Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride

“Good morning, habiba. Did you sleep well?”

“Do you care?”

He grinned. “I can see we’re off to a fine start.”

“We are off to no start.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, you are not welcome in this room, Tariq—and where are my clothes?”

His smile tilted. “Don’t you really mean, ‘Who undressed me and put me to bed?’ ”

Why did he always manage to make her blush? “An excellent question but then, I have a lot of excellent questions. And I’m not asking them until I am out of bed and dressed.”

“No one’s stopping you.”

“You are.”

“A little late to worry about modesty,” he said, his voice silken, “don’t you think?”

“Damn it, Tariq …”

“Sahar undressed you and put you to bed.”

He could see it wasn’t the answer she’d expected. Her face, lovely in the bright light of morning, was a study in surprise.

“It would have been improper for me to have done so.”

“But—but I thought—I mean, if you and I are—if we really are—”

“Husband and wife, habiba, are the words you’re searching for.”

“Don’t play games with me.”

He had wondered how she would be this morning. Subdued, he had told himself and told himself, too, that he hoped that would be the case because it would make everything that came next easier.

But his wife was not subdued. Frightened, yes. The tremor in her voice gave it away, but she was facing him as she always did, chin high, eyes steady. A tiger ready to do battle even though he had turned her life upside down, stolen her away from everything familiar, forced her into his bed.

Tariq’s throat went dry.

Except, he hadn’t forced her. She had gone willingly, moved beneath him eagerly, matched him kiss for kiss, touch for touch.

Damn it!

He swung away, shocked by the swift response of his body, angered by it. He strode into the dressing room, determined not to let her see the evidence of her power over him, and returned with a long silk robe that he tossed on the bed.

“Get up,” he said harshly, “and make yourself presentable.”

“Presentable? How? I have nothing to—”

“There are clothes for you in the dressing room.”

“Clothes for the last woman you kidnapped and brought here?”

His jaw tightened. Did she really think he would indulge her in debate … or tell her he had never brought a woman here, to the Golden Palace? There was no need for her to know that.

As it was, he had enough to tell her—and to prepare her to accept.

“Select something appropriate,” he said coldly. “Then we will have coffee and talk.”

“Appropriate for what?”

He looked at her, sitting up in his bed, against his pillows, holding the silk robe over her breasts.

Her skin would feel as soft as the robe.

It would slide over her nipples, turning them into tight little buds. He could still recall their taste. Sweet. Cool. Delicate. And the scent of her skin, just there. Like wildflowers on a June morning.

Was he insane?

They were minutes away from facing his father, from gaining the approval he had not yet told her their union would require, and he was turning as hard as a schoolboy staring at his first centerfold.

It made him even more angry. It was her fault. Surely it could not be his!

“I asked you a question, Tariq. Appropriate for what?”

Her mouth was trembling. He wanted to go to her. Take her in his arms. Tell her—tell her—

“And I told you to get up,” he snapped. “Learn to do as you are told and things will go easier for you. And before you bother telling me that you hate me. Hatred is always the prerogative of a wife.”

She snarled a word at him. He ignored it, turned his back, folded his arms and let his damnable imagination take over as he heard the whisper of silk, the pad of bare feet, the hiss of the shower running in the en suite bathroom.

And groaned.

Why was he standing here when he could strip off his clothes, go to her, step under the water and take her in his arms?

She would protest, because she hated him. But hating him didn’t keep her from wanting him and once he touched her, drew her naked body back against his so she could feel the urgency of his desire, she would sigh his name, let her head droop against his shoulder as he cupped her breasts, as he slid his hands down her body in the most intimate of caresses.

Then he would turn her toward him, she would raise her mouth to his, wind her arms around his neck and he would cup her bottom, lift her to him, feel her legs wrap around his hips as he thrust deep, deep into her heat.

Tariq groaned again. He was a man in the sweetest kind of pain.

She was killing him, this woman he had not wanted in his life. Killing him—and his sanity depended on concentrating on the long nights he would spend, making her pay the penalty for it.

