Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton

but perhaps you’d like something to drink? Fruit juice? Water? Tea?”

      “Nothing, thank you.”

      The plane was still moving. Madison glanced out the window. They had turned onto a runway. Without warning, the little rush of apprehension came again.

      “You know—you know, your highness—”

      “Tariq.”

      “Yes, of course. Tariq. I’ve been thinking about this lunch—”

      “You’re thinking you should have said ‘no.’”

      Madison looked at him. No smile, this time. No expression at all. A fist seemed to close around her heart but then his mouth curved in a smile.

      “I’m glad you didn’t,” he said softly. “This way, we can talk as long as we like and have the chance to get to know each other.”

      “The flight to Boston’s less than an hour,” she said with an answering smile.

      “I promise you, Madison, we’ll have all the time we need. Now, let’s have lunch.”

      Iced Perrier, in crystal goblets. A clear broth. Scallops sautéed with asparagus. Blackberries and clotted cream. Mint tea for her, black coffee for him.

      For him. For Tariq.

      He was charming. Attentive. He was the man she’d met at the party, not the coldly contemptuous one who’d all but forced his way into her apartment last night.

      And yet—and yet, something wasn’t right. Something hovered just beneath the sophisticated polish. Something dark and dangerous and yes, incredibly exciting, and why would he have felt it necessary to freeze his seed.

      “What are you thinking?”

      His voice was low and rough. Madison felt her face heat. She shook her head in denial.

      “I wasn’t thinking anything in partic—”

      “You were thinking, why did he arrange to give his sperm to FutureBorn?”

      It was the topic they’d been discussing for two days now. Why blush over the words? But she wasn’t; she was blushing at the image, the hot, sexy image.

      “You are entitled to an answer, Madison, and it is as I told you. I am the heir to the throne of my country. It was not always so—my brother was older by two years, and he would have become sultan on our father’s death.” A muscle knotted in his jaw; he raised a hand imperiously and Yusuf hurried to clear the table, then disappear into the galley. “But Sharif lost his life in an accident. He had not yet married … he left no heir.”

      “And you? Why didn’t you marry?”

      “I hadn’t wanted to,” Tariq said bluntly. “Not then … but Sharif’s death changed everything. I began searching for a wife.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Believe me, I tried. It just didn’t happen. Too much pressure, perhaps, or perhaps the Karma’s been wrong. Whatever the reason, time was passing and I still had not taken a wife.”

      “Yes, but you’re young.”

      “Fate is no respecter of age,” he said quietly. “What happened to Sharif proved it. I kept thinking, what if something happened to me?” His eyes met hers. “Then I saw that program about FutureBorn.”

      “The program I was on?”

      He nodded. “At first, I saw only your beauty. And then I met you and—”

      “I—I don’t want to talk about that night. It was a mistake.”

      “The only mistake,” Tariq said huskily, “was letting you go.”

      “No. It was the right thing to do. I didn’t want to get involved. I want … I want my own life. A career. A child.”

      “But not a husband.”

      “No.”

      “A child needs a father.”

      “Your highness. Tariq—”

      “Let me be more explicit. My child needs a father.”

      Madison felt the warning tingle again. “Look, I came here in good faith. You said we’d talk—”

      “We are.” He rose, took her hand and drew her to her feet. “This child belongs to us both.”

      “No. Yes.” God, he was confusing her. He was standing too close; she had to tip her head back to see his eyes and it made her dizzy, or maybe it was just his presence that made her dizzy. “We created this life, but I wanted it.”

      “So did I,” he said grimly. “The only difference is, I wanted to choose my child’s mother.”

      “I understand that. And I can’t change what happened but I’m willing to grant you certain rights.”

      His lips drew back. Was that really supposed to be a smile?

      “Will you, indeed, habiba?”

      “You can visit six times a year.”

      “How generous.”

      His tone was flat. Madison wanted to step back but his hands were holding her elbows; she was trapped.

      “You know, I don’t have to give you that many visits. I don’t have to give you any visits. So be grateful that I—”

      “Grateful?” he said in a low growl.

      “All right. That wasn’t quite the way to put it but—”

      “Have you heard nothing I said? The child you carry, my child, will be heir to the throne of Dubaac.”

      “That’s ridiculous!”

      “I am tired of arguing over something that is indisputable, Madison. I offered you a way out last night. Now, I offer it again. I will take you as my wife.”

      “That’s it! Tell your pilot to turn this plane around. I am not going to Boston. I am not going anywhere. I am not going to have a conversation with a—a crazy man!”

      “Is that what I am?” His hands clamped harder on her elbows; he lifted her to her toes. “Is that what you think when you feel my hands on your breasts and my tongue in your mouth?”

      Her cheeks turned scarlet.

      “You’re despicable! Turn this plane around right now.”

      “It’s too late for that.”

      “Then, as soon as we touch down in Boston, your pilot is to turn straight around and fly me home. Do you hear me, Tariq? I demand he return me to New York!”

      “You are in no position to demand anything.”

      What a fool she’d been to agree to this lunch! Frantic, Madison twisted against Tariq’s hands. He laughed, pulled her closer and brought her tightly against his long, hard body.

      “Breaking bread is an old custom of my people, habiba. It is one of the ways enemies become friends.”

      “You and I will never be friends. I despise you! To think that I—that I received sperm from you—”

      “You mean, from a test tube.” Cupping her face, he lifted it to him. His gaze swept over her, lingered on her lips. “From cold glass instead of warm flesh,” he whispered. “On a physician’s examining table instead of on a bed, with my arms around you, your legs around my waist, your mouth hot and wet under mine …”

      “No,” Madison cried, but he was already kissing her, kissing her without mercy until her head fell back.

      Until the hands she’d raised to push him away instead curled into the thick, silky hair on the back of his head.

      A sigh of surrender whispered from her throat; her lips