Читать книгу Pleasure - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 11

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?”

God, such audacity! “Listen, mister—”

“I told you, I am properly addressed as your highness.” His mouth twisted. “But given our circumstances, you may call me Tariq.”

“I am not thin. I am not hungry. And we have no circumstances, your highness.”

Tariq frowned. She’d put a twist on those two words and turned his title into an insult. Normally he wouldn’t blame her. Titles were archaic. He disliked them and never used his except at home, where his countrymen insisted on such outdated nonsense.

But her derision set a warning bell ringing in his head.

Americans loved titles, the women especially. How often had a woman fluttered her lashes at him and cooed “your highness” or “your majesty” and, one memorable time, “your sheikness?”

His frown deepened.

Madison Whitney was not turning out to be what he’d expected.

Beautiful women, sexy women, weren’t supposed to be made of steel. They weren’t supposed to look a prince in the eye and make his title sound silly or, worse, call him a liar.

Perhaps she was not going to be as easy to deal with as he’d hoped.

Of all the millions of women in this country, that this one should be pregnant by him seemed to be turning into a cosmic joke.

“I’ll give you two minutes to explain yourself,” she said briskly. “After that, you’re history.”

Her chin was lifted at an angle that could only be called pugnacious. Her face was bare of makeup. Her robe was a joke, her feet were bare, her hair had dried into wild waves.

And still, she was magnificent. Not just beautiful but brave and proud, and by Ishtar, he could feel it in his bones. She was definitely going to give him trouble.

“You’ve already wasted a minute.”

“I told you why I’m here, habiba. You just refuse to accept the explanation.”

“That crazy story?” She snorted. “Try again, Mr. Prince!”

His jaw knotted. Such insolence!

He wanted to grab her and shake her—or grab her and kiss her. Silence her as he had that night in the garden, as he had a little while ago by covering her mouth with his, kissing her until she sighed with passion. He’d carry her into the bedroom, fill her womb with his seed the way it should have been done.

Tariq muttered a short, succinct word, turned on his heel and strode into the kitchen.

“Hey. Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to make you some toast and tea. Once you’ve eaten, we’ll talk.”

“I do not want toast or tea, I do not want to talk and I certainly do not want you in my kitchen.”

Speaking to the wall would have made more sense. Madison glared at the man who thought he could take charge of her life as he flung open cupboard doors.

“Where do you keep the tea?” He glared at her. “Herbal tea. Pregnant women do not use caffeine.”

What did he know about pregnant women? Did he have a wife? For all she knew, he had a harem.

“Lovely,” she said brightly. “I see that you’re an expert on pregnant women.”

“Are you asking if I am married?”

Color swept into her face. “Why would I care?”

“For the record, I have no wife. I have no children. I do have female cousins and female friends. I am aware of these things. Now, where is the tea?”

Stiff-necked, arrogant bastard! What was the sense in arguing? She’d never get rid of him that way. The best plan was to let him play amateur chef and then throw him out on his royal tail.

“Bottom shelf, over the sink,” Madison said coldly. “And I like my toast lightly buttered.”

To her surprise, he laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Grumbling, she flung herself onto a stool at the counter and watched him move around her kitchen, taking bread from the fridge, selecting a tea bag from the canister—she noticed that he didn’t bother asking if she wanted orange blossom or green apple but then, why would he when he was sure he had all the answers?

God, she despised him! To think that he, of all the men on file at FutureBorn, should have fathered her baby.

Sired. Not fathered. Sired. There was a big difference.

Besides, he hadn’t. She was positive of it. He didn’t need the money, didn’t have a selfless bone in his hard, gorgeous body.

Why, then, would he tell her the baby was his?

“Why?” she blurted, because, despite what she’d just told herself about waiting, she couldn’t stand it another minute. “Why have you come here? Why the fantastic story? What reason could you possibly have for—”

He set a plate in front of her. Buttered toast, with a dollop of strawberry jam alongside.

“Eat.”