Madison stood under the shower, waiting. She knew Tariq’s game.

Any minute now, he’d open the bathroom door and step into the shower stall with her. As far as he was concerned, he could bark at her, order her around, then take her in his arms and dazzle her with his sexual expertise. Well, it wasn’t going to work this time. It wasn’t going to work at all, she realized as the minutes slid past, because it wasn’t going to happen. The door to the bedroom stayed shut. She was alone, and he was going to leave her that way. Good, she thought grimly. The last thing she wanted was him forcing himself on her again. Caressing her. Kissing her.

A little sound whispered from her lips. What was happening to her? She was changing into a woman she didn’t know.

Too little sleep, that was the problem. That, and the change in time zones.

Madison frowned, lifted her face to the spray and blanked her mind to everything but survival.

The dressing room opened off the bath as well as the bedroom. It was the size of her Manhattan living room and filled with clothes. Acres of them. Trousers. Sweaters. Blouses. Dresses. Gowns. Shoes. There was lingerie, too: delicate bras and thongs in soft shades of peach and palest blue, all surely handmade.

She selected a bra. A thong. A gorgeous pair of white cotton trousers and a white silk T-shirt.

Everything fit perfectly.

Her mouth thinned.

Tariq obviously preferred his women to be built as she was. Surely all these things, this suite, had been arranged by a prince for his mistress. For his mistresses.

Not that she gave a damn.

She dropped the towel, dressed quickly, slid her feet into a pair of exquisite white high-heeled sandals. The dressing room was mirrored; Madison glanced at her reflection, ran her hands through her still-damp hair, flung open the door and marched into the bedroom.

“Here I am,” she said briskly, “appropriately dressed or—”

But the room was empty.

Tariq had drawn back the gauzy curtains, revealing a door in the wall of glass. He stood on a stone balcony beside a table set for breakfast, sipping from a cup as he looked out over a turquoise sea.

Madison’s breath caught.

How beautiful this place was. How beautiful Tariq was.

If only he’d brought her here because he wanted her. Because he needed her. Because she was someone he cared for instead of his virtual captive.

Did he sense her presence? He must have because he swung toward her, his gray gaze sweeping from the top of her head to her toes and then back up again.

She thought her heart would stop at the sudden glint in his eyes.

“You look.” He cleared his throat. “You look beautiful, habiba.”

She came within a breath of saying he did, too, before she regained her senses.

“I’m so glad you approve,” she said, frost clinging to every word.

“Come,” he said, motioning to the table. “Sit with me and have breakfast.”

The word made her salivate. “I’m not hungry,” she lied. “And I’m not Sahar. I don’t take orders from you.”

His gaze flew over her again. “No,” he said softly, “you are not.” Smiling, he held out his hand. “Join me. Please.”

She wondered how much the simple word had cost him. Enough to make doing as he’d asked worthwhile? She decided it was, if only because not eating was foolish and she knew she’d need all her wits about her to make him stop toying with her.

She ignored his outstretched hand, pulled out a chair for herself and sat down at the table. Tariq shrugged and sat down across from her. She’d half expected him to clap his hands or press a buzzer that would bring Sahar running. Instead he poured her juice, served her crepes with crème fraiche and tiny raspberries, and filled her cup with tea.

She was almost painfully aware of him watching her as she ate. Finally he cleared his throat.

“Good?”

She thought of lying, but what was the point?

“Yes.”

“And you feel well? The baby—”

“The baby’s fine. So am I—unless you count the fact that I’m angry as hell!” She put down her fork, touched her mouth with her linen napkin and decided there’d never be a better time than right now. “Tariq. I want this nonsense to end.”

His eyes narrowed. “Nonsense?”

“Nonsense. You know. The flight here. This—this little sojourn at—at—”

“The Golden Palace.”

“Whatever. I’ve had enough. I want to go home.”

“You are home,” he said evenly. “I thought you understood that.”

“You said what—what you’d done made me your wife.”

“Carrying you off? Making love to you?”

