Читать книгу Pleasure - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 12

RUGGED cliffs rose above the Hudson River.

In the small hours of the night, the road that traversed those cliffs was almost deserted. Though the place was little more than an hour from the heart of Manhattan, Tariq could almost imagine he was racing his Porsche on a cliff above one of the wide mountain rivers of Dubaac.

His foot was almost to the floor; last time he’d bothered checking, the speedometer needle hovered at one-forty. It was a dangerous speed for a dangerous road, which made it perfect for a man still filled with a savage rage.

He had proposed marriage and Madison Whitney had laughed in his face.

His hands tightened on the wheel.

At first, he’d thought the expression on her face was one of shock. Who would have blamed her? He’d shocked himself but then, what other choice was there but marriage?

Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t laughter.

“Me?” she’d said. “Marry you?”

Who did she think she was? She wasn’t expected to spin straw into gold, for Ishtar’s sake! He wasn’t Rumpelstiltskin. He was a sheikh. A prince. And he’d offered to make her his wife!

Fury had surged through him. He’d grabbed her by the elbows, hoisted her to her toes, imagined shaking her until her teeth rattled.

Imagined something far more primitive. Carrying her to the bed. Tearing off her robe. Taking her again and again until her laughter turned to cries of passion, until she understood the consequences of taunting a man until she’d stripped him of the last vestiges of self-control.

But he hadn’t.

He’d hung onto just enough sanity to wonder if that wasn’t exactly what she wanted, that she’d revel in turning him into a beast instead of a man.

He’d spat out a name for women like her, shoved her aside and stormed from her apartment.

Now he was on this road, letting out his anger and frustration, the Porsche as responsive to his touch as the woman had been.

And who in hell gave a damn about that?

He would never deliberately choose a wife like Madison Whitney. So what if she was beautiful? The world was filled with beautiful women. So what if she had him dancing on a sexual tightrope? He knew scores of women who would happily sate his hunger.

Why would he want a wife who played sexual games? Who teased and taunted? Who went from sex-kitten to defiant wild-cat in a heartbeat?

The road made a sharp turn. He took it without slowing down, finding satisfaction in the squeal of the tires and rush of adrenaline that came with the knowledge that he had sufficient control over the Porsche to keep it from skidding over the edge of the cliff.

If only he could control this damnable female the same way.

Still, he’d been willing to deal with that. She was not his idea of a wife but what choice did he have?

He wanted his child.

And he could change the woman.

He had trained horses and dogs and birds of prey. Not that training a woman would be the same: he was a modern man, fully aware of women’s rights but, after all, the same principles would apply.

There’d be rules. Goals. Rewards for good behavior and penalties for anything that wasn’t.

She’d balk, but she was intelligent. She’d learn quickly enough and then everyone would benefit. His people would have their heir, his child would have its birthright and Madison would have a husband.

That was obviously what she needed. A husband to tame her. That she’d even thought to have a child without a husband spoke volumes about the kind of obstinate, stubborn woman she was.

He eased his foot off the gas pedal, let the car’s speed drop until the dark trees no longer flashed by and swung into what a sign identified as a scenic overlook. Then he let down the windows, shut off the engine and let the night breeze cool his flushed face.

Madison carried his child. His child, and he would not be locked out of its life.

The question, he thought, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, the question was, what could he do about it?

There was no point in calling Strickland for legal advice. The man had already made it clear he didn’t have any. Besides, he had no intention of telling him that he’d asked Madison to marry him and she had laughed in his face.

He’d be damned if he’d tell that to anyone.

Tariq heaved a sigh.

He was a man of this century in all possible ways. He traveled by private jet; his life was organized around his BlackBerry. He could not imagine life without computers and cell phones.

Still, there were times he could see the benefits in the old ways.

Centuries ago, if a man of his people wanted a woman who didn’t want him, all he had to do was kidnap her, sleep with her, then state, publicly, that he had made her his wife.

Vestiges of the custom lived on, even today.

A groom might carry off his bride on their wedding night. It was done in fun, to the cheers of the guests and with the bride pretending to fight her kidnapper.