She glared at him, saw that tight jaw, the icy eyes, and decided doing as he said might be a good idea. She really was starving, even maybe a little light-headed, and after all, she was eating for two now.

She picked up a piece of toast, slathered jam over it and bit in. The prince-turned-chef put a mug of steaming tea beside the plate.

“You have no honey,” he said accusingly, “only white sugar, which is not good for you or the child.”

Madison batted her lashes.

“How nice,” she said sweetly. “A prince. A cook. And a medical expert. Lucky me, having you stop by.”

He probably thought so, anyway. He probably thought himself a gift to womankind, and his DNA a gift to the world. Even the way he stood beside the counter, hip-shot, arms folded, face expressionless as he watched her, spoke of supreme self-assurance.

Such nonsense, his claim that he’d donated sperm—but if he had, the woman who got it would be lucky, assuming she put any store in a man’s looks.

Despising the sheikh of Dubaac didn’t mean she was blind.

Women probably fell at his feet. Even she, before she’d wised up to him. She’d made a fool of herself, letting him kiss her, touch her, until all that mattered was the feel of his hands, the taste of his mouth.

The only “donation” a man like him would make would be in bed, with the woman beneath him begging for his possession.

“Whatever are you thinking, habiba?”

Madison’s gaze flew to him. His voice was low and rough; those gray eyes glittered like silver. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn he’d read her thoughts.

The air between them seemed to thicken. She wanted to look away but she couldn’t.

“There’s jam on your lip.” His voice was rough.

“Where?” she said, the word barely a whisper.

“Right—there,” he said, and leaned toward her.

She felt the whisper of his breath. The fleeting touch of his tongue. Her eyes closed; a murmur rose in her throat.

She jerked back. So did he. He turned away but not before her gaze swept down his body, to where the softly-faded denim of his jeans cupped the sudden tumescent bulge of his sex.

He wasn’t the only one.

Heat bloomed between her thighs. She could feel the almost painful budding of her nipples against the thinness of her robe.

Had he noticed? She wanted to cross her arms over her breasts but that would only draw attention to what had happened.

How could a kiss have such an effect?

Carefully she picked up the napkin and wiped her lips. She waited until her heartbeat steadied. When she looked up again, Tariq was at the sink, rinsing dishes as if he did things like that every day of his no-doubt useless life.

“All right,” she said briskly. “You’ve done your Good Samaritan act. You made tea and toast, cleaned up after yourself and I’m feeling much better. Thank you—and now, go away.”

He shut off the water. Dried his hands on the towel hanging beside the sink and then turned and looked at her. What had happened a moment ago might never have taken place; his eyes were the cool eyes of a stranger.

“You mean, now, we talk.”

“Fine.” Madison folded her hands on the counter. “Talk, then. Just don’t take too long to come up with a convincing explanation of why you came here tonight.”

“I’ve already told you that.”

She sighed. All at once, she was exhausted. It had been a long day, starting with the exciting news from her doctor and ending with Tariq al Sayf’s intrusion into her life.

“Yes. You have. So let me tell you why what you claim is impossible—assuming you really are a FutureBorn donor.”

“That is not how I would describe it.”

“How I would describe it is that I carefully selected a donor from the files. You, your highness, are not that man.”

His lips curved in a mirthless smile. “I certainly did not intend to be.”

“My selection was—is—a perfect match for my requirements.”

For her requirements, Tariq thought. Interesting, that she should have thought of a father for her child in the same terms as he had thought of a woman to bear him an heir.

“I chose a man who was gentle. Easygoing. An intellectual, with creative leanings.”

Another quick, dangerous smile.

“And here I am, instead. A barbarian from a land you never heard of. Cruel. Unfeeling. About as intellectual as a game of rugby. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Why lie? Madison shrugged. “You said it, not me. And besides all that, I don’t really see you as a do—” She frowned as he took an envelope from his back pocket and tossed it on the counter. “What’s that?”

“Open it.”

