Читать книгу Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 6

New York City, two months later:

IT WAS not often that His Excellency Sheikh Tariq al Sayf, Crown Prince and Heir to the Throne of Dubaac, made an error in judgment.

Never in business. Even his enemies, who’d said he was too young for the task and had predicted failure when he’d taken over the New York offices of the Royal Bank of Dubaac four years ago, had to admit that the bank had flourished under his hand.

He rarely made mistakes in his personal life, either. Yes, an occasional former lover had wept and called him a cold-hearted bastard when he ended a relationship but it wasn’t his fault.

He was always truthful, if perhaps a bit too blunt.

Forever was of no interest to him. He went out of his way to make that clear to women. Forever meant a wife, marriage, children—things that he’d known he must have in the future.

But the future had turned out to be now.

And so he’d stood under the hot desert sun of his homeland and told himself he would find a wife in a week. Two, at the most. After all, how difficult could that be?

Standing at the wall of glass in his huge corner office, Tariq looked out over the Hudson River in lower Manhattan and scowled.

Not difficult at all, as it had turned out.

Impossible, was more like it.

“Idiot,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

Two weeks at home had stretched into three and then four. His father had hosted an elegant state dinner to which he’d invited every high-ranking family in the country that had an eligible daughter.

Tariq had found fault with all of them.

Next, his father had hosted a dinner and invited high-ranking families with eligible daughters from all the Nations of their world. Tariq still flinched at the memory. All those young women, lined up to be presented to him, every one of them fully aware of why she was there …

He’d said “hello, how are you?”; he’d kissed their hands, made inane conversation, watched them titter and blush and never look him in the eye because young women of good reputation would not do such an outlandish thing.

He’d bought horses this same way, he’d thought suddenly, and once that image had lodged itself in his head, that was how he’d viewed them all. As mares, docilely awaiting the stallion’s selection.

“Well?” his father had said impatiently, at the end of that second dinner. “Which one do you like?”

None.

They were too tall. Too short. Too thin. Too rounded. They talked too much. They didn’t talk enough. They were introverted, extroverted. Frustrated, angry at himself for failing to do what had to be done, Tariq had returned to New York a month ago.

Maybe he’d been wrong about American women. Maybe he’d find one here who would meet his requirements. When he thought it over, he’d realized he’d overlooked several things that might make them desirable choices.

On the whole, American women were attractive. All that sun, braces on their teeth in childhood, lots of vitamins and calcium …

Such things added up.

And they were socially adept, good at parties, conversant in the kinds of talk that kept people smiling but raised no hackles.

Perhaps best of all, they were in love with titles. The ones he’d met over the years had made it embarrassingly clear they’d do anything to snag a husband who had royal blood.

Of course, until now, the more obvious they’d made that, the quicker he’d fled … but that was before.

Now, an appropriate candidate’s eagerness to marry into royalty was an advantage.

At any rate, he’d decided, it would do no harm to extend his search. Look around New York and see what he could find.

The answer was, nothing.

Tariq had accepted endless invitations for sails on the Sound, summer parties in Connecticut and charity events in the Hamptons. He’d taken an endless list of women to dinner, to the theater, to the concerts in Central Park they all seemed to adore despite the bad acoustics and the sullen heat and humidity of Manhattan.

He’d dated so many women that after a while, he’d run the risk of calling them by the wrong names, and where had it gotten him?

“Nowhere,” he said aloud, his tone grim.

He wasn’t any closer to finding the proper candidate for marriage than he’d been two months ago.

As they’d been when he’d confined his search to his homeland, the women were too everything—including too eager to please. No downcast eyes here in the States but the intent was the same.

Yes, your highness. Of course, your highness. Oh, I agree completely, your highness.

Damn it, did he have a sign hanging around his neck declaring himself in the market for a wife?

Not that he didn’t want an obedient wife. He did. Certainly, he did. After all, he would someday be the leader of his people. It would not serve his purposes to marry a woman who was not respectful.

Tariq narrowed his eyes.

Then why, once a prospective candidate seemed attractive enough—though none, to his surprise, was quite the precise physical specimen a wife of his ought to be—still, once a candidate’s appearance was acceptable, why did he resort to what even he suspected were stupid tests?