Actually, among some of his people, those who clung to the old ways, it was still all that was necessary for a marriage to be legal.

Tariq’s fingers stilled on the steering wheel.

No. It was crazy. It was insane.

It was the only option he had.

He turned the key. Peeled out of the parking area. Raced back to the city, to his penthouse and began making phone calls, never mind that it was after one in the morning. A prince had privileges. He never took advantage of them, no matter what Madison inferred, but he did, now.

An hour later, it was done.

His pilot, his P.A., the florist he’d used so many times before. Yes, they all said, what he asked was not a problem, with the florist adding that she’d never heard of anything more romantic.

Romantic, indeed, Tariq thought coldly as he ended the last call.

Let the Whitney woman laugh now, he thought, and when he tumbled into bed, he slept the sleep of a man who knows he’s done the right thing.

Forced to do it, perhaps … but the right thing, nonetheless.

Madison slept hardly at all.

She tossed and turned and thought about the arrogant, insolent, vile, let-the-peasants-eat-cake prince.

He’d really imagined his title would impress her. That she’d curtsy and bat her lashes and say, Oh, yes, your majesty, of course I’ll sell you my baby. And when that hadn’t happened—shock, shock, shock—he’d said, well, if she wouldn’t do that, then he’d take her as his wife.

Take her, as if she were for sale!

“Think again,” she muttered to the darkened bedroom.

Okay. So he was upset. So he hadn’t expected his sperm to be given away. So what? She was upset, too. You made plans, you chose The Perfect Donor and what did you end up with?

The Prince from Hell.

Sure, he was upset, learning what had happened, that she was carrying his child—but it wasn’t his child. She was the one who’d arranged for the insemination, the one with a tiny life in her womb, the one whose body would nurture that life for the next eight months.

His part was over with. Besides, he had no legal rights. That was part of the FutureBorn agreement. The donor remained unknown.

Except, that wasn’t what had happened. The prince had not actually been a donor; he’d set his sperm aside for future purpose—and why would a man so incredibly beautiful, because that was the only way to describe all that dark hair, the pale gray eyes, the hawklike intensity, the hard body—

why would a man who looked like that need to store his seed in a test tube when surely any woman he wanted would.

Damn it!

Madison sat up. Switched on the bedside lamp. Folded her arms and glared at the wall.

She would never give him her baby.

She would never marry him.

But if he behaved like a human being instead of a tyrant, if he agreed to certain terms, she might permit him some contact with the child his sperm had sired. Four visits a year. Six, if he conducted himself well. Dealt only with the child and didn’t do more than say hello to her.

Didn’t kiss her.

Didn’t put his hands on her. On her breasts. Between her thighs.

Madison trembled, shut off the light and sank back against the pillows. Maybe she’d give him visitation rights. Maybe she wouldn’t. When morning came, she’d decide.

The day started well.

Her alarm went off on time; the coffeemaker did its thing and so did her new hair dryer.

While she dressed, she debated what to do about the prince. By the time she reached her office she still hadn’t decided. Then she stepped from the elevator and found most of her people waiting for her, their faces radiant with delight.

So exciting, they said. Awesome, they said. Tell us the details, they said.

Madison blinked. Did the entire world know she was pregnant?

But it wasn’t that.

It was the flowers.

THE FLOWERS, she thought in amazement, caps all the way. Vases of them. Roses in a dozen colors. Tulips in a dozen more. Baskets of violets. Of mums. Of tiny, gorgeous orchids. There were flowers everywhere, filling her office, overflowing into her P.A.’s cubicle.

And a hand-written note in a sealed envelope.

Dear Madison:

I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for my behavior last night. I was rude and insensitive, and the only excuse I can offer is the shock I felt on discovering the error that so deeply affects us both.

I would be grateful if you would agree to have lunch with me today. We can discuss our situation calmly. Be assured that I fully understand that you have no wish to accede to my impetuously made requests, and that I look forward to finding a more sensible solution that will benefit you, me and, most importantly, the child.

I will send my car for you at noon. And, again, please forgive me.

