Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton

not welcome in this room, Tariq—and where are my clothes?”

      His smile tilted. “Don’t you really mean, ‘Who undressed me and put me to bed?’ ”

      Why did he always manage to make her blush? “An excellent question but then, I have a lot of excellent questions. And I’m not asking them until I am out of bed and dressed.”

      “No one’s stopping you.”

      “You are.”

      “A little late to worry about modesty,” he said, his voice silken, “don’t you think?”

      “Damn it, Tariq …”

      “Sahar undressed you and put you to bed.”

      He could see it wasn’t the answer she’d expected. Her face, lovely in the bright light of morning, was a study in surprise.

      “It would have been improper for me to have done so.”

      “But—but I thought—I mean, if you and I are—if we really are—”

      “Husband and wife, habiba, are the words you’re searching for.”

      “Don’t play games with me.”

      He had wondered how she would be this morning. Subdued, he had told himself and told himself, too, that he hoped that would be the case because it would make everything that came next easier.

      But his wife was not subdued. Frightened, yes. The tremor in her voice gave it away, but she was facing him as she always did, chin high, eyes steady. A tiger ready to do battle even though he had turned her life upside down, stolen her away from everything familiar, forced her into his bed.

      Tariq’s throat went dry.

      Except, he hadn’t forced her. She had gone willingly, moved beneath him eagerly, matched him kiss for kiss, touch for touch.

       Damn it!

      He swung away, shocked by the swift response of his body, angered by it. He strode into the dressing room, determined not to let her see the evidence of her power over him, and returned with a long silk robe that he tossed on the bed.

      “Get up,” he said harshly, “and make yourself presentable.”

      “Presentable? How? I have nothing to—”

      “There are clothes for you in the dressing room.”

      “Clothes for the last woman you kidnapped and brought here?”

      His jaw tightened. Did she really think he would indulge her in debate … or tell her he had never brought a woman here, to the Golden Palace? There was no need for her to know that.

      As it was, he had enough to tell her—and to prepare her to accept.

      “Select something appropriate,” he said coldly. “Then we will have coffee and talk.”

      “Appropriate for what?”

      He looked at her, sitting up in his bed, against his pillows, holding the silk robe over her breasts.

      Her skin would feel as soft as the robe.

      It would slide over her nipples, turning them into tight little buds. He could still recall their taste. Sweet. Cool. Delicate. And the scent of her skin, just there. Like wildflowers on a June morning.

      Was he insane?

      They were minutes away from facing his father, from gaining the approval he had not yet told her their union would require, and he was turning as hard as a schoolboy staring at his first centerfold.

      It made him even more angry. It was her fault. Surely it could not be his!

      “I asked you a question, Tariq. Appropriate for what?”

      Her mouth was trembling. He wanted to go to her. Take her in his arms. Tell her—tell her—

      “And I told you to get up,” he snapped. “Learn to do as you are told and things will go easier for you. And before you bother telling me that you hate me. Hatred is always the prerogative of a wife.”

      She snarled a word at him. He ignored it, turned his back, folded his arms and let his damnable imagination take over as he heard the whisper of silk, the pad of bare feet, the hiss of the shower running in the en suite bathroom.

      And groaned.

      Why was he standing here when he could strip off his clothes, go to her, step under the water and take her in his arms?

      She would protest, because she hated him. But hating him didn’t keep her from wanting him and once he touched her, drew her naked body back against his so she could feel the urgency of his desire, she would sigh his name, let her head droop against his shoulder as he cupped her breasts, as he slid his hands down her body in the most intimate of caresses.

      Then he would turn her toward him, she would raise her mouth to his, wind her arms around his neck and he would cup her bottom, lift her to him, feel her legs wrap around his hips as he thrust deep, deep into her heat.

      Tariq groaned again. He was a man in the sweetest kind of pain.

      She was killing him, this woman he had not wanted in his life. Killing him—and his sanity depended on concentrating on the long nights he would spend, making her pay the penalty for it.

      Madison stood under the shower, waiting. She knew Tariq’s game.

      Any minute now, he’d open the bathroom door and step into the shower stall with her. As far as he was concerned, he could bark at her, order her around, then take her in his arms and dazzle her with his sexual expertise. Well, it wasn’t going to work this time. It wasn’t going to work at all, she realized as the minutes slid past, because it wasn’t going to happen. The door to the bedroom stayed shut. She was alone, and he was going to leave her that way. Good, she thought grimly. The last thing she wanted was him forcing himself on her again. Caressing her. Kissing her.

      A little sound whispered from her lips. What was happening to her? She was changing into a woman she didn’t know.

      Too little sleep, that was the problem. That, and the change in time zones.

      Madison frowned, lifted her face to the spray and blanked her mind to everything but survival.

      The dressing room opened off the bath as well as the bedroom. It was the size of her Manhattan living room and filled with clothes. Acres of them. Trousers. Sweaters. Blouses. Dresses. Gowns. Shoes. There was lingerie, too: delicate bras and thongs in soft shades of peach and palest blue, all surely handmade.

      She selected a bra. A thong. A gorgeous pair of white cotton trousers and a white silk T-shirt.

      Everything fit perfectly.

      Her mouth thinned.

      Tariq obviously preferred his women to be built as she was. Surely all these things, this suite, had been arranged by a prince for his mistress. For his mistresses.

      Not that she gave a damn.

      She dropped the towel, dressed quickly, slid her feet into a pair of exquisite white high-heeled sandals. The dressing room was mirrored; Madison glanced at her reflection, ran her hands through her still-damp hair, flung open the door and marched into the bedroom.

      “Here I am,” she said briskly, “appropriately dressed or—”

      But the room was empty.

      Tariq had drawn back the gauzy curtains, revealing a door in the wall of glass. He stood on a stone balcony beside a table set for breakfast, sipping from a cup as he looked out over a turquoise sea.

      Madison’s breath caught.

      How beautiful this place was. How beautiful Tariq was.

      If only he’d brought her here because he wanted her. Because he needed her. Because she was someone he cared for instead of his virtual captive.

      Did