She looked from the envelope to him. His expression gave nothing away; the very absence of emotion in his eyes had more meaning than anything he’d said until now.

“It won’t bite you, habiba. It’s a letter from my attorney. I suggest you read it before you say anything else.”

She didn’t want to. She didn’t even want to touch it. For some crazy reason, her thoughts swung back to childhood, to an old ditty about what evil would befall you if you stepped on a crack in the sidewalk.

She’d never believed stuff like that. Her childhood had not lent itself to silly superstitions. Still, she had the awful feeling that if she picked up the envelope, read the letter inside it, she’d somehow unleash the hounds of hell.

“Read it,” Tariq said, and there was no way on earth to ignore that command.

The envelope was of ivory bond, heavy and rich to the touch. The single page within it was the same.

The engraved letterhead sent her heart skittering into her throat.

Strickland, Forbes, DiGennaro and Lustig, Attorneys at Law.

She knew the name. Anyone who did business in New York would. There were bad law firms and good law firms. There were those that were excellent, and those people talked about in tones of hushed reverence.

And then there was Strickland, Forbes, DiGennaro and Lustig. The firm was almost as old as the city; its reputation had never been touched by scandal, and the blood of its clients was the bluest of blue.

They would not represent a bogus prince, and they would not support a bogus claim.

Madison’s throat constricted. She stared blindly at the paper.

“Shall I read it to you?”

Her head came up. The prince was watching her the way a cobra would watch a hapless mouse.

“No,” she said, and then she cleared her throat. “Surprisingly enough,” she said with what she hoped was a careless smile, “I’m capable of doing that for myself.”

At first, the words were a blur. Then, gradually, they came into focus.

Your most respected excellence, Prince Tariq al Sayf, Crown Prince of Dubaac, Heir to the Throne of the Golden Falcon. Greetings.

Okay. So he had a real title. What did she give a damn about titles?

… reference to our earlier conversation …

Legalspeak filled the next paragraph. Madison felt the tension easing. An abundance of legalspeak often meant an abundance of crapola.

Unfortunately I must tell you that our concerns have been confirmed. Despite our legal directives, errors of significant magnitude …

Her vision blurred again. She took a breath, waited, then continued reading.

FutureBorn admits that the semen of your highness, Prince Tariq al Sayf, which was to be kept for use only by you or those duly authorized to act on your behalf, was inadvertently delivered to Jennifer Thomas, M.D., and introduced into the womb of Ms. Madison Jane Whitney who resides at …

The letter fluttered to the counter.

Introduced, Madison thought, and felt the bite of hysterical laughter in her throat. Introduced, his sperm to her womb.

She looked up. He was watching her as he had before, with a frigid clinical interest. Without volition, her hands folded over her flat belly.

“I told you the truth, habiba. I am not in the habit of telling falsehoods.”

The sanctimonious son of a bitch! His only concern was that she hadn’t believed him. What about her concerns? She was the one who’d been deceived. He was only the donor; she was the woman who’d wanted a child.

Except, the letter had inferred something else. She picked it up, read again the paragraph about his sperm being stored for use only by him.

Madison lifted her head.

“But—but what does this mean? It says you didn’t intend to have your—your—” It was foolish, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. “You didn’t intend your donation for anonymous use?”

He flashed a thin, unpleasant smile. “I make donations to the Boy Scouts. To the ASPCA and to the Nature Conservancy. Not to sperm banks.”

“Then, why …”

His expression hardened. “That is my business.”

“Your business?” The hysterical laugh she’d suppressed burst from her throat. “Your business, Prince Tariq, is inside me! I think that makes it my business, too.”

Was she right?

Tariq scowled, went to the stove and began brewing a mug of tea he didn’t want. Anything, to give himself time to think.

He had to admit that this was a difficult situation for her. Not as fraught with problems as for him, of course; she was not attempting to safeguard the future of a nation but still, she had wanted one kind of man to sire her child and, instead, she had him.

There were women who would kill to trade places with her but he knew she’d probably laugh in his face if he told her that.