Sincerely yours,

Tariq

She looked up. Everyone was grinning. They thought all this was from a new boyfriend. Let them think it.

As for the prince’s apology … she’d accept it. Hadn’t she already tried seeing the news of her pregnancy from his point of view?

He was thinking rationally. They’d have lunch and talk, she’d grant him some visitation rights, and that would be that. She’d have to figure out how to tell her child, when it was old enough, that his—or her—father was a prince, but that wouldn’t be any more difficult than explaining how it had been conceived in the first place.

It might even be easier.

Anything was possible.

Promptly at one, Madison slipped into the glove-leather comfort of an enormous black Bentley sedan. The chauffeur closed the door, then got behind the wheel.

“For madame,” he said, and handed her an envelope.

The car glided into traffic as she took the note from the envelope and read it.

It was brief and apologetic. Tariq regretted it, but a sudden business problem meant he had to fly to Boston. He hoped she would be willing to keep their lunch appointment anyway, since he would be out of town for the next several weeks and he wanted to get this settled.

His driver was taking her to the airport; they would eat on his plane. She could spend the afternoon in Boston or his pilot would fly her home immediately.

I apologize for the change in plans.

Madison frowned. So many apologies from a man she would have sworn had never offered one in his life.

A tingle of apprehension danced across her skin but, really, what was there to be apprehensive about? In the prince’s world, lunches on his plane were undoubtedly commonplace.

Why not go along with what was, after all, an efficient arrangement?

His plane was waiting on the tarmac, in a section of Kennedy Airport that was new to her.

The fuselage bore the image of a fierce golden hawk with the words Kingdom of Dubaac engraved below its talons. It was, Madison realized, a royal crest.

Somehow, that changed things—and wasn’t that ridiculous? A private plane was exactly that. What did it matter if it was a corporate jet or a royal one? Still, she hesitated as the driver opened the limousine’s rear door.

“Madame?”

She looked at the outstretched hand. The unrevealing expression. Don’t, a tiny voice inside her whispered but she ignored it, accepted the driver’s hand and walked to the plane.

An attendant waited at the foot of the steps.

“Ms. Whitney,” he said pleasantly. “How are you today?’

A second attendant smiled as Madison stepped through the door to the cabin.

“Welcome, Ms. Whitney.”

So many welcomes. So many polite smiles. So much grandeur, Madison thought, and caught her breath.

She had flown first-class many times on business but this—this was another world. Deep blue carpeting stretched the length of the cabin; cream-colored leather love seats and chairs were arranged in small groupings. A smoked glass table, set for two, stood between two of the chairs. Flowers. White linen napkins and place mats. Gleaming china and flatware.

“Madison.”

And coming toward her was Tariq, wearing a gray suit, white shirt, maroon tie … and, God, he was beautiful. So beautiful.

“Your highness.”

He smiled as he took her hand. “Surely we can dispense with such formality. Won’t you address me as Tariq?”

“Tariq,” she said, and wondered at the flutter of her pulse. He was very different today. Smiling, gracious, charming. Very different, this man who was the father of her child, the source of the sperm that had entered her.

Color flooded her cheeks. Quickly she withdrew her hand and searched for something to say.

“Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful.”

“I’m glad you liked them. It was gracious of you to accept my apology.”

“Well, I think—I think we both were in shock yesterday.”

“I agree.” The plane’s engines had started; she could feel it moving. Tariq cupped her elbow. “Let’s sit down, shall we?”

He led her to the table, waited until she’d settled into one of the chairs.

“This is—this is lovely.”

“I’ve asked Yusuf to serve us once we’re at flying altitude but perhaps you’d like something to drink? Fruit juice? Water? Tea?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

The plane was still moving. Madison glanced out the window. They had turned onto a runway. Without warning, the little rush of apprehension came again.

“You know—you know, your highness—”

“Tariq.”

“Yes, of course. Tariq. I’ve been thinking about this lunch—”

“You’re thinking you should have said ‘no.’”

