Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride

Kidnapping her? Yes. Taking her to Dubaac, to the Golden Palace? Yes, again. There, he’d imagined seducing her with cold deliberation.

But this—the hot, overpowering passion that had all but consumed him. The soul-deep hunger. The need to have her, to possess her.

He had not anticipated any of it, or how badly he wanted to take her in his arms now and kiss her, change the expression on her face to what it had been moments ago—a mix of desire and need and something that transcended submission.

Tariq rolled to the edge of the bed, got to his feet and zipped up his trousers.

“What’s the matter, habiba? Have you never been played a game and been defeated before?”

Madison grabbed at the duvet and dragged it to her throat as she scrambled up against the pillows.

“Is that what this is to you? A game?”

“What else could it be? A game, of course, and one you play so well. The temptress and the toad. The temptress and the prince.” His smile hardened. “But you’re right. This is no time for games. All that concerns me is my child.”

Tears stung Madison’s eyes. Her pride was shattered. Her clothing was ruined. Once she stepped out of this room, everyone on the plane, his obedient, heel-clicking minions, would know what they had done.

“I was right about you,” she said brokenly. “You’re a horrible human being! All this, just to—to get me into your bed …”

“You underestimate me, Madison.”

“What do you mean?”

“How long do you think it takes to fly to Boston?”

The change in topic caught her off-guard. She stared at him. He could almost see her coming up with the correct answer, then calculating how long they’d actually been in the air.

“That’s right,” he said softly. “We’ve been flying almost three hours.”

“Then why … then why haven’t we landed yet?”

He moved swiftly, grasping her shoulders, bringing her to her knees in the center of the bed. The duvet fell away, leaving her naked and exposed to his eyes.

“Do you know anything about my country, habiba?” He smiled; the look on her face was all the answer he required. “In some ways, we are very modern. In others, we still cling to the past.”

“That’s fascinating,” she said, trying to control the tremor in her voice, “but—”

“For instance, a man who wishes to take an unwilling woman as his bride may still resort to the old ways. He carries her off, takes her to his bed and she is his forever.”

He saw the color drain from her face.

“That’s ridiculous. It’s barbaric. It’s—it’s a joke.”

“No joke, sweetheart. There is more to the world than America.”

“Are you trying to scare me? Because it won’t work, your highness. Luckily for me, this is America, not Dubaac!”

He caught her face between his hands and kissed her, hard, again and again until he felt the first softening of her mouth under his.

The knowledge that she still wanted him, despite everything, made him want to push her back against the pillows and take her again and again until she was clinging to him, whispering to him, until his possession was all that mattered.

But he was not a fool.

She knew how to use her sexuality, and he knew better than to succumb to it.

So he drew back, ran his thumbs over the razor-sharp bones of her cheeks and smiled into her eyes.

“We are over the Atlantic, habiba. And though I am sure you find my title an amusing anachronism I assure you, it is quite real. It has power. For instance, it means that this plane is the equivalent of Dubaacian soil.”

Her eyes widened; he smiled.

“That’s right, habiba. For all intents and purposes, you are already in Dubaac. And, because of what just happened in my bed, you are now my wife.”

He let go of her so suddenly that she tumbled back against the pillows.

“And I,” he said, his smile gone, his eyes flat as glass, “am your lord and master.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

MMADISON stared at the door Tariq had shut behind him.

Shut. Not slammed. A display of hot anger would have been frightening. His icy calmness was terrifying.

She flew to the door and locked it even though she knew it was an empty gesture. A lock would not keep him out. This was his plane, staffed by people loyal to a prince who thought he lived in an earlier century.

That he had brought her on board, carried her to his bed, kept her in it while he forced himself on her.

She bit back a moan.

Tariq hadn’t forced himself on her. She had responded to each touch, each kiss, urged him to do more, to take her and take her and take her.

No. She wasn’t going there. Her moment of weakness was in the past. She’d had sex with him. It wasn’t the end of the world. She was almost thirty, she was not a virgin; she’d had sex before.

But never like that.