He’d tell a joke that had no punch line. Make a foolish comment about world affairs. Then he’d wait, though not for long. Every time, the woman he was secretly vetting for matrimony would laugh merrily or nod her overcoiffed head like a bobble doll, and he’d look at his watch and say, “My, look at the time, I didn’t realize it was so late …”

On top of that—not that he was a prude—most of them were far too sexual. Well, not exactly sexual. Obvious. That was the word. A man wanted a wife who enjoyed sex but he also wanted her to have a certain amount of reserve.

And, yes, he knew that was sexist and chauvinistic but—

But, by Ishtar, he’d dug himself into one hell of a deep hole.

Maybe that was why, a couple of weeks ago, over drinks and dinner with his two oldest friends, he’d ended up telling them about his quest.

Khalil and Salim had listened, their faces expressionless. Then they’d looked at each other.

“He’s trying to find a wife,” Salim had said solemnly.

“But he can’t,” Khalil had said, just as solemnly.

Salim’s mouth had twitched. Khalil’s, too. Then they’d snorted and burst into laughter.

“The Sahara Stud,” Khalil had choked out. “Remember when that girl called him that at Harvard?”

“And he can’t find a wife,” Salim said, and they’d dissolved into laughter again.

Tariq had jumped to his feet. “You think this is amusing?” he’d said in fury. “You just wait until you have to get married!”

Shudders had replaced laughter.

“Not for years and years,” Khalil had answered, “but when the time comes, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way. I’ll let my father make the arrangements. A prince’s marriage has nothing to do with romance. It’s all about duty.”

Tariq sighed and stared vacantly out the window. True. Absolutely true. Then, what was taking him so long?

His brother was gone. His father was no longer a young man. What if something happened? To his father? To him? Anything was possible. Without an heir to the throne, Dubaac could be plunged into turmoil. And that must not happen. He could not let it happen… .

A knock sounded at the door. Tariq swung around as his P.A. popped her head into the room.

“The Five O’Clock Financial News is on CNN, sir. You wanted to watch …?”

He gave her a blank look.

“To see if MicroTech would announce their new acquisition …?”

No wife. No functional brain, either, Tariq thought bleakly, and nodded his thanks.

“Right. Thank you, Eleanor. Have a good evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The door swung shut. Tariq sat down at his desk, picked up the remote control and pointed it at the flat screen TV on the wall. A couple of clicks and he was looking at some set director’s idea of an office. Pale walls, dark floor, windows, a long table at which a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit sat facing three other middle-aged men in dark blue suits …

And a woman.

She wore a dark blue suit, too, but that was where the resemblance ended.

Tariq’s eyes narrowed.

It was difficult to tell her age, thanks to bulky, tortoise-framed glasses with darkly smoked lenses. The glasses lent her a look of severity. So did the way she wore her pale gold hair, drawn back from her oval face in a low chignon.

She sat straight in her chair, hands neatly folded in her lap, legs demurely crossed.

They were excellent legs. Long. Lean. Nicely toned.

His belly knotted with hunger.

He could see himself lifting the woman from her chair. Letting her hair down. Taking off her glasses so he could see if she was merely attractive or heart-breakingly beautiful …

Damn it.

He was not given to fantasies about women, especially ones he had never met. Was this what his search for a wife had reduced him to? Lust for a woman on television? A woman whose name he didn’t even know?

Tariq scowled.

This was what came of celibacy.

He had not been with a woman in two months. He’d thought it wise not to let a woman’s talent in bed influence him in his choice of a wife.

It had seemed a clever idea.

It still was.

He just had to stop fantasizing like a schoolboy.

Tariq tore his eyes from the woman. The program’s moderator, the Suit seated across from her, was speaking.

“. true, then, that MicroTech has acquired controlling interest in FutureBorn?”

The paunchiest of the Suits nodded.

“That’s correct. We believe FutureBorn represents the future. No pun intended,” he added with a thin smile. The two men seated with him laughed in hearty appreciation; the woman showed no reaction at all. “You see, Jay, as men and women delay childbirth, FutureBorn’s new techniques will become even more important.”

“But FutureBorn is in an already crowded field, isn’t it?”

Another thin smile. “So it would seem. Artificial insemination has been around for a long time, but FutureBorn’s new techniques … Perhaps our vice president for Marketing can explain it best.”

