Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton

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      “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.”

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