Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride

“A month, sir.”

“How will we get the information?”

Strickland cleared his throat. “I have ways, your highness. Be assured, we will know minutes after she does.”

A month. Four weeks. Four endless weeks.

“Wait the month,” Tariq said softly. “Meanwhile, have her watched.”

“Sir?”

“I know something of this woman,” Tariq said coldly.

“Ah. I had no idea—”

“Her sexual habits leave much to be desired. If she sleeps with another man during the next month—”

“Of course. I should have thought of—”

“But you did not,” Tariq said sharply, “I did.” He paused, fought for control. “Wait the month. Then, if action on our part is necessary.” Five hundred years before, the expression on his face would have been the last thing an enemy saw before his death. “Then,” Tariq said, each word encased in ice, “you will visit her, and you will make it clear that she shall carry my child to term, deliver it … and hand it over to me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THIRTY days was an eternity when a man was waiting to learn if he had created life within the womb of a stranger.

Tariq buried himself in work. With meetings. With one woman after another. And found himself leaving each at her door, looking up at him in bewilderment.

He had to be up early, he said, or he had to fly to Dubaac. He had to go over some notes.

Once, he’d even found himself pleading a headache.

Pathetic.

The truth was that sex suddenly held less appeal than at any time in his life.

It was her fault, he’d think, lying awake in the small hours of the night. Madison Whitney. The ugliness of the incident in the garden, now the incredible knowledge that she carried his seed.

Her fault, that he was turned off. What man wouldn’t be?

But his subconscious mind didn’t seem to know it. He still had the kind of dreams a grown man should not have, and they all featured the same blonde.

And that, too, was her fault.

Thirty days went by. Then thirty-one. By the thirty-second day, he was starting to breathe easier. Perhaps nothing would come of the so-called “misdirection.”

That evening, a courier delivered a letter marked Personal. Tariq took a long breath, opened the envelope … and let the air hiss from his lungs.

Madison Whitney was pregnant.

His worst fears had come true. A stranger—a woman he had every reason to despise—was pregnant with his child.

Phone me when you are ready, your highness, Strickland’s accompanying note said, and we can finalize how you wish me to break the news of your involvement to her.

His involvement. Tariq snorted with derision. Wasn’t that one hell of a word to describe his part in this disaster?

For the first time, he wondered how the Whitney woman would react to learning she carried his child. She would give it up to him; there was no question about that. He was who he was.

That made all the difference in the world.

He had a name to carry into the future. A throne to secure.

Tariq frowned.

Why had Madison Whitney wanted a child? She was a woman without a husband, a woman with a successful career and yet, she had decided to have a child. And, having made that choice, what on earth had impelled her to use artificial means?

She surely would have her choice of lovers. The investigators Strickland had hired had found no evidence of any men in her life but surely, if she’d wanted to become pregnant.

Tariq looked at Strickland’s note again. Phone me when you are ready.

He was ready now, but not to call the lawyer. He had questions; the Whitney woman had answers and he wanted to hear them without them filtered through seven layers of explanation from a lawyer.

Tariq punched the intercom and spoke with the doorman. By the time he reached the lobby, his Porsche was waiting at the curb.

Madison Whitney’s address was part of the lab report.

It turned out to belong to a high-rise building on a nondescript street on the upper East side. There was no doorman, but the lobby door was locked.

Tariq checked the nameplates on the entry wall. M. Whitney, Apt 609.

Now what? In the movies, he’d ring the intercom and say he was a delivery man but there was no way that would work at eight-thirty in the evening.

Hell. What was he doing here? Why put himself into a situation his attorney should handle?

He stepped back—and the lobby door opened. A middle-aged woman carrying a Maltese terrier stepped out. She smiled; the terrier yapped, and she did the polite thing and held the door for him.

Well, why not? He’d come this far. Why not see it through? So he smiled in return, said “Thank you,” walked through the lobby and took the elevator to the sixth floor.