Never so she wouldn’t have noticed if the world had ended as long as Tariq held her, moved deep, deep inside her.

Madison spun away from the door.

What he had done had been a pure, masculine flaunting of power. What she had done was disgrace herself, but reliving what had happened was pointless. Thinking about that—that nasty fairy tale he’d told her about kidnapped women and forced marriages, was pointless, too.

It had to be a lie.

Not even the Prince from Hell would think he could get away with that kind of thing.

He’d tried to scare her and he’d succeeded, but she was past that now. What mattered was getting through the next hours, until he wearied of this new game. That meant getting dressed, leaving this room and facing him with her head high.

First, she needed to clean up. She could smell his scent on her skin.

There was another door in the room. Did it open onto a bathroom? Yes. A bathroom, complete with a shower stall. She turned the water on full, stepped under it, reached for the soap.

His soap.

This same bar had slid over his body, over all those hard muscles, over the steel-in-silk part of him that had filled her.

Madison caught her breath.

She waited, let the water beat down on her bowed head. Then she got busy scrubbing and rinsing.

She dried off. Finger-combed her hair. Stepped back into the bedroom, flung open the drawers of a built-in dresser and found shirts and jeans. His clothing, of course, and she hated the thought of it against her skin but what choice did she have?

She dressed quickly, rolling up the legs of a pair of faded jeans, securing the waist with a belt she dragged through the loops and knotted. She plucked a shirt from the drawer, cotton so soft it might have been silk. The fit was a bad joke but she managed, folding back the sleeves, gathering the tails together and tying them just above the jeans.

Then she went back into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror.

A dressed-for-success vice president had boarded this plane.

The woman looking back at her now was a mess.

No makeup. Her hair was drying in wavy tendrils, the way it always did if she didn’t blow it dry. She looked ridiculous in Tariq’s clothing and there was no way his crew would not know why she was wearing it but hadn’t she just finished telling herself that they’d know, anyway, and that she didn’t give a damn?

All that mattered was finding out what he was up to because surely, he would not take her out of the States. He wasn’t a fool. Prince or no prince, she would bring charges against him.

He had to realize that.

Madison hesitated, hand on the knob. A deep breath. A slow exhalation. Then she unlocked the door and stepped into the cabin.

Someone had dimmed the lights, though a bright spotlight illuminated Tariq, who was seated on a leather love seat. A tall, ice-filled glass was on the table next to him; an open portable computer was in his lap.

He looked calm and contained, every dark hair in place, his clothes neat and unruffled.

Why did that made her angry?

“Tariq.”

He looked up, saw her, let his eyes sweep over her. She could read nothing whatsoever in his face. Her temper, already at a simmer, began to boil.

“I see you found something to wear.”

Madison raised her chin. “Not the latest in fashion, but it will have to do.”

“I also see that we’re finally on a first name basis.”

“I want an explanation.”

“Do you?” A slow smile softened his mouth. “I’ll be happy to oblige, habiba, though I would have thought what happened in my bed was clear enough.”

He was trying to embarrass her. And he was succeeding—but she’d be damned if she’d let him know it.

God, what a horrible man!

“How long before we’re home?”

“Sit down, Madison.”

“Answer the question.”

His eyes narrowed. “Try asking it with some courtesy and perhaps I will.”

“I want to know how long it’s going to take until—”

“Six hours.”

She blinked. “Six …?”

“We’ve been flying for four hours. Six more, and we arrive in Dubaac.”

“I said, home. New York. If you think you can frighten me by pretending we’re—”

“Why would I want to frighten you, habiba? My home is Dubaac. That is where we are going.”

“You mean—you mean, when you said—when you said—”

Tariq shot to his feet.

Crimson patches had ridden high on her cheeks when she’d finally emerged from his bedroom. Now, she’d lost color so quickly he was afraid she might faint, and he’d already been the cause of that once before.

He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

Bad enough he’d made love to her without asking if it was safe for the baby. At least, then, he’d had an excuse. The part of his anatomy that had been doing his thinking wasn’t much for logic.

