Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