The Sultan's Bed Read Free Page A

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
    J ane 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—”
    â€œA dream come true?”
    Jane laughed. “Hey, it’s Cameron Reynolds.”
    â€œRight.” 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.”
    â€œYou may be a genius in the kitchen, but you have absolutely no compassion on my poor stomach.”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œIt’s cash, M.”
    Jane’s sudden serious tone and slight grimace made Mariah pause, ease up on the semiphony