All heads turned toward the woman. Vice president for Marketing, Tariq thought, raising one dark eyebrow. An impressive title. Had she earned it? Or had she slept her way into it? He’d been in business long enough to know those things happened.

She looked at the camera. At him, his gut said, though he knew that was ridiculous.

“I’ll certainly try.”

Her voice was low-pitched, almost husky. He tried to concentrate on what she was saying but he was too busy just looking at her …

“… in other words, absolutely perfect for storing sperm.”

Tariq blinked. What had she just said?

“Can you explain that, please, Miss Whitney?”

Tariq sent a silent “thank you” to the moderator for asking the question. Surely the woman could not have said—

“I’ll be happy to,” the woman said calmly. “It’s true, as you pointed out, artificial insemination is not new, but the method FutureBorn’s developed to freeze sperm is not only new, it’s revolutionary.”

Tariq stared at the screen. What sort of talk was this from a woman?

“And the benefits are?”

“Well.” The woman ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. It had to have been an unconscious gesture but it turned his own mouth dry. “Well, one obvious benefit is that a man who has no wish to sire children at the present time can leave a specimen with us. A donation for the future, as it were, secure in the knowledge it will be available for his use years later.”

A donation, Tariq thought. An interesting choice of words.

“Or, if not for his use, then for use on his behalf.”

“In what way?” the moderator said.

“Well, for example, a man might wish to leave instructions as to how his sperm should be used after his death.” She smiled politely. “Frozen sperm, along with proper legal documentation regarding its use, could be a twenty-first century method of ensuring a wealthy man had an heir.

Or a crown prince had a successor.

Tariq frowned.

What if he left a—a—What had she called it? A donation. What if a test tube of his semen was set aside in case the unthinkable happened and fate intervened before he’d found a suitable wife?

Hell. Was he crazy?

Tariq aimed the remote at the screen. It went blank and he shot to his feet.

A real man did not make a “donation” to a test tube. He made it in the womb of a woman.

He had not looked hard enough, that was all. In this city of millions, surely there was a perfect candidate just waiting for him to find.

He’d been invited to a party tonight. His lawyer had bought a town house on the East Side and wanted to celebrate. Tariq, imagining all the long-legged women who’d undoubtedly be there, had at first thought it an excellent opportunity. Then he’d shuddered at the realization he’d reached the point at which he thought of such things as opportunities, and he’d sent his regrets.

Another mistake, he thought as he pulled on his suit jacket and strode toward the door. First, choosing celibacy that had clearly affected his concentration. Then, refusing an invitation to a place that might, indeed, provide excellent prospects for his search for a wife.

An old American expression danced into his mind. Three strikes and you’re out. It referred to baseball but it could just as readily refer to his quest. First, his search in Dubaac, then in the Nations.

Well, there wasn’t going to be a third strike. He hadn’t been looking hard enough, that was the problem.

And that was going to change, starting now.

“Okay, people. We’re off the air.”

Madison Whitney rose to her feet, unclipped the tiny black mike from the lapel of her suit and handed it to the waiting technician.

“Madison,” her boss said, “you did a fine job.”

“Thank you.”

“Excellent.” He laughed—ho, ho, ho, Madison thought, just like an actor doing a really bad interpretation of Santa—and leaned in close. “Suppose we have a drink and discuss things?”

Discuss what? she wanted to say. How you can figure out a way to get me into bed? But Mrs. Whitney had not raised a stupid daughter so Madison smiled brightly, just as she’d been doing ever since MicroTech had taken over FutureBorn and said oh, that would be lovely, but she had a previous engagement.

The phony smile of her very married employer turned positively feral.

“Now, Madison, it isn’t wise to say ‘no’ all the time.”

It isn’t wise to court a sexual harassment lawsuit, either, Madison thought, but she knew what he didn’t, that their uneasy alliance would soon be over.

It was enough to make another smile easy to produce.

“Some other time, Mr. Shields. As I say, I have a date.”

She felt his eyes on her as she walked away.

Twenty minutes later, she slid into a booth at a quiet bar on Lexington Avenue. Two things were waiting for her: a cold Cosmopolitan cocktail and her old college roommate, Barbara Dawson.

Madison sighed, lifted the drink and took a long, long sip.