She felt her face heat. “Stealing me,” she said. “And then—and then taking me.”

A little smile, quick and sexy, slanted across his mouth. “I may have stolen you, habiba, but I did not ‘take’ you. We made love.”

“I’m not going to debate it. The fact is, you said those things made me your wife.”

“They did.”

Madison took a deep breath, held it for an instant, then let it out.

“And yet, this morning you said it would not have been proper for you to have put me to bed last night. Or to have shared that bed with me.”

“Believe me, habiba,” he said, his voice low and a little rough, “I regret not having been able to do those things as much as you do.”

“I don’t regret them! That’s not my point at all!”

“Then, what is your point, Madison?”

“If you’d told the truth, if I really were your wife—”

“You are.” Tariq tossed his napkin on the table and rose to his feet. “But I want my father’s recognition of that fact. His formal recognition.”

“How touching.”

His face darkened. “You would make a joke of it. I assure you, this is not a joking matter. My child—”

“My child.”

“Our child,” he said coldly, “will someday inherit the throne of an ancient and honorable kingdom. For the sake of his future, for the sake of my people’s future, our union must have the royal blessing.”

“My son speaks the truth, young woman. My approval is vital to the future of Dubaac.”

Madison shot to her feet. A small man, white-haired and stooped, stood in the doorway. Tariq, looking startled, hurried toward him.

“Father. I did not expect—”

“No. Obviously not.” The sultan, his expression unreadable, looked at Madison. “And this is your wife.”

“Yes, Father. I told the prime minister I would bring her to you at noon.”

“Did you expect me to wait that long to see the woman who carries my grandchild?” The sultan frowned. “She could use more meat on her bones.”

“I agree, Father, and—”

“Excuse me,” Madison said with defiance, though her heart was pounding like a drum. “I do not need more meat on my bones, I do not like being spoken of as if I were not present and I am not your son’s wife.”

The sultan’s expression eased. “She is exactly as you said, Tariq.” His eyebrows rose at Madison’s look of surprise. “My son told me all about you.”

She blinked. “He did?”

“Last night, after you and he arrived. And, I admit, I was not pleased.”

An ally? Madison mentally crossed her fingers. “No. Of course you weren’t. I mean, why would you be …”

“My son is a prince. He is my heir. His wedding should have been celebrated properly, by the joined Nations.” The sultan’s expression softened. “But he explained how you met and fell deeply in love.”

Madison crossed her arms over her chest. “Did he, indeed?”

“And I understand.” The old man’s lips twitched. “I know you’d planned to seek my blessing but that fate and nature intervened. After all, I was young once. I remember how hot the blood can run.”

“No,” Madison said quickly, “that isn’t—”

“Father.” Tariq came to her side, slid his arm around her waist. It looked like a gesture of tenderness but his hand splayed over her hip as if it were made of steel. “You’re embarrassing my bride.”

“That’s not true. I’m not—”

“Of course you are, habiba.” Tariq’s voice was soft but the look he flashed at her upturned face was a cold warning. “It’s only natural that you’d feel our story is far too personal to share.”

Madison blinked. Hadn’t he told his father how this child had been conceived?

“As I said,” the sultan continued, “I am human. I stayed awake all night, thinking.” His voice went soft. “I decided to be happy for you and for my son, and especially for the baby he put in your womb, even if it was done a new way.”

Tariq felt Madison’s start of surprise. He tightened his arm around her.

“He means,” he said carefully, “without us marrying first, habiba.”

“In fact, I must admit I am delighted that you agreed to an old-fashioned joining of your bodies, hearts and souls so that no one will dare call your baby illegitimate.”

Madison ignored the pressure of Tariq’s encircling arm. “Sir,” she said, “you don’t under—”

“There is no need to thank me, my dear. I love my son. I love my people. Why would I not be prepared to love the woman he loves, and the child she carries?” The sultan smiled. “Welcome to our family, Princess.”