But he could have dealt with what she’d just asked him with a little more finesse.

It was only that she drove him insane when she got that holier-than-thou look on her beautiful face.

“Sit!” he barked, and before she could protest, he caught her in the curve of his arm and drew her down on the love seat with him. “Are you going to pass out?”

“No,” she whispered.

No, indeed, he thought grimly.

“Put your head forward.”

“I’m fine.”

“Did I ask your opinion, habiba? Bend forward. Lean against me.”

She wanted to argue or, better still, ignore the command, but his hand was on the back of her head, gently but insistently easing it forward. With a sigh, she let her forehead settle against his shoulder.

The terrible truth was that she did feel woozy. The doctor had said her health was excellent but that in early pregnancy some women might feel that way.

“Ahh,” she said, and shut her eyes at the wonderfully cold sting of ice against the nape of her neck.

“Good?”

She nodded. Wonderful, was more like it, but why tell him that?

“Is it—is it the child? Are you—”

“No. It’s nothing like that. The baby’s okay.”

“Perhaps we should not have.” He hesitated; his voice lowered and she felt the warmth of his breath at her temple. “Perhaps we should not have made love.”

Madison looked up. “What we did,” she said, “was have sex.”

“Lean your head against me, damn it!” The ice cube moved lightly over her skin again. “Perhaps you should eat something.”

“We just had lunch …”

“Hours ago,” he said sternly. “Besides, you are eating for two now, remember? Yusuf!”

Yusuf came running, as if conjured by Aladdin’s lamp.

“My lord?”

“Bring us something to drink. Water. Juice. Something cold.”

“Certainly, your highness.”

Yusuf inclined his head and started toward the galley. Tariq’s bellow stopped him.

“Sir?”

“Bring something sweet, as well. Cake. Chocolate.”

“Of course, your highness.”

“And do it quickly!”

“I will, sir.”

Madison, face still tucked against Tariq’s shoulder, gave a little laugh.

“Doesn’t he know that dawdlers can be drawn and quartered?”

“Very amusing. Do you feel better?”

“Yes. I can get up now.”

“You cannot.” She heard the cube of ice plop back into the glass. “What you may do is lift your head. Slowly. Good.” His arm tightened around her. “Sit still and take deep breaths.”

“Are the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ not part of your vocabulary?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said.”

Yusuf appeared with a tray. Tariq took a tall glass of iced orange juice from it and held it to Madison’s lips. “Drink.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, I’m pregnant, not—” Her eyes lifted to Yusuf’s, whose face was a perfect blank. “I’m pregnant,” she hissed to Tariq, “not sick. I don’t need you to hold the glass for me.”

Tariq frowned but he handed her the glass, then watched carefully as she drained it.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

“I was speaking to Yusuf.” Deliberately, Madison smiled at the attendant, who looked horrified as he took the glass from her and scurried off.

Tariq glared at Madison.

“Do you think you will win allies by insulting me?”

“When are you taking me home?”

“I asked you a question.”

“Answer mine first.”

By Ishtar, the woman was impossible! Had she no sense of propriety? They would have to discuss her behavior, and soon.

“Not until you tell me if you feel all right.”

“I already told you that I did.”

“That’s not what I mean.” A muscle knotted in his jaw. “Before. What we did.” Damn it, he was stumbling all over his words. “When we made love. Did I hurt you?”

“I told you. We didn’t make love, we had—”

“Madison. Please. Did I hurt you?”

Please? That was a first. She thought about lying, but to what end? “No,” she said, “you didn’t.”

“Good. Because I—I did not think …”

“It’s too late to apologize.”

His eyes narrowed; he caught her chin and turned her face to him.

“I am not apologizing. A man would be a fool to apologize for what happened in that bed.” He paused. “But I should have considered your condition. I should have thought of the child.”

“The baby.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You said ‘the child …’ You always say ‘the child,’ except when you call my baby your heir.”

“I’m not trying to quarrel with you, Madison. I only asked if the child—the baby—is all right.”