“Bless you for ordering ahead. I really needed that.”

“I live to serve,” Barb said lightly. She smiled, and jerked her chin toward the TV screen above the bar. “I caught the show. Still hiding behind those tortoiseshells, huh?”

Madison grinned. “They make me look intellectual.”

“You mean, they make you look untouchable.”

“If only,” Madison said, and took another sip of her drink.

“Don’t tell me. The lecher’s still leching?”

“Uh-huh. Did you know you were my date for tonight?”

“Why, Maddie,” Barb purred, batting her lashes, “I never knew you felt that way.”

“Hey, there’s an idea. Maybe that’ll be my next excuse.” Madison shook her head. “He’s impossible but then, he’s a man.”

“Have you ever considered it’s time you stopped thinking every guy out there is a cheating, conniving jerk like your once-upon-a-time fiancé?”

“No,” Madison said firmly, “because they are. And that includes my own father, who only stopped being unfaithful to my mother because he died. Men are all the same. It’s a fact of life.”

“Wrong.”

“Right. There are no good guys, Barb. Well, except for yours, but Hank’s the last one on the planet.”

“Maddie …”

“Did you read the latest alumni newsletter?”

Barb looked glum. She knew where this was going. “No.”

“Remember Sue Hutton? Graduated a year after us? Divorced. Sally Weinberg? Divorced. Beverly Giovanni? Divorced. Beryl Edmunds? Div—”

“Okay, okay. I get the message, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Yes. It does.” Madison gulped down the last of her drink and looked around for the waiter. “I am not getting married, Barb. Not ever!”

“No husband? No family? No kids?”

Madison hesitated. “No husband doesn’t mean no kids. Actually—actually, I do want kids. Very much.” She paused again. “But I don’t want a husband to get in the way.”

Barb raised an eyebrow. “And you’re going to manage this how?”

Okay, Madison thought, now was the time.

“Artificial insemination,” she said, and if her heart hadn’t been beating so hard at this first public admission of what she was about to do, she’d have laughed at the look on Barb’s face. “Surprised you, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, I know a lot about A.I. It’s safe, it’s reliable—and it means a woman needs a syringe of semen, not the man who provided it.”

Something dropped to the floor. Madison looked up. The waiter, a young guy of maybe twenty, was standing next to their table. Either his jaw or his order pad had just hit the ground.

It was just what Madison needed to ease the tension.

“Another Cosmopolitan for me,” she said sweetly, “another glass of Chablis for my friend … and if I dinged your ego, I apologize.”

Barb groaned and put her head in her hands. “Nice,” she said, once the waiter had scurried off.

Madison tried a quick smile. “Sometimes, the truth hurts.”

“Speaking of which … I’m going to be blunt here, okay?”

“We’re friends. Go for it.”

“Well, have you thought this through? I mean, have you really considered why you want a kid? Could it be to sort of relive your own childhood? Erase your mom’s mistakes? Oh, hell,” she said, as Madison’s smile vanished. “Maddie, I didn’t mean—”

“No. It’s okay. You said you were going to be blunt. So will I.” Madison leaned forward. “My mother depended on the men she married for everything. I never wanted to be like that. I was intent on making my own way in life. On not having to rely on anyone, ever. Doing well in school mattered. So did getting a degree, and an M.B.A., and making it up the corporate ladder.”

“Honey. You don’t have to ex—”

Madison reached over the table and caught Barb’s hand.

“I was sure I’d never want marriage or children, any of that stuff.” She paused; her voice grew soft. “Then, one day I looked around and realized I had it all. The undergrad degree. The M.B.A. The great job. The Manhattan apartment … Except, something was missing. Something I couldn’t identify.”

“See? I’m right, Maddie. A guy to love and—”

“A child.” Madison flashed a quick smile that didn’t do a thing to rid her eyes of a sudden suspicious-looking dampness. “There’s a thousand dollar Picasso print on the wall next to my desk. My P.A. has one of those school photos of her little girl next to her desk and you know what? It hit me one morning that her photo was a lot more important than my Picasso.”

“Okay. I shouldn’t have said—”

“And then, a couple of months ago, a girl who once interned for me dropped by. She had a belly the size of a beachball, her back hurt, she had to pee every five minutes—and even I could tell that she’d never been happier in her life.”