Apartment 609 was at the end of the hall. The carpet muted the sound of his steps. When he reached the door, he hesitated. Maybe this really was a job for a lawyer. Maybe he should stop procrastinating, he thought grimly, and pressed the doorbell.

Why did everything always happen at the same time?

Murphy’s Law, Madison thought, when the doorbell rang just as she stepped from the shower.

Hadn’t Torino’s logged in her call? She’d ordered a pizza, then canceled it. Just the thought of all that gooey cheese had made her stomach dip. Silly, probably; it was too soon for morning sickness, even if this had been the morning …

The bell rang again.

“One second,” she yelled.

Okay. So she’d eat pizza. Or throw it out. Whatever, there was no time to towel off. No time to get annoyed at Torino’s for making a mistake, not on a night like this, not at the end of such a wonderful, magical day.

Riinnng!

Madison rolled her eyes, slipped on a robe, shoved her wet hair from her face and padded, barefoot, to the door.

“Okay,” she said, undoing the lock, “I heard you the—”

The rest of the sentence caught in her throat.

“Good evening, Ms. Whitney.”

The voice was exactly as she remembered it. Deep. Husky. And yes, definitely touched by some sort of accent. The tall, powerful body was as she remembered it, too. Lean and male and hard.

And that face. The face of a fallen angel. Cruel. Dangerous.

Fascinatingly beautiful.

Madison reacted instantly, tried to shut the door but he was too quick. His hand shot out, flattened against the door and forced it open.

“Is that any way to treat a guest?”

Sardonic amusement tinged his words but his eyes glittered coldly as he looked at her. Madison’s heart rose to her throat. She was naked under her robe, alone with a man with ice in his eyes. What did he want? How had he found her?

Excellent questions, but their importance paled beside the need to get rid of him.

“Stand back,” she said, and congratulated herself on how calm she sounded, “or I’ll scream.”

“A man, an old acquaintance, stops by to say ‘hello’ and you scream?” He gave a soft laugh. “Not very hospitable, habiba.”

“If you think you can frighten me—”

“Frighten you? Please, Ms. Whitney. Spare us both the dramatics.”

No dramatics. He was right. Straight to the point. That was the only way to deal with him.

“What do you want?”

The amused look vanished. “To talk to you.”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“Unfortunately, we do.”

He brushed past her as if she were an infinitesimal annoyance. It was deliberate, she knew, a way of making it clear he would invade her space whether she liked it or not.

“I didn’t invite you in!”

“No. You did not. But what I have to tell you requires privacy.”

His gaze drifted over her. She knew she was blushing under that slow scrutiny. She shivered and folded her arms over her breasts.

“If you think—if you, even for a moment, think—”

“Oh, I think, habiba.” His voice roughened. “Believe me, I think. What happened the night we met has been burned deep in my brain.”

No. She would not let him draw her into talking about that night; she would not defend herself when she needed no defense.

“I don’t know how you found me. Or why you’ve come here. But—”

“I told you, I came to talk.” His gaze moved over her again. “Although, I admit, finishing what we began that night is tempting.”

Her heart was pounding so loudly that she wondered if he could hear it.

“Get out.”

“Believe me, habiba, I wish I could.”

“Listen, mister—”

“Your highness.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am addressed as ‘your highness,’ not ‘mister.’”

She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had. What did his title matter?

It was only that he’d expected a different reaction from her. Surprise, yes. And even fear. Well, there was that. She was white-faced and trembling; the pupils of her eyes were dilated with terror.

And yet, she was defiant.

Defiant, and beautiful.

It was clear she’d just come from the shower. The water had turned her gold hair to bronze; it tumbled wet and wild down her back. The robe she wore was old; there was nothing even remotely sexy about it—except that it outlined her damp body. The sharp little points of her nipples. The curve of her waist. The roundness of her hips and the length of her legs.

His blood leaped. He cursed himself for it. Sexual desire was not what this was about; that she should have that effect on him, even now, sharpened his anger.

