimace made Mariah pause, ease up on the semiphony guilt trip. She knew Jane was saving up to open her own restaurant. It was her dream. And as her friend, Mariah wasn’t about to be anything but all-the-way supportive. “All right, but if your boss doesn’t compensate you big time for this, you know I can always sue him. Or, hey, I have a friend down at the board of health and he’s really into closing down Italian restaurants.” Mariah leaned on her elbows. “I think his brother was taken out by the mob or something.”

      Jane laughed, shut her suitcase. “Thanks, M. I’ll think about it.”

      “No you won’t. You’re too damn nice to think about it.”

      She grinned. “So, I hear our new neighbor’s moved in. Have you met him yet?”

      Mariah rolled her eyes. “Have I met him? You could say that.”

      “What happened?”

      “Let’s just say I was in rare form—there were bruises and razor-sharp banter on the menu.”

      Jane laughed, sat down beside her. “Is he good-looking, or a toad like the last one?”

      “Why are you asking me all this? You’ve met him, too.”

      “No, I haven’t.”

      “Sure you have.”

      Jane shook her head.

      Mariah blinked at her. “Maybe you said hi in passing or something, because he knows you.”

      “He knows me? What are you talking about?”

      “He asked about you when he bumped into me—well, when I bumped into him. He wanted to know when you’d be home. It was like you’d met and talked and he was more than ready to ask you out.”

      Jane sniffed. “That’s bizarre. Maybe Mrs. Gill told him about us, and after he met you he wanted to meet me…some neighborly, friendly kind of thing?”

      “I dunno.” Mariah shrugged. “But whatever his story is, be careful. He’s trouble.”

      “Why?” Jane slid her feet into a pair of pink flip-flops that were placed neatly by the foot of the bed. “Because he’s tall, dark and handsome?”

      “For a start.”

      All humor dropped away from Jane’s pretty face. She put a hand on Mariah’s shoulder and took a breath. “Listen, M, someday you’re going to have to see the world and every man in it with fresh eyes.”

      Mariah bristled, looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

      “Yes, you do.”

      “Yeah, all right, I do. But that day’s not today.”

      “Okay.” Jane gave her a huge hug and said, “I’ll