Madison stared at the eyes bright with hope but rheumy with age. What could she say that wouldn’t take that hope from the old man? If she told him the truth, that she hadn’t agreed to anything, that she wanted to leave this place and Tariq, she’d probably break his heart.

No. She couldn’t do that. Tariq had created this mess. Let him be the one to fix it, not she.

The sultan held out his arms. Madison fixed a smile to her lips and walked into his embrace. He kissed each of her cheeks, then held her at arm’s length and chuckled.

“Such a nice surprise my son brings me.” His smile tilted. “Did Tariq tell you of the death of his brother?”

“Yes. I mean, he said something about—”

“I am happy for the first time since that terrible day. A lovely woman, with my first grandchild in her womb. Who would have thought a tragedy could leave a man twice blessed?”

Color flooded Madison’s face. Tariq saw it and knew she was not blushing at the compliment but at the depth of their lie.

He felt something knife into his heart.

His bride had honor. She had integrity. Where was his?

“Tonight,” the sultan said briskly, “we shall celebrate. I have contacted all our friends and family. It is short notice but they assure me they will all be here to share our good fortune and to hear you announce your marriage and make it official.” He smiled. “My son, you have done well.”

A muscle flickered in Tariq’s jaw. “Father. Just a minute. I must talk to you—”

“We’ll have time to talk tomorrow.” The old man let go of Madison and clasped Tariq’s shoulders. “You have done a good thing,” he said quietly, “a fine thing. Your brother can rest easy. Wherever his spirit dwells, I am sure he is as proud of you as I.”

The sultan embraced Tariq, kissed Madison again and retraced his steps into the house.

Tariq stood motionless.

The scene had gone exactly as he’d hoped.

And he despised himself for it.

His father was wrong. Sharif would not be proud of him. No one would. He had drawn them all into a monstrous lie. His father, his people, his dead brother and, most of all, the woman who carried his child. He had dishonored all of them.

It was not difficult to see that he had dishonored his unborn child, too.

“Tariq?”

He felt Madison’s hand fall lightly on his shoulder. He ached for her touch, for her absolution, but he knew damned well he didn’t deserve it so he swung toward her and caught hold of her wrists.

“I was wrong,” he said harshly. “About everything. I got so caught up in the need for an heir that I was blind to everything else. And—and I forgot a simple thing called honor.”

Madison stared at the stranger who was her husband. Moments ago, all she’d wanted was to finish this awful charade. Then, she’d met an old man fighting the ravages of time, the loss of a son and the burden of leadership.

Looking at Tariq’s drawn face, her heart constricted.

He had been born to awesome responsibility. He’d lost his brother and, from the looks of it, he would probably soon lose his father, too. In the face of all that, he had done what he had to do.

What any man of honor would do. How could she not have recognized that until now?

“Habiba. I have wronged you. And I—”

Madison shook her head. “You did what fate demanded.”

“Sharif would not be proud of me.”

“I think he would.”

“I lied to my father, I forced you into marriage—”

“You loved your brother.”

“With all my heart.”

“And you love your father. You love your land and your people.” She shook her head. “I didn’t really understand.”

“What is there to understand? I put myself ahead of everything. Ahead of you, our baby, even the righteousness of truth. And that is an unforgivable evil.”

“You were worried,” she said softly. “About the future of your people and your child.”

“You’re being generous, habiba. I didn’t think of our baby, I thought of my heir.”

“Maybe—but somewhere along the way, your heir became our baby.” Her lips curved in a smile. “And look at what’s just happened. You said you were wrong. You apologized. Tariq, this is a day to remember.”

Tariq looked at his wife. How good she was, this woman whose life he had turned upside down. How could he have seen her only as a vessel for his needs?

He took a strand of her hair and let it curl around his finger, stalling for time even though he knew what he had to do.

“Madison. I’m going to take you home. To New York. We’ll meet with my attorney and work out some sort of arrangement. I will, of course, support our child. I only ask that you let me share in its life and teach it to be proud of its heritage.”

“You don’t have to ask those things of me, Tariq. We’re married.”