Madison looked at him. No smile, this time. No expression at all. A fist seemed to close around her heart but then his mouth curved in a smile.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said softly. “This way, we can talk as long as we like and have the chance to get to know each other.”

“The flight to Boston’s less than an hour,” she said with an answering smile.

“I promise you, Madison, we’ll have all the time we need. Now, let’s have lunch.”

Iced Perrier, in crystal goblets. A clear broth. Scallops sautéed with asparagus. Blackberries and clotted cream. Mint tea for her, black coffee for him.

For him. For Tariq.

He was charming. Attentive. He was the man she’d met at the party, not the coldly contemptuous one who’d all but forced his way into her apartment last night.

And yet—and yet, something wasn’t right. Something hovered just beneath the sophisticated polish. Something dark and dangerous and yes, incredibly exciting, and why would he have felt it necessary to freeze his seed.

“What are you thinking?”

His voice was low and rough. Madison felt her face heat. She shook her head in denial.

“I wasn’t thinking anything in partic—”

“You were thinking, why did he arrange to give his sperm to FutureBorn?”

It was the topic they’d been discussing for two days now. Why blush over the words? But she wasn’t; she was blushing at the image, the hot, sexy image.

“You are entitled to an answer, Madison, and it is as I told you. I am the heir to the throne of my country. It was not always so—my brother was older by two years, and he would have become sultan on our father’s death.” A muscle knotted in his jaw; he raised a hand imperiously and Yusuf hurried to clear the table, then disappear into the galley. “But Sharif lost his life in an accident. He had not yet married … he left no heir.”

“And you? Why didn’t you marry?”

“I hadn’t wanted to,” Tariq said bluntly. “Not then … but Sharif’s death changed everything. I began searching for a wife.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Believe me, I tried. It just didn’t happen. Too much pressure, perhaps, or perhaps the Karma’s been wrong. Whatever the reason, time was passing and I still had not taken a wife.”

“Yes, but you’re young.”

“Fate is no respecter of age,” he said quietly. “What happened to Sharif proved it. I kept thinking, what if something happened to me?” His eyes met hers. “Then I saw that program about FutureBorn.”

“The program I was on?”

He nodded. “At first, I saw only your beauty. And then I met you and—”

“I—I don’t want to talk about that night. It was a mistake.”

“The only mistake,” Tariq said huskily, “was letting you go.”

“No. It was the right thing to do. I didn’t want to get involved. I want … I want my own life. A career. A child.”

“But not a husband.”

“No.”

“A child needs a father.”

“Your highness. Tariq—”

“Let me be more explicit. My child needs a father.”

Madison felt the warning tingle again. “Look, I came here in good faith. You said we’d talk—”

“We are.” He rose, took her hand and drew her to her feet. “This child belongs to us both.”

“No. Yes.” God, he was confusing her. He was standing too close; she had to tip her head back to see his eyes and it made her dizzy, or maybe it was just his presence that made her dizzy. “We created this life, but I wanted it.”

“So did I,” he said grimly. “The only difference is, I wanted to choose my child’s mother.”

“I understand that. And I can’t change what happened but I’m willing to grant you certain rights.”

His lips drew back. Was that really supposed to be a smile?

“Will you, indeed, habiba?”

“You can visit six times a year.”

“How generous.”

His tone was flat. Madison wanted to step back but his hands were holding her elbows; she was trapped.

“You know, I don’t have to give you that many visits. I don’t have to give you any visits. So be grateful that I—”

“Grateful?” he said in a low growl.

“All right. That wasn’t quite the way to put it but—”

“Have you heard nothing I said? The child you carry, my child, will be heir to the throne of Dubaac.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“I am tired of arguing over something that is indisputable, Madison. I offered you a way out last night. Now, I offer it again. I will take you as my wife.”

“That’s it! Tell your pilot to turn this plane around. I am not going to Boston. I am not going anywhere. I am not going to have a conversation with a—a crazy man!”

“Is that what I am?” His hands clamped harder on her elbows; he lifted her to her toes. “Is that what you think when you feel my hands on your breasts and my tongue in your mouth?”

Her cheeks turned scarlet.

