Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton

      “And I,” he said, his smile gone, his eyes flat as glass, “am your lord and master.”

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      MMADISON stared at the door Tariq had shut behind him.

      Shut. Not slammed. A display of hot anger would have been frightening. His icy calmness was terrifying.

      She flew to the door and locked it even though she knew it was an empty gesture. A lock would not keep him out. This was his plane, staffed by people loyal to a prince who thought he lived in an earlier century.

      That he had brought her on board, carried her to his bed, kept her in it while he forced himself on her.

      She bit back a moan.

      Tariq hadn’t forced himself on her. She had responded to each touch, each kiss, urged him to do more, to take her and take her and take her.

      No. She wasn’t going there. Her moment of weakness was in the past. She’d had sex with him. It wasn’t the end of the world. She was almost thirty, she was not a virgin; she’d had sex before.

      But never like that.

      Never so she wouldn’t have noticed if the world had ended as long as Tariq held her, moved deep, deep inside her.

      Madison spun away from the door.

      What he had done had been a pure, masculine flaunting of power. What she had done was disgrace herself, but reliving what had happened was pointless. Thinking about that—that nasty fairy tale he’d told her about kidnapped women and forced marriages, was pointless, too.

      It had to be a lie.

      Not even the Prince from Hell would think he could get away with that kind of thing.

      He’d tried to scare her and he’d succeeded, but she was past that now. What mattered was getting through the next hours, until he wearied of this new game. That meant getting dressed, leaving this room and facing him with her head high.

      First, she needed to clean up. She could smell his scent on her skin.

      There was another door in the room. Did it open onto a bathroom? Yes. A bathroom, complete with a shower stall. She turned the water on full, stepped under it, reached for the soap.

      His soap.

      This same bar had slid over his body, over all those hard muscles, over the steel-in-silk part of him that had filled her.

      Madison caught her breath.

      She waited, let the water beat down on her bowed head. Then she got busy scrubbing and rinsing.

      She dried off. Finger-combed her hair. Stepped back into the bedroom, flung open the drawers of a built-in dresser and found shirts and jeans. His clothing, of course, and she hated the thought of it against her skin but what choice did she have?

      She dressed quickly, rolling up the legs of a pair of faded jeans, securing the waist with a belt she dragged through the loops and knotted. She plucked a shirt from the drawer, cotton so soft it might have been silk. The fit was a bad joke but she managed, folding back the sleeves, gathering the tails together and tying them just above the jeans.

      Then she went back into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror.

      A dressed-for-success vice president had boarded this plane.

      The woman looking back at her now was a mess.

      No makeup. Her hair was drying in wavy tendrils, the way it always did if she didn’t blow it dry. She looked ridiculous in Tariq’s clothing and there was no way his crew would not know why she was wearing it but hadn’t she just finished telling herself that they’d know, anyway, and that she didn’t give a damn?

      All that mattered was finding out what he was up to because surely, he would not take her out of the States. He wasn’t a fool. Prince or no prince, she would bring charges against him.

      He had to realize that.

      Madison hesitated, hand on the knob. A deep breath. A slow exhalation. Then she unlocked the door and stepped into the cabin.

      Someone had dimmed the lights, though a bright spotlight illuminated Tariq, who was seated on a leather love seat. A tall, ice-filled glass was on the table next to him; an open portable computer was in his lap.

      He looked calm and contained, every dark hair in place, his clothes neat and unruffled.

      Why did that made her angry?

      “Tariq.”

      He looked up, saw her, let his eyes sweep over her. She could read nothing whatsoever in his face. Her temper, already at a simmer, began to boil.

      “I see you found something to wear.”

      Madison raised her chin. “Not the latest in fashion, but it will have to do.”

      “I also see that we’re finally on a first name basis.”

      “I want an explanation.”

      “Do you?” A slow smile softened his mouth. “I’ll be happy to oblige, habiba, though I would have thought what happened in my bed was clear enough.”

      He was trying to embarrass her. And he was succeeding—but she’d be damned if she’d let him know it.

      God, what a horrible man!

      “How long before we’re home?”

      “Sit down, Madison.”

      “Answer the question.”

      His eyes narrowed. “Try asking it with some courtesy and perhaps I will.”

      “I want to know how long it’s going to take until—”

      “Six hours.”

      She blinked. “Six …?”

      “We’ve been flying for four hours. Six more, and we arrive in Dubaac.”

      “I said, home. New York. If you think you can frighten me by pretending we’re—”

      “Why would I want to frighten you, habiba? My home is Dubaac. That is where we are going.”

      “You mean—you mean, when you said—when you said—”

      Tariq shot to his feet.

      Crimson patches had ridden high on her cheeks when she’d finally emerged from his bedroom. Now, she’d lost color so quickly he was afraid she might faint, and he’d already been the cause of that once before.

      He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

      Bad enough he’d made love to her without asking if it was safe for the baby. At least, then, he’d had an excuse. The part of his anatomy that had been doing his thinking wasn’t much for logic.

      But he could have dealt with what she’d just asked him with a little more finesse.

      It was only that she drove him insane when she got that holier-than-thou look on her beautiful face.

      “Sit!” he barked, and before she could protest, he caught her in the curve of his arm and drew her down on the love seat with him. “Are you going to pass out?”

      “No,” she whispered.

      No, indeed, he thought grimly.

      “Put your head forward.”

      “I’m fine.”

      “Did I ask your opinion, habiba? Bend forward. Lean against me.”

      She wanted to argue or, better still, ignore the command, but his hand was on the back of her head, gently but insistently easing it forward. With a sigh, she let her forehead settle against his shoulder.

      The terrible truth was that she did feel woozy. The doctor had said her health was