Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton

how something a man had dreaded could turn out to be the very thing that restored his equilibrium.

      At seven that evening, Tariq stepped into the foyer of his penthouse, tossed his keys on the marquetry-topped table near the door and shrugged off his suit jacket.

      He’d been so hung up in disliking what he’d had to do this morning that he’d almost forgotten the reason for doing it.

      Yes, he still had to find a wife but now he could give the project the time it deserved. Choosing a woman to wed was not like choosing a date for a party. It would require planning, something he had not initially considered.

      Tariq undid his tie as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

      He would draw up a list of qualities he demanded in a wife and a list of women he already knew. Cross-reference the two. He had not considered doing that until now, either.

      To solve a problem, any problem, one needed to develop a method that would lead to a solution. It was the way he conducted business; why had he not also realized it was the way to search out a suitable wife?

      But not tonight.

      Tariq smiled as he stripped off his clothes.

      Tonight, he would take a break from his wife-search. A shower. A drink. A meal.

      And a woman.

      He stepped into the glass shower stall, turned his face up to the spray, turned again and let the water beat down on his neck and shoulders.

      Definitely, a woman.

      He’d check the names in his BlackBerry, make a call …

      Madison Whitney was not in his BlackBerry.

      Tariq frowned as he worked a dollop of shampoo through his hair.

      Damn right, she wasn’t. What man in his right mind would want to be with a female who could turn on and off like a lightbulb?

      She was a cold piece of work … except, she had been hot with passion when he’d held her in his arms and kissed her, hot with passion when he’d dreamed of her, and this morning, when he’d conjured her up, imagined taking her, entering her, hearing her cry out as he brought her to completion. “Hell!”

      Tariq turned the water to cold, shivered under the icy needles, then shut off the shower and stepped out of it.

      Was he crazy, getting turned on by a memory? By a woman who had teased him almost to the point of no return?

      No. He was just frustrated. A healthy male who went without sex for too long was asking for trouble—and nobody could call this morning’s medical exercise “sex.” Fine. He was going to change that right—The telephone rang as he was zipping up a pair of chinos. Let his voice mail take it. But the caller disconnected; in seconds, the phone rang again. And again. Tariq cursed and grabbed for it. “Hello,” he barked, and this had better be—” “Your highness!”

      The attorney. Tariq sighed. “What is it, Strickland? Did you think of another fifty pages I should have signed this morning?”

      “Not that, your … I … with … twenty minutes ago—knew that—and so—”

      “Strickland, are you on your cell? You’re breaking up.” “—yes—t-tunnel—spoke with—and nobody can explain—” “Damn it, John, I can’t hear you. Call me when you get home. Better still, wait until tomorrow and phone me at my—” Suddenly the transmission cleared.

      “Something went wrong with your donation,” Strickland said, his voice as clear as if he were in the room.

      Tariq sat down on the bed.

      “Don’t tell me I have to undergo that procedure all over again.”

      “No, sir. It’s nothing like that. The problem wasn’t with the procedure.”

      “What, then?”

      There was a silence. Had the connection been lost again? No. He could hear Strickland breathing.

      “Damn it, man, speak up!”

      “Your donation was couriered to the FutureBorn laboratory, sir. Exactly as planned.”

      “And?”

      “And—and at that point, it should have gone into storage. Instead it was—it was sent out.”

      Sent out? Tariq had a wild image of that damnable little vial, out for an evening on the town. Laughable, except for the sudden chill working its way down his spine.

      “Sent out where?” he said, very softly.

      “To an office. A doctor’s office.”

      “Well, get it back!”

      “I’m afraid that’s impossible, your highness. It’s been—it’s been used.”

      “Used?”

      “Yes, sir. Given to a—a recipient.”

      “You mean,” Tariq said carefully, “you mean that some woman has been impregnated with my sperm?”

      “Inseminated, sir. It would be premature to say she’s been—”

      “How in hell could such a thing happen?”

      “I don’t know, your highness.”

      Tariq’s head was spinning. Somewhere in the vast city, a part of him had entered the womb of a stranger. If she became pregnant, if she bore a child.

      “Who is she?”

      “Sir. With all due respect—”

      “Who is she, Strickland?”

      “Your highness, there are issues of privacy here. Until I can research them—”

      “Privacy?” Tariq roared, as he shot to his feet. “Some woman I’ve never even laid eyes on is carrying my seed and you’re worried about her privacy? Tell me who she is or so help me, you’ll regret it.”

      There was silence. Then Strickland cleared his throat.

      “Her name,” he said, “her name is Madison Whitney.”

      Tariq had heard that a man’s vision went red with rage.

      A lie.

      If anything, his took on a brilliant clarity. He could see Madison Whitney as if she were standing in front of him. That coldly beautiful face, her contempt for him glittering in her eyes.

      Impossible. Strickland had her name wrong. Or there was another Madison Whitney in New York.

      Strickland erased those possibilities. Tariq’s seed had been, as he delicately put it, “misdirected and utilized.” Utilized by the very woman whose image had made Tariq’s “donation” possible.

      The irony was inescapable. And, all at once, so was a far darker possibility.

      “She is a vice president at FutureBorn,” Tariq said sharply.

      “Yes.”

      “Perhaps she did this deliberately.”

      “Your highness—”

      “If she knew what I intended to do—”

      “Sir, it’s not very likely that—”

      “She would also know who I am. That I am a man of considerable wealth and—”

      “And what, sir? What possible benefit could she see in it? Even if the procedure she underwent worked—and there’s no guarantee it did—having your child to get at your money is a bit far-fetched—if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

      Tariq rubbed his forehead, where an entire assortment of percussionists seemed to have set out their drums.

      “Additionally, your highness, it seems the woman had been