She was fearless.

Fearless, and beautiful, and bright. So, why had she turned to a sperm bank? Surely she could have any man she wished. Why wasn’t she married? At the very least, why hadn’t she asked a lover for his seed?

He could surely ask her that.

“I have questions, too,” he said, turning toward her.

“For instance?”

“Why aren’t you married? Why did you choose to have a child by using the sperm of a stranger?”

Color swept into her face but she didn’t flinch.

“I could give you the answer you just gave me, that it’s none of your business, but what would be the point? I’m not married for the same reason I used a sperm bank. I don’t believe in marriage or relationships.” Her chin lifted. “Is that clear enough for you?”

It was not. A woman who turned to fire in a man’s arms was meant for sex, not for syringes and test tubes … but he knew better than to say so. He needed her cooperation, not her animosity.

“Now it’s your turn, your highness. Why did you turn to FutureBorn?”

A muscle knotted in his jaw. Perhaps she was entitled to an answer.

“For my people.”

She blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“I am the son of the Sultan of Dubaac. My father has—my father had two sons. My brother, Sharif, and me.” He paused; it still hurt to say the words. “Sharif died in an accident some months ago. He was not married, he had no children, left no heir, which means I am now the successor to the throne of the Golden Falcon.”

“And?”

“And though I tried, I could not find a suitable wife. It must be done quickly, you see. My father is in good health but no one can predict the future and if something were to happen to him and then to me …”

Why was he telling her all this? Her question was simple; so should have been his answer.

Tariq drew himself up.

“Banking my seed seemed a wise move.” His mouth thinned. “But FutureBorn made a mistake.”

Madison gave a weak laugh. “The understatement of the century.”

“And I have come here tonight to remedy it.”

She looked at him with interest. “How are you going to do that?” Her expression turned icy. “If you think I’d do anything to stop this pregnancy …”

“I would never ask such a thing!”

“Good, because—”

She paused. He was dragging yet another envelope from his pocket. “Another letter?” she said warily.

Tariq smiled. “The resolution to our problem.” He took a sheet of paper from the envelope and laid it on the counter. “I will, of course, pay for your medical care.”

“What? No. I don’t need that. I don’t want it! This baby is—”

“And your living expenses. You will not work during your pregnancy. That is a given.”

She stared at him. “I don’t think you get it, Prince! You have nothing to do with—”

“Once my heir is born, you will take proper care of him.” He looked around, as if seeing her place for the first time. “Your quarters are acceptable but I would prefer moving you to a larger apartment—”

“Are you crazy?”

“One with room for a nanny, though I expect you to provide primary care for the child.”

Madison laughed. He felt his face heat with rage.

“You find this amusing?” he said, his tone silken.

“Amusing? How about appalling? How about, are you as dense as you seem?” She slid from the stool, stalked to where he stood, lifted that I-dare-you chin and looked him in the eye. “Listen and listen hard, because I’ll only say this once. This baby is mine. It is not yours. You have nothing to say about how I conduct my pregnancy, where I live, what I do, or what happens after my child is born. Got that, your highness?”

“Ms. Whitney—”

“Get out! Get out of my home and my life. You are a horrible, impossible man and I never want to see you again.”

“I am the Crown Prince of Dubaac,” Tariq said coldly. “And you carry my heir.”

“The hell I do!”

“Ten million dollars.” She stared at him, her expression blank. “Very well,” he said grimly. “Twenty million.”

“For what?”

“That is what I will pay you on my child’s first birthday, when he is old enough to leave his mother. You will, of course, have visitation rights—”

He saw the blur of her fist as she swung but there was no time to sidestep. She caught him square in the eye and, to his amazement, rocked him back on his heels.

“You—you evil, miserable, self-important son of a bitch!”

She flew at him again; he grabbed her by the wrists, which wasn’t easy because his eye hurt like hell. Damn it, how could this slip of a female have managed a punch like that?