“Wait a minute …”

There was something different in her voice, an awareness that matched the way she suddenly looked at him.

“You’re a prince?”

Well, there it was. She was beautiful and defiant but, like every other woman he’d ever met, once she learned he was a royal, he could do no wrong.

“That’s right. I am His Highness, the Crown Prince Tariq al Sayf of Dubaac.”

“A prince,” she repeated, except, she didn’t really say the words, she snorted them on a whoop of laughter. “Ohmygod, a prince!”

“What,” he said coldly, “in bloody hell is so amusing?”

“I get it now. Barb sent you.”

“Who?”

“She doesn’t know you and I—that we met before. And she probably thinks you’re God’s gift to women. Well, it’s obvious you certainly do, and—”

He was beside her in a heartbeat, clasping her by the elbows, lifting her to her toes.

“Do not,” he said through his teeth, “laugh at me!”

But she was laughing. She kept laughing, and the more she did, the more he seethed.

“Stop it,” he commanded, shaking her. “Do you hear me, woman? Stop right now!”

“I can’t,” she gasped. “I mean, if Barb only knew the truth about you—”

“Here is the truth about me,” Tariq said, and crushed her mouth beneath his.

The second he tasted her, he understood what had kept him from bedding a woman the last four weeks. It wasn’t that Madison had turned him off sex.

It was exactly the opposite.

What he’d wanted, what he’d needed, was this.

This woman, in his arms, her breasts soft and full against his chest. Her belly pressed to his instantly erect flesh.

She was struggling. He didn’t give a damn. He would take what he wanted. What she owed him. Take and take and take until.

Until she gave a desperate little sob, wrapped her arms around his neck, opened her mouth to his.

Exactly as she had done when she’d teased him. When she’d humiliated him.

That wasn’t going to happen again.

He caught her wrists, dragged them to her sides. He slid his hands up her arms, fingers biting into her flesh as he held her from him.

A man who made a mistake once learned from it. A man who repeated the same mistake was a fool.

Her eyes flew open, wide and dark as night. She looked bewildered, but he knew better.

“Did you think you could play this game again?” he said in a dangerous voice.

“Game?”

She gasped as his grip tightened.

“Do not think you can toy with me, habiba, or, so help me, you will regret it.”

Color swept into her face. Her mouth trembled and, for an instant, he wanted to haul her against him again, kiss her until the tremor became sweet compliancy.

A muscle knotted in his jaw.

She was good at this. He had to remember that.

“Let go of me!”

He made a show of lifting his hands from her. “With pleasure.”

“If anyone’s going to regret anything, it’ll be you, Prince Whoever You Are, if you don’t get the hell out of my apartment right now.”

“Do not,” he said coldly, “threaten me, madam.”

“Do not,” she said, just as coldly, “underestimate me, sir. You came here uninvited. I’ve asked you to leave. If you don’t, I’m going to call the police. And believe me, that isn’t a threat, it’s a promise.”

“You won’t call the police.”

She was regaining her composure. The tilt of her head, the cool smile, told him so.

“Do you think your title gives you power over me? This is America. There are laws—”

“Do you want to make speeches?” Tariq folded his arms over his chest. “Or do you want to know why I’m here?”

Madison gave an unpleasant laugh. “Trust me, your highness. I know exactly why you’re here.”

“You think I came for sex?” He smiled thinly. “If that were true, you’d be on your back. And I’d be deep inside you—or am I supposed to forget what happened a couple of minutes ago?”

She took a step toward him, hand raised. He caught it, enfolded it tightly in his until she gasped.

“The last time you played games,” he said softly, “we were in a public place. We are alone now. Had I wanted to see the game through, I would have. Do you understand me?”

“You’re hurting me!”

He glared at her for a long minute. Then he let go, tucked his hands in his pockets and stepped away. This woman brought out the worst in him. Perhaps that was her intention, to make him lose control any way she could.

He had come here for only one reason and it was time to get to it. He took a deep breath, slowly expelled it and looked at her.