“My baby’s fine.” Her cheeks bloomed with color. “Sex won’t hurt it, not even the kind a man forces on a woman.”

“Is lying and pretending you didn’t want what happened the way you make peace with yourself for crying out in my arms?” he said, his voice rough.

“You forced me into this situation. If you hadn’t—”

“We would have ended up in bed eventually.”

“That’s a lie!”

“It’s the truth and you know it. We wanted each other from the beginning. That I ended up spending my seed in your womb by means of a syringe instead of as nature intended was a quirk of fate.”

Madison stared at him. His eyes had gone that shade of silver she knew meant he was aroused. And, incredibly, so was she.

How could talking about a sexless act be so sexy?

And how could he have taken the conversation so far from where it belonged?

“I don’t know why we’re talking about this. The only thing I want to discuss is—”

“I took the liberty of preparing some things besides chocolate and cake, your highness.” Yusuf paused beside them with a wheeled cart. “Shall I—”

Tariq waved his hand. “We will serve ourselves.”

The attendant inclined his head and left them. Tariq uncovered platters of cakes and cookies, a selection of cheeses, crusty bread, fruits and chocolates. Everything looked and smelled delicious.

Tariq filled a plate and put it in front of her.

“Eat,” he commanded.

She thought of saying no. Of telling him she was not one of his servants, trained to sit and stay on cue but her stomach gave an unladylike growl. Tariq laughed, she shot him a cold look, and dug in.

She emptied her plate, drank more iced orange juice and just when she looked wistfully at the coffee in Tariq’s cup, Yusuf appeared with a pot of mint tea.

“Thank you,” she said, and was rewarded with a blush.

“You are welcome, my lady.”

“Princess.”

Both Yusuf and Madison looked at Tariq. He smiled as he reached for her hand, though his eyes flashed a warning.

“The lady has done me the honor of becoming my wife.”

“No,” Madison said sharply, and winced as his hand tightened almost painfully on hers.

“My wife wished to keep our news secret as long as possible,” he said, raising her hand to his lips, “but since we will land in my country—her new country—in another few hours, I thought it was time to announce our news. You, Yusuf, are the first to know.”

Yusuf beamed at them both. “It is wonderful news, sir, and I am honored you shared it with me. May you have a long and happy life.”

“Thank you.” Tariq smiled. “And now, if you would give us privacy for the rest of the flight …”

Madison controlled her temper until they were alone. Then she tore her hand from Tariq’s and shot to her feet.

“You can tell all the ridiculous lies you like—”

“It was no lie,” he said calmly. “Or have you already forgotten what I said about an old custom of my people?”

“It is not a custom of my people! It is not a custom anywhere in the civilized world!”

“Watch what you say to me, wife.”

“Do not call me that! Just because you have some—some barbaric bit of folklore that must make anthropologists shriek with joy doesn’t mean that I—”

Tariq was on his feet, his hands cupping her shoulders before she could finish the sentence.

“You will not take that tone with me!”

“You tell your—your slave that I’m married to you and all you’re worried about is how I sound when I talk to you? I don’t know if you’re just thickheaded or so out of touch with reality that you—”

He kissed her. It was either that or silence her some other way and he had never been a man to use violence on a woman …

Besides, he loved her taste.

She struggled. He cupped her face, held her captive to his kiss, felt a rush of fierce joy when her lips softened and he felt the first sign of her sweet, eager response.

“Hate me all you like,” he said hoarsely, “but you will obey me. You will respect me.” His eyes darkened. “And when I take you to bed, you will answer my passion with your own because it is what you want, habiba, it is what you shall always want, even as you hate me with all your heart.”

He kissed her again and as she melted against him, the stirring of an emotion far more dangerous than desire coursed through his blood.

It stopped him for an instant, but Madison moved against him and he forgot everything but wanting her.

He swept her into his arms, carried her through the cabin and into the bedroom, shouldered the door closed and came down on the bed with his wife in his arms.

“I do hate you,” she whispered, but her arms held him tight as she brought his head down to hers for another kiss.

