Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton

      “She opted for an anonymous donor, sir.”

      Tariq closed his eyes while Strickland went on talking.

      “I’ll begin checking the grounds on which we’ll sue, and—”

      “Is that your best legal advice? That I should sue and let the entire world laugh?”

      “The woman might choose to sue, even if you don’t.”

      Could this nightmare get worse?

      “Thus far, no one has told her of your involvement. It might not please her, any more than it pleases you.”

      “I am a prince,” Tariq said imperiously. Later, he would recall those words and wince.

      “Your highness. For now, the best option might be to do nothing.”

      “And if the Whitney woman becomes pregnant? Are you suggesting I let her raise a royal prince of Dubaac as a—a street urchin?”

      “Hardly that,” Strickland said dryly. “She’s well-educated. She holds a very responsible position. She—”

      “I don’t care if she’s Mother Teresa incarnate,” Tariq snapped. He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Very well. For now, do nothing. Make sure whoever knows about this—this ‘misdirection’ does nothing. Is that clear?” Tariq sank down on the edge of the bed again, hand over his eyes, his clever plan lying in pieces around him “How long before we know if she is pregnant?”

      “A month, sir.”

      “How will we get the information?”

      Strickland cleared his throat. “I have ways, your highness. Be assured, we will know minutes after she does.”

      A month. Four weeks. Four endless weeks.

      “Wait the month,” Tariq said softly. “Meanwhile, have her watched.”

      “Sir?”

      “I know something of this woman,” Tariq said coldly.

      “Ah. I had no idea—”

      “Her sexual habits leave much to be desired. If she sleeps with another man during the next month—”

      “Of course. I should have thought of—”

      “But you did not,” Tariq said sharply, “I did.” He paused, fought for control. “Wait the month. Then, if action on our part is necessary.” Five hundred years before, the expression on his face would have been the last thing an enemy saw before his death. “Then,” Tariq said, each word encased in ice, “you will visit her, and you will make it clear that she shall carry my child to term, deliver it … and hand it over to me.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      THIRTY days was an eternity when a man was waiting to learn if he had created life within the womb of a stranger.

      Tariq buried himself in work. With meetings. With one woman after another. And found himself leaving each at her door, looking up at him in bewilderment.

      He had to be up early, he said, or he had to fly to Dubaac. He had to go over some notes.

      Once, he’d even found himself pleading a headache.

      Pathetic.

      The truth was that sex suddenly held less appeal than at any time in his life.

      It was her fault, he’d think, lying awake in the small hours of the night. Madison Whitney. The ugliness of the incident in the garden, now the incredible knowledge that she carried his seed.

      Her fault, that he was turned off. What man wouldn’t be?

      But his subconscious mind didn’t seem to know it. He still had the kind of dreams a grown man should not have, and they all featured the same blonde.

      And that, too, was her fault.

      Thirty days went by. Then thirty-one. By the thirty-second day, he was starting to breathe easier. Perhaps nothing would come of the so-called “misdirection.”

      That evening, a courier delivered a letter marked Personal. Tariq took a long breath, opened the envelope … and let the air hiss from his lungs.

      Madison Whitney was pregnant.

      His worst fears had come true. A stranger—a woman he had every reason to despise—was pregnant with his child.

      Phone me when you are ready, your highness, Strickland’s accompanying note said, and we can finalize how you wish me to break the news of your involvement to her.

      His involvement. Tariq snorted with derision. Wasn’t that one hell of a word to describe his part in this disaster?

      For the first time, he wondered how the Whitney woman would react to learning she carried his child. She would give it up to him; there was no question about that. He was who he was.

      That made all the difference in the world.

      He had a name to carry into the future. A throne to secure.

      Tariq frowned.

      Why had Madison Whitney wanted a child? She was a woman without a husband, a woman with a successful career and yet, she had decided to have a child. And, having made that choice, what on earth had impelled her to use artificial means?

      She surely would have her choice of lovers. The investigators Strickland had hired had found no evidence of any men in her life but surely, if she’d wanted to become pregnant.

      Tariq looked at Strickland’s note again. Phone me when you are ready.

      He was ready now, but not to call the lawyer. He had questions; the Whitney woman had answers and he wanted to hear them without them filtered through seven layers of explanation from a lawyer.

      Tariq punched the intercom and spoke with the doorman. By the time he reached the lobby, his Porsche was waiting at the curb.

      Madison Whitney’s address was part of the lab report.

      It turned out to belong to a high-rise building on a nondescript street on the upper East side. There was no doorman, but the lobby door was locked.

      Tariq checked the nameplates on the entry wall. M. Whitney, Apt 609.

      Now what? In the movies, he’d ring the intercom and say he was a delivery man but there was no way that would work at eight-thirty in the evening.

      Hell. What was he doing here? Why put himself into a situation his attorney should handle?

      He stepped back—and the lobby door opened. A middle-aged woman carrying a Maltese terrier stepped out. She smiled; the terrier yapped, and she did the polite thing and held the door for him.

      Well, why not? He’d come this far. Why not see it through? So he smiled in return, said “Thank you,” walked through the lobby and took the elevator to the sixth floor.

      Apartment 609 was at the end of the hall. The carpet muted the sound of his steps. When he reached the door, he hesitated. Maybe this really was a job for a lawyer. Maybe he should stop procrastinating, he thought grimly, and pressed the doorbell.

      Why did everything always happen at the same time?

      Murphy’s Law, Madison thought, when the doorbell rang just as she stepped from the shower.

      Hadn’t Torino’s logged in her call? She’d ordered a pizza, then canceled it. Just the thought of all that gooey cheese had made her stomach dip. Silly, probably; it was too soon for morning sickness, even if this had been the morning …

      The bell rang again.

      “One second,” she yelled.

      Okay. So she’d eat pizza. Or throw it out. Whatever, there was no time to towel off. No time to get annoyed at Torino’s for making a mistake,