She was panting, struggling to get free. He was half-blind so he did what boxers do when they’re on the ropes—threw his arms around her, used his body to immobilize her and keep her from doing more damage.

“This is my baby, you pathetic bastard! Not your heir. Not a—a thing to be sold! And if you try to take my child, the least I’ll do is see to it that you rot in jail for the rest of your life.”

“You’re an intelligent woman,” he said, giving it one last try. “Stop and think. You’re young, obviously fertile. You can always have another child.”

“How about you having another brain? I want this child. I love my baby. You hear me, your lowliness? I-love-my-baby!”

Tariq frowned.

Of all the things he’d considered, he’d overlooked that possibility. He wanted a child because of his commitment to his people. She wanted one because she had those female hormonal instincts.

It had not dawned on him to factor love into the equation.

His mother had been a perfumed figure who’d drifted in and out of his life and Sharif’s. She’d seemed pleased with them, but love …?

“Love?” he said.

“Love,” Madison said fiercely.

Tariq’s frown deepened.

If this were his country, he would simply command her to do as he wished—but this was America, she was American and she had a sentimental view of things.

Strickland had already warned him there was no case law to fall back on, no situation he could find in which a sperm donor and the recipient of that sperm both wanted custody of the resultant offspring.

Now what?

A long, drawn-out, scandalous legal battle? The whole embarrassing story splashed across the gossip columns? The media vultures would feed on the story for months.

His reputation would be ruined. Far worse, his father, his people, his country, would be humiliated. And no matter how the case ended, the child, his heir, would forever be the butt of a thousand terrible jokes.

The woman was still fighting him, twisting and struggling in his arms. It was impossible not to be aware of her. The softness of her breasts. The thrust of her hips. Even the smell of her, sexy and female.

Despite everything else—his anger, her intransigence, the legal quagmire he’d stepped into—his body was responding.

He was growing hard. Growing hard? He was already so erect he was like stone.

And she knew it.

Suddenly she became absolutely still. Her face lifted to his; he tried to read the dark mix of rage and fear in her eyes but it was impossible.

He only knew there was something else there, too.

Hunger.

He groaned. Brought her hand to him. Let her feel what she had done to him. And when she gave a hot little cry, he brought his mouth to hers. Kissed her, kissed her without mercy. She hissed like a wildcat. Her sharp teeth sank into his bottom lip. The taste of blood, of anger, of something darker and even more primitive was in his mouth and then her tongue was dancing against his, her hands were in his hair, she was kissing him back and moving, moving against him.

He slid his hands inside her robe.

Cupped one breast. Caught his breath as the nipple budded under the brush of his thumb. As she cried out and lifted herself against him.

“Yes,” he said thickly, “yes …”

His hand moved down her body, over her belly, brushed over her mons. She cried out again and as he kissed her, she sucked the tip of his tongue into her mouth.

Tariq grabbed the lapels of her robe. Jerked them open. Began pushing the robe from her shoulders but suddenly, she went crazy, pulled away from him, slammed her fists against his chest.

“No,” she said, her voice trembling, “no, no, no!”

He didn’t listen. Couldn’t listen. He wanted this, had to have this. And then she said “no” again and this time he was the one who jerked back, his breathing ragged.

She had played this game with him before.

“Get out!” she whispered. Her voice trembled. “Do you hear me? Get out!”

He stared at her and thought how easy it would be to finish this. He could carry her to the bed, show her what happened when a woman teased a man beyond endurance.

But the stakes were too high.

There was a new playing piece on the game board: the child they’d created together without sex, without emotion. The child she would not give him and he could not permit her to keep.

He turned away, ran his hands through his hair, forced himself to calm down. Then he swung toward her, his face a mask.

“I will not take the child from you,” he said, his voice rough and harsh and suddenly shot with the accent he had surely lost, years ago.

“No,” she said with conviction, “you most assuredly will not!”

“What I will do,” Tariq said, with the assurance of a man who’d just solved the riddle of the ages, “is take you as my wife.”