His blood thundered, but he forced himself to go slowly, to undo the buttons of her shirt, the zipper of her jeans.

His shirt.

His jeans.

Could she possibly know how sexy she’d looked, wearing them?

He spread the shirt open, kissed her breasts, loving their silken texture, the sweet taste of her nipples. He slid his hand down the back of her jeans, slipped his fingers between her thighs and stroked the tender, weeping flower he found there.

Madison cried out.

He caught the cry with his mouth and fought to hang on to his sanity.

“Please,” she whispered, tugging at his shirt, and he pulled back, stripped it off, groaned as he felt her hands on him, exploring him, stroking over his chest, his shoulders, moving down his ridged abdomen. And when she found him, cupped her hand over the taut denim, Tariq gritted his teeth, gave in to the exquisite pleasure for a heartbeat and then caught her wrists and brought them to her sides before it was too late.

Carefully he gathered his wife to him. She was trembling and he was aroused beyond anything he had ever experienced, but he knew that to take her again would be wrong.

She was pregnant. She was exhausted. She was torn between hating him and wanting him.

And he—he needed something more from her than sex, something that had no name.

The room was dark. The air was cool. He drew up the duvet, eased Madison’s head to his shoulder. Her breath sighed against his skin as he lay his hand gently over the place in her body where the child—where their child—lay dreaming. “Go to sleep, habiba,” he said softly. She bristled, as he should have known she would. “Do not tell me what to do, Tariq! I am not the least bit—” She yawned. He smiled. A second later, she was asleep.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MADISON awoke with a start.

She lay in a canopied bed the size of a football field in a vast, high-ceilinged room. Sheer curtains that diffused the sunlight pouring through a wall of glass.

The bed linens were soft and cool against her skin.

Her naked skin.

She shot up against the pillows, clutching the bedcovers to her breasts. Where am I? she thought and even in that moment of terrifying disorientation, she wanted to laugh at the pathetic cliché.

Except, it wasn’t a cliché, it was the truth.

Her memories of the night were fragments of a dream. The last thing she recalled with any clarity was Tariq carrying her to bed on his plane, undressing her, caressing her, holding her in his arms.

Madison closed her eyes.

Had she really fallen asleep that way? In his arms? Her head on his bare shoulder, his breath warm against her temple?

And after that, what? Everything was murky. The plane, landing. Tariq, wrapping her in a quilt, carrying her to an SUV that sped along a road under a sky shot through with silver.

“Madame?”

Madison’s eyes flew open. A woman stood in the open doorway, a tentative smile on her lips.

“Forgive me, my lady. I knocked, but there was no answer.”

“No.” Madison forced an answering smile. “No, that’s all right. Who are you?”

“I am Sahar. Your servant.”

Her servant? What did you say to that?

“I have brought you mint tea.”

“Mint tea,” Madison said brightly. “That’s—that’s excellent.”

“Do you wish it in bed, or shall I put it near the windows?”

“Oh. Ah, by the windows will be.” Madison took a deep breath. “Sahar?”

“My lady?”

“Where—exactly where am I?” The woman’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline. “I mean,” Madison said quickly, “what is the name of this place?”

Sahar looked at her. Madison figured the expression on her face was pretty much the same expression that had been on her face the time a befuddled tourist had asked her where the Empire State building was while standing directly in front of it.

“It is the Golden Palace, of course.”

The Golden Palace. “Of course,” Madison said. “And, ah, and the city is …?”

Sahar’s expression went from bemused to alarmed.

“We are in the city of Dubaac, my lady.”

“Right. Dubaac. The city. In the country of—”

“The city, the country are one,” a male voice said. Tariq strolled into the room and waved his hand in dismissal. “That will be all, Sahar.”

The servant bowed and scuttled out the door. Tariq closed it, then leaned back against it, arms folded. Madison’s heart banged against her ribs. He looked different. Taller, somehow. More imposing, if that were possible. And—and, yes, beautiful in a cream-colored shirt, faded jeans and riding boots.