“I suggest it’s time you listen to what I have to say.”

She answered by walking to the door and reaching for the knob.

“Goodbye, your highness.”

“Madison. Damn it, I said—”

“I heard what you said. Now, you listen!” Her face was cold as she swung the door open. “If you ever so much as come near me again—”

“You are pregnant.”

Her mouth fell open. Good, he thought grimly. He had her attention, at last.

“What did you say?”

“You found out today, when you visited your doctor.”

“How—how do you know that?”

“Shut the door and I’ll tell you. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to invite your neighbors to join us …?”

A second ticked by, then another. Finally she closed the door and folded her arms. Her stance was defiant but her eyes were dark with shock.

“How do you know that I’m pregnant?”

He shrugged. “Information is not difficult to acquire when you know the right people.”

“Damn it, what’s this all about? You’re poking into my private life.”

“Yes.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Your private life—and mine.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You became pregnant through artificial insemination.”

“What is this?” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me. You can’t really think you can blackmail me into bed—”

He laughed. Her eyes narrowed; she stalked toward him and, despite everything, he found himself admiring her courage.

“I want answers, damn it! And I want them immediately.” She stabbed a finger into the center of his chest. “How do you know these things about me? Why have you invaded my privacy?”

As he had moments ago, Tariq caught her hand, trapped it within his, his laughter gone.

“You have it wrong,” he said coldly. “It is you who invaded my privacy.”

“I never even knew your name until five minutes ago!”

“No,” he said softly. He waited; her eyes lifted to his. “But it was my sperm that made you pregnant.”

She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. She even laughed. Whatever reaction he’d expected, it wasn’t that.

“Very funny.”

“Damn it, woman,” Tariq growled, “this is no joke. I’m telling you the truth. There was a mix-up somewhere. I—I gave a donation of—of my semen.” Hell, this was no time to stumble over explanations. “My doctor sent it to your company for storage but it ended up at your doctor’s office.”

Her face drained of color.

“I don’t believe it.”

Her voice was thready. Good, he thought coldly. At least he was no longer the only one in shock.

“There couldn’t have been a mistake! FutureBorn never—”

“Never be damned. It did.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not possible!”

“I said the same thing but it looks like we were both wrong. You were inseminated with my seed. The child you carry in your womb—”

The words wouldn’t come. Thinking about it in the abstract had been difficult enough. Saying it to her was impossible.

“The child—this child inside me is—is yours?”

Her voice had gone from thready to the faintest whisper.

Tariq nodded. “Yes.”

Her mouth opened, then shut. Good, he thought with harsh satisfaction. For once, he’d rendered her speechless.

“However,” he said briskly, now that the worst was out of the way, “though you are hardly the woman I would have chosen to bear my son—or my daughter—the situation is easily remedied.”

She was staring at him, no expression on her face at all. Good. She was taking the news well but then, she was a businesswoman. She would surely accept his settlement offer with the same equanimity with which he would make it.

How right he’d been to break the news himself. Strickland would probably still be talking his way into her apartment.

“Your child,” she said. “Your child …”

She started to laugh, which he thought was odd despite her calm acceptance of what he’d just told her … except, she wasn’t laughing, she was gasping for air.

“Madison?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

Her eyes rolled up in her head. All Tariq had time to do was curse and catch her in his arms as she slumped toward the floor in a dead faint.

CHAPTER FIVE

IF THIS had been a movie, Madison knew she’d have come out of the faint with feminine grace, the back of her hand to her forehead, fluttering her lashes as she looked up at the dark-haired hero holding her safely in his arms.

But this wasn’t a movie. It was reality, and she came to abruptly in the arms of a man she’d hoped she would never see again.

“What,” she said shakily, “what happened?”

“You fainted, habiba.”

“I never—”

“Nonetheless, you did.”

His tone was sharp but she could have sworn she saw concern in his eyes. It startled her until she realized any man would be concerned if a woman dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Unconscious, because he’d told her she was pregnant with his baby.