“You’re despicable! Turn this plane around right now.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Then, as soon as we touch down in Boston, your pilot is to turn straight around and fly me home. Do you hear me, Tariq? I demand he return me to New York!”

“You are in no position to demand anything.”

What a fool she’d been to agree to this lunch! Frantic, Madison twisted against Tariq’s hands. He laughed, pulled her closer and brought her tightly against his long, hard body.

“Breaking bread is an old custom of my people, habiba. It is one of the ways enemies become friends.”

“You and I will never be friends. I despise you! To think that I—that I received sperm from you—”

“You mean, from a test tube.” Cupping her face, he lifted it to him. His gaze swept over her, lingered on her lips. “From cold glass instead of warm flesh,” he whispered. “On a physician’s examining table instead of on a bed, with my arms around you, your legs around my waist, your mouth hot and wet under mine …”

“No,” Madison cried, but he was already kissing her, kissing her without mercy until her head fell back.

Until the hands she’d raised to push him away instead curled into the thick, silky hair on the back of his head.

A sigh of surrender whispered from her throat; her lips parted in eager welcome to the thrust of his tongue.

Tariq swept her up into his arms, carried her through the cabin to a doorway in the rear of the plane.

But it was Madison who reached back and shut the door, locking them into the silken silence of his in-flight bedroom.

“Tariq,” she whispered, “Tariq …”

His fingers fumbled at the buttons on her white silk blouse until he cursed and tore it open. She had worn no bra; she’d told herself it was a warm day but now, with his mouth closing around her nipple, with her cry of passion in the air, she knew she had worn none because of this, because she’d wanted this, ached for this.

For him. Only for him.

“Madison.”

His voice was thick, hoarse with desire.

“Yes,” whispered, “yes, yes …”

They tumbled onto the bed together. She lifted her hips and he pulled her skirt off; she reached for his zipper but his hands were there first and then, God, then he was free of his trousers and he was big, so big that for an instant, she was afraid.

“Touch me,” he growled.

He took her hand and put it on his erect flesh. He pulsed with life beneath her fingers. And yes, she was right, he was enormous. She couldn’t close her hand around him.

“Watch,” he said thickly, and he moved forward, put his hands under her bottom. Lifted her. Entered her. Entered her on one long, exquisite thrust and she sobbed his name, cried out in ecstasy at the feel of him stretching her, filling her.

He bent to her, kissed her deeply, hungrily. She put her arms around him; she could feel the fine tension in him, his muscles quivering under her hands as he held back, gave her body time to adjust to his size.

But waiting was more than she could bear. She moved. Moved again.

“Habiba,” he said in a warning whisper.

“Yes,” she said, rising to him as he began to move, as she found his rhythm and matched it.

And came, a heartbeat later, came on an endless, undulating wave of passion as he groaned, threw his head back, buried himself even deeper within her and exploded inside her.

He fell against her, his face in the crook of her shoulder. His breathing was heavy; his weight bore her down into the bed but she loved it, the feel of his body against hers, the scent of him, clean sweat and hard sex and all of it gloriously male.

All of it for a purpose.

The final vestiges of passion ebbed away. Cold reality set in.

God, what had she done?

He had taken her only to weaken her. To prove how fragile her resolve was in the face of his power. He was a man who always got what he wanted… .

And what he wanted was her baby.

“Get off me!” Her voice was low, as broken as she felt. When he didn’t move, she banged her fists against his shoulders. “Damn you, get off!”

Tariq stirred. He lifted his head, rolled to his side and put his arm across her, hand cupping her naked hip and keeping her where he wanted her.

“Such charming pillow talk, habiba.” His tone was lazy; his gaze hooded. “Are you always this sweet-tempered after sex?”

She didn’t answer and he took his time looking at her. She was more beautiful than ever, with her blond hair wild against the pillows, her mouth and nipples rosy from his kisses, her breasts flushed from her climax.

The only thing that spoiled it was the look in her eyes. She had given herself to him and now she hated herself for it.

It wasn’t as if he’d planned to do things this way.

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.”