Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton

crazy story?” She snorted. “Try again, Mr. Prince!”

      His jaw knotted. Such insolence!

      He wanted to grab her and shake her—or grab her and kiss her. Silence her as he had that night in the garden, as he had a little while ago by covering her mouth with his, kissing her until she sighed with passion. He’d carry her into the bedroom, fill her womb with his seed the way it should have been done.

      Tariq muttered a short, succinct word, turned on his heel and strode into the kitchen.

      “Hey. Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

      “I’m going to make you some toast and tea. Once you’ve eaten, we’ll talk.”

      “I do not want toast or tea, I do not want to talk and I certainly do not want you in my kitchen.”

      Speaking to the wall would have made more sense. Madison glared at the man who thought he could take charge of her life as he flung open cupboard doors.

      “Where do you keep the tea?” He glared at her. “Herbal tea. Pregnant women do not use caffeine.”

      What did he know about pregnant women? Did he have a wife? For all she knew, he had a harem.

      “Lovely,” she said brightly. “I see that you’re an expert on pregnant women.”

      “Are you asking if I am married?”

      Color swept into her face. “Why would I care?”

      “For the record, I have no wife. I have no children. I do have female cousins and female friends. I am aware of these things. Now, where is the tea?”

      Stiff-necked, arrogant bastard! What was the sense in arguing? She’d never get rid of him that way. The best plan was to let him play amateur chef and then throw him out on his royal tail.

      “Bottom shelf, over the sink,” Madison said coldly. “And I like my toast lightly buttered.”

      To her surprise, he laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”

      Grumbling, she flung herself onto a stool at the counter and watched him move around her kitchen, taking bread from the fridge, selecting a tea bag from the canister—she noticed that he didn’t bother asking if she wanted orange blossom or green apple but then, why would he when he was sure he had all the answers?

      God, she despised him! To think that he, of all the men on file at FutureBorn, should have fathered her baby.

      Sired. Not fathered. Sired. There was a big difference.

      Besides, he hadn’t. She was positive of it. He didn’t need the money, didn’t have a selfless bone in his hard, gorgeous body.

      Why, then, would he tell her the baby was his?

      “Why?” she blurted, because, despite what she’d just told herself about waiting, she couldn’t stand it another minute. “Why have you come here? Why the fantastic story? What reason could you possibly have for—”

      He set a plate in front of her. Buttered toast, with a dollop of strawberry jam alongside.

      “Eat.”

      She glared at him, saw that tight jaw, the icy eyes, and decided doing as he said might be a good idea. She really was starving, even maybe a little light-headed, and after all, she was eating for two now.

      She picked up a piece of toast, slathered jam over it and bit in. The prince-turned-chef put a mug of steaming tea beside the plate.

      “You have no honey,” he said accusingly, “only white sugar, which is not good for you or the child.”

      Madison batted her lashes.

      “How nice,” she said sweetly. “A prince. A cook. And a medical expert. Lucky me, having you stop by.”

      He probably thought so, anyway. He probably thought himself a gift to womankind, and his DNA a gift to the world. Even the way he stood beside the counter, hip-shot, arms folded, face expressionless as he watched her, spoke of supreme self-assurance.

      Such nonsense, his claim that he’d donated sperm—but if he had, the woman who got it would be lucky, assuming she put any store in a man’s looks.

      Despising the sheikh of Dubaac didn’t mean she was blind.

      Women probably fell at his feet. Even she, before she’d wised up to him. She’d made a fool of herself, letting him kiss her, touch her, until all that mattered was the feel of his hands, the taste of his mouth.

      The only “donation” a man like him would make would be in bed, with the woman beneath him begging for his possession.

      “Whatever are you thinking, habiba?”

      Madison’s gaze flew to him. His voice was low and rough; those gray eyes glittered like silver. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn he’d read her thoughts.

      The air between them seemed to thicken. She wanted to look away but she couldn’t.

      “There’s jam on your lip.” His voice was rough.

      “Where?” she said, the word barely a whisper.

      “Right—there,” he said, and leaned toward her.

      She felt the whisper of his breath. The fleeting touch of his tongue. Her eyes closed; a murmur rose in her throat.

      She jerked back. So did he. He turned away but not before her gaze swept down his body, to where the softly-faded denim of his jeans cupped the sudden tumescent bulge of his sex.

      He wasn’t the only one.

      Heat bloomed between her thighs. She could feel the almost painful budding of her nipples against the thinness of her robe.

      Had he noticed? She wanted to cross her arms over her breasts but that would only draw attention to what had happened.

      How could a kiss have such an effect?

      Carefully she picked up the napkin and wiped her lips. She waited until her heartbeat steadied. When she looked up again, Tariq was at the sink, rinsing dishes as if he did things like that every day of his no-doubt useless life.

      “All right,” she said briskly. “You’ve done your Good Samaritan act. You made tea and toast, cleaned up after yourself and I’m feeling much better. Thank you—and now, go away.”

      He shut off the water. Dried his hands on the towel hanging beside the sink and then turned and looked at her. What had happened a moment ago might never have taken place; his eyes were the cool eyes of a stranger.

      “You mean, now, we talk.”

      “Fine.” Madison folded her hands on the counter. “Talk, then. Just don’t take too long to come up with a convincing explanation of why you came here tonight.”

      “I’ve already told you that.”

      She sighed. All at once, she was exhausted. It had been a long day, starting with the exciting news from her doctor and ending with Tariq al Sayf’s intrusion into her life.

      “Yes. You have. So let me tell you why what you claim is impossible—assuming you really are a FutureBorn donor.”

      “That is not how I would describe it.”

      “How I would describe it is that I carefully selected a donor from the files. You, your highness, are not that man.”

      His lips curved in a mirthless smile. “I certainly did not intend to be.”

      “My selection was—is—a perfect match for my requirements.”

      For her requirements, Tariq thought. Interesting, that she should have thought of a father for her child in the same terms as he had thought of a woman to bear him an heir.

      “I chose a man who was gentle. Easygoing. An intellectual, with creative leanings.”