Madison let go of Barbara’s hand and sat back as the waiter served their fresh drinks. When he was gone, she picked up her glass.

“Right about then,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted and failing, “I realized I’m going to be thirty soon. That sound you hear is my biological clock ticking.”

“Thirty’s nothing.”

“Not true. My mother had an early menopause. For all I know, it’s hereditary.”

“I still say there’s a man out there meant for you.”

“Not if my mother’s bad taste in men is also hereditary. Go on, give me that look, but who knows? She was married three times, always to rich, gorgeous, world-class bastards. If she hadn’t been in that accident, she’d probably be on husband number four.”

“What about kids needing two parents?” Barb said stubbornly.

“Did you have two parents?”

“Well, no, but—”

“One loving parent is better than two who screw things up. And, yes, I know A.I. might not be the answer for everyone, but it is for me.”

“You really are serious,” Barb said, after a second.

“Yes.” Madison gave a shaky smile. “I want a child so much … I ache, just thinking about it. The whole thing, you know? The good and the not so good. A tiny life kicking inside me. My baby in my arms. Diapers and two a.m. feedings, the first day of kindergarten, visits from the tooth fairy and in a few years, arguments about curfews …”

“Okay. I’m convinced. You actually might do this.”

Madison took a breath. “I am going to do it,” she said quietly. “I’ve already made the arrangements.”

Barb widened her eyes. “What?”

“I’ve seen my OB-GYN, I’ve been charting my periods—and I went through the donor files at FutureBorn and picked out a guy who seems perfect.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s in his thirties, he has a Ph.D., he’s in excellent health, he likes opera and poetry and—”

“What’s he look like?”

“Average height and build, light brown hair, hazel eyes.”

“I mean, what’s he look like?”

“Oh, you don’t get to see photos. It’s all very anonymous. Well, unless the donor wants his sperm kept for his own future use, of course, but when a woman purchases sperm—”

“Purchases,” Barb said, with a lift of her eyebrows.

Madison shrugged. This part of the conversation was easier. Talking about the emotions driving her was tough; the technicalities were a snap.

“It’s not a romance novel,” she said dryly. “The purpose is to have a baby, not a relationship.”

“And you’re going to do this … when?”

“Monday. And if things go well—”

“Monday? So soon?”

“There’s no point in waiting. Yes. Monday, two o’clock. If all goes well, nine months from now, I’ll be a mother.” Madison hesitated. “Will you wish me luck?”

Barb looked at her for a long moment. Then she sighed, picked up her glass and held it out.

“Of course. I wish you all the luck in the world. You know that. I just hope—”

“I’ll be fine.”

The friends touched glasses. They smiled at each other, the kind of smile women share when they love each other but disagree about something truly important. Then Barb cleared her throat.

“So,” she said briskly, “since Monday’s the big day, how about we celebrate tonight?”

“Aren’t you meeting Hank?”

“Actually I thought we’d both meet Hank. His boss just bought a place on Sixtieth off Fifth, and he’s throwing a big party.”

Madison batted her lashes. “A party in the city in June?” she said in her very best East Coast boarding school voice. “How unfashionable.”

“Come on, don’t say no. It’ll be fun.”

“And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be swept off my feet by some Prince Charming.” Madison laughed at Barb’s blush. “You are so transparent, Barbara!”

“Heck, this is only Friday. Your date with a test tube isn’t until Monday.”

“Very amusing.”

“Come on, Maddie. If your mind’s made up about this test tube thing—”

“It’s not called ‘this test tube thing,’ it’s called—”

“I know what it’s called.”

Madison sighed. “It’s been a long day. And I’m not dressed for—”

“The party’s only a couple of blocks from your place. We can stop by first so you can change. Please?”

“Sometimes, I forget what you’re like when you get an idea.”

Barb grinned. “Like a dog with a bone, that’s me. Look, one last try at finding Prince Charming can’t hurt.”

“There are no princes, there are only toads.”

“You’re a tough woman, Madison Whitney.”

“No, I’m a sucker for an old friend.”

“You’ll go?”

Madison nodded. She’d go, but only because it meant a lot to Barb. Come Monday, she’d put all this nonsense behind her.

The procedure would take.

She would get pregnant.

She’d have a baby, raise it alone and give it all the love in her heart.