The shock hit for a second time. The room spun; she moaned. Tariq cursed but his touch was gentle when he drew her head to his shoulder.

“Easy. Take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. That’s it. And again.”

Get up, she told herself. Damn it, shove him away and get on your feet.

But the room was still tilting. And—and despite everything, his arms felt like a safe haven.

His shoulder was hard, but somehow it cushioned her head better than the softest pillow.

His arms were hard, too, but they felt gentle as they held her.

Even his scent was comforting, masculine and clean.

She could hear the beat of his heart against her ear, steady and reassuring and—and—

“Habiba?” He cupped her face in one big hand and looked into her eyes. “Good,” he said gruffly. “Some color has come back into your face.”

She nodded.

“How do you feel?”

“Better.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Thank you, I’m—I’m—”

Thank you? Had she lost her senses? What was she thanking him for?

He had just told her the most monumental lie.

What he claimed wasn’t possible. FutureBorn prided itself on running a mistake-free operation. They would never have sent her doctor the wrong sperm and this man, all ego and arrogance, would never have offered himself as a donor.

She was on FutureBorn’s board. She knew the profile of what the company thought of as its typical contributors. Young medical students, struggling to pay their way through school. Scientists and artists who believed their DNA should live on into the future. A handful were simply men who understood how desperately some women wanted to conceive and contributed sperm as an act of selflessness.

Tariq al Sayf, or whatever he called himself, was not a struggling student. He was not a scientist or an artist and to think of him as an altruistic man with the good of humanity in mind was a joke.

He was the rich, self-centered prince of a country undoubtedly trapped in the dark ages.

If he was a prince at all.

New York was filled with people claiming empty titles.

So, no, she didn’t believe what he’d told her. He was lying, though she couldn’t imagine why he would.

And why was she still in his arms wearing nothing but a robe as thin as a handkerchief? Thin enough so she could feel his heart, beating against hers, felt his body infusing hers with its heat?

Madison jerked upright.

“Thank you for your help,” she said stiffly, “but I’m fine now.”

“You don’t look fine,” he said, and scowled. “You are pale.”

“I said—”

His arms fell away from her. “I heard what you said. By all means, stand up if that’s what you wish.”

She shot to her feet. Foolish, because the sudden motion made the room blur but she wasn’t about to give in to weakness.

She took care of herself. She had, since childhood. Right now, that meant learning why he’d told her such a monumental lie and then getting him out of her apartment and out of her life.

“What is your physician’s telephone number?”

Madison looked at him. He had a cell phone in his hand.

“Excuse me?”

“I want your doctor to check you over.”

“That’s not necessary.”

He rose to his feet. He was big—six-one, six-two—much taller than she to start with but she was barefoot and he towered over her. She didn’t like the feeling; it was almost as if he were trying to remind her of his power.

“You fainted,” he said brusquely. “You’re pregnant. You need to see a doctor.”

Madison folded her arms. Ridiculous, she knew, but it made her feel taller.

“I fainted because you told me something patently impossible.”

“Impossible,” he said with disquieting calm, “but true.”

“So you claim.”

His face darkened. “Are you accusing me of lying?”

“If the shoe fits …”

“What has this to do with shoes?”

She would have laughed but she knew damned well there was nothing to laugh at.

“Never mind. It’s just a saying. It means I don’t know why you’d say such a thing about you and me and my baby.”

“I said it because it is the truth. And because we must determine how best to handle the situation.”

The situation. Her pregnancy. Her baby. And his determined insistence he was the cause of it.

“Have you had supper?”

She smiled with her teeth. “From doctors to dinner. You move right along, don’t you?”

“It’s a simple question. Have you eaten this evening?”

“You stormed in before I had the chance—not that it’s any of your business.”

“Perhaps that’s why you fainted.”

He took a step back, examined her slowly from head to toe with an ease that bordered on insolence. “Do you skip meals often? Is that why you’re so thin?”