Not yet, Tariq thought. He had announced the marriage to his flight staff, to his father, but until he stood before his people with Madison at his side.

“We are, aren’t we, Tariq?”

He hesitated. She deserved the truth.

“Tariq. Are we married?”

Tariq looked at the impossible, difficult, untamable female who carried his child.

Her eyes were very dark; her breathing was quick. She was not what he had ever looked for. Except for her beauty, she had none of the traits he’d believed a wife should have.

And the thought of giving her up made his heart ache.

“If I were not a royal, we would be,” he said softly. “But I am a prince, habiba. So until my father makes the announcement before our people—”

Madison put her fingers over his lips.

“I had no father, Tariq. I told myself that my child wouldn’t need one, either. And then you appeared at my door. The anonymous donor who’d made me pregnant.” Her eyes met his. “But you’re not that anymore. You’re a man. A good man. How can I deny your right to this child, or its right to you?” She swallowed dryly. “Let your father make the announcement tonight.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Then Tariq groaned and gathered her in his arms.

“You do me an incredible honor,” he said softly. “I will be a good husband. A good father. I swear it, habiba. I will do everything I can to make you happy. I swear that, too.”

Madison nodded. She knew that he would.

But he would not love her. That was all right, wasn’t it? Love wasn’t part of this arrangement. Why would she want it to be? She didn’t love this man. Certainly she didn’t love—

“Habiba?”

Madison stopped thinking, rose to her husband and sealed their agreement with a kiss.

CHAPTER NINE

TARIQ said he would see her later, that he’d have to spend most of the day in meetings.

“Will you be all right, habiba?”

Madison had said yes, of course, she’d be fine. She was accustomed to being on her own; why would this be any different?

The answer came within seconds of his closing the door.

There was a phone beside the bed. Seeing it made her realize she hadn’t contacted her office. Even if she’d had the time, her cell phone wasn’t geared for overseas use.

All right. She’d call now. Her P.A. was probably frantic, trying to figure out what had happened to her.

A tingle of disbelief raised goose bumps on her arms. She was getting married. That was what had happened to her.

Her office was in for quite a surprise.

Smiling, Madison picked up the phone, waited for the dial tone, punched in the number.

The line went dead.

Well, of course. You had to dial the international dialing code first, then the one for Manhattan. She did that … and, once again, found herself holding a dead phone in her hand.

Maybe she had the codes wrong. Or maybe you had to dial for an outside line. Sahar would know or, if she didn’t, she’d find someone who did. But where was Sahar? How was she supposed to summon her—and what an awful word that was! You summoned a taxi, not a person—

Someone rapped lightly at the door. Madison heaved a sigh of relief.

“Sahar. Please, come in. I was just thinking about—” “My lady.”

This wasn’t Sahar. It was a man who looked even older than the sultan.

“My lady,” he said in a quavery whisper, and bowed until Madison thought she heard his bones creak.

“Please, she said quickly, “stand up. You don’t have to—”

“I am Fouad, Doorkeeper of the Golden Palace. What you might call the major-domo. His highness, the crown prince, thought you might wish to tour its rooms.”

“Yes. Yes, thank you, I would but first. This telephone doesn’t seem to work.”

“Whom did you wish to call, my lady?” Madison raised an eyebrow. None of your business, was her typically New York reaction, but Fouad was old enough to be her grandfather.

“My office,” she said politely, “in—”

“Ah. That has been done.”

“No, it hasn’t. I haven’t spoken to them since—”

“It has been done, my lady. My lord saw to it.”

Madison raised her eyebrows. “The prince?”

“Yes. He took care of it.”

“Well, that was good of him but I want to phone anyway, so if you’d just show me how to use this—”

“You are to see the palace, ma’am. The prince so commanded.”

The prince had made a call she hadn’t asked him to make. Had he also commanded she tour the palace, or was the old man’s formal use of English putting the wrong spin on things?

“My lady?”

There was no sense in asking questions of Fouad. She’d save them for Tariq.

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