The Sultan's Bed by Laura Wright Page B

pleasure.
    Over and over the waves hit, and she bucked and arched and moaned. Until finally the ebb came and she started to breathe again.
    â€œMariah…”
    She reached out for him, but he stayed where he was, even bent to pick up her towel.
    With supreme gentleness he placed the cotton over her. “I must leave you now.”
    â€œNo.” She sounded like a child, but she didn’t care. She’d only gotten half of what she wanted.
    â€œI must.” He bent over her, kissed her mouth. “I will see you in two hours, yes?”
    She sighed, knew it wasn’t wise to take more right here, right now. “All right.”
    He went to the door, turned back. “You had much pleasure?”
    â€œYes.”
    He nodded, then left, and Mariah sat up. She felt tight and happy and sad and unsure. She was no longer the bitter, chaste divorcée. She was now a woman on the verge of intense desire for a man she hardly knew and didn’t trust.
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    He had hated to leave her.
    Zayad pulled into the assisted-living-center parking lot, found a space and cut the engine. Even though a sign marked Guest was directly in front of him, he saw only a dimly lit room, a massage table with white towels and one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen lying naked atop them, bucking and gasping with climax.
    He inhaled, tried to rid his mind of her—for now, at least. But it was impossible. Her scent lingered, as did the feeling of her skin on his palms.
    Damn his lack of control. He had come here to question Tara, not to find himself fantasizing—and certainlynot to find himself feeling actual need for a woman he would never see again after his two weeks were through.
    He ripped his keys from the ignition and got out of the car, walked across the lawn to Tara’s bungalow door. He would have to fight his desire for Mariah Kennedy. He could not allow this kind of pull, this kind of distraction, when he had work to do here.
    After two decisive raps on the door, it opened and the lovely older woman who had so captivated his late father stood before him.
    â€œGood afternoon, Zayad.”
    â€œMs. Hefner.”
    â€œTara, please.” She smiled, stepped aside so he could enter.
    â€œThank you for letting me come, Tara. I know you did not have to.”
    â€œI’ll admit I’m just as curious as you are.” She showed him into the same living area where they had begun their last visit. She had some lemonade and cookies set out on the coffee table. She took a glass and started for the pitcher of lemonade.
    â€œAllow me,” he said.
    â€œThank you.”
    He poured her a glass, then eased it into her hand. He also took a cookie and placed it on a napkin in front of her on the table.
    â€œThank you,” she said with a grin.
    Her ability to sense or hear the smallest of movements amazed him. “If I may ask, how did you lose your eyesight?”
    â€œI have macular degeneration.”
    â€œI am sorry.”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œWell, that’s not entirely true. I would love to see my work, my child’s face, Mariah in the courtroom and your wicked grin—the same as your father’s, I’ll bet. But I can’t have those things. I see in a different way and I came to realize that sometimes that is a good thing. I believe now that it was a precious gift to have my sight taken from me.” She paused, smiled. “You’re shocked by that, right?”
    He took a cookie. “I am intrigued.”
    â€œGood answer.” She also reached for her cookie. “When I lost my sight, it was slow. Darkness took over the light little by little. Before, I had lived a life of judgments, as I think we all do. What we see on the outside is, of course, what is on the inside. We hardly question this. But when you start losing the ability to see the outside of anything, you’re forced to deal only with the heart, with the