Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton

      She came within a breath of saying he did, too, before she regained her senses.

      “I’m so glad you approve,” she said, frost clinging to every word.

      “Come,” he said, motioning to the table. “Sit with me and have breakfast.”

      The word made her salivate. “I’m not hungry,” she lied. “And I’m not Sahar. I don’t take orders from you.”

      His gaze flew over her again. “No,” he said softly, “you are not.” Smiling, he held out his hand. “Join me. Please.”

      She wondered how much the simple word had cost him. Enough to make doing as he’d asked worthwhile? She decided it was, if only because not eating was foolish and she knew she’d need all her wits about her to make him stop toying with her.

      She ignored his outstretched hand, pulled out a chair for herself and sat down at the table. Tariq shrugged and sat down across from her. She’d half expected him to clap his hands or press a buzzer that would bring Sahar running. Instead he poured her juice, served her crepes with crème fraiche and tiny raspberries, and filled her cup with tea.

      She was almost painfully aware of him watching her as she ate. Finally he cleared his throat.

      “Good?”

      She thought of lying, but what was the point?

      “Yes.”

      “And you feel well? The baby—”

      “The baby’s fine. So am I—unless you count the fact that I’m angry as hell!” She put down her fork, touched her mouth with her linen napkin and decided there’d never be a better time than right now. “Tariq. I want this nonsense to end.”

      His eyes narrowed. “Nonsense?”

      “Nonsense. You know. The flight here. This—this little sojourn at—at—”

      “The Golden Palace.”

      “Whatever. I’ve had enough. I want to go home.”

      “You are home,” he said evenly. “I thought you understood that.”

      “You said what—what you’d done made me your wife.”

      “Carrying you off? Making love to you?”

      She felt her face heat. “Stealing me,” she said. “And then—and then taking me.”

      A little smile, quick and sexy, slanted across his mouth. “I may have stolen you, habiba, but I did not ‘take’ you. We made love.”

      “I’m not going to debate it. The fact is, you said those things made me your wife.”

      “They did.”

      Madison took a deep breath, held it for an instant, then let it out.

      “And yet, this morning you said it would not have been proper for you to have put me to bed last night. Or to have shared that bed with me.”

      “Believe me, habiba,” he said, his voice low and a little rough, “I regret not having been able to do those things as much as you do.”

      “I don’t regret them! That’s not my point at all!”

      “Then, what is your point, Madison?”

      “If you’d told the truth, if I really were your wife—”

      “You are.” Tariq tossed his napkin on the table and rose to his feet. “But I want my father’s recognition of that fact. His formal recognition.”

      “How touching.”

      His face darkened. “You would make a joke of it. I assure you, this is not a joking matter. My child—”

      “My child.”

      “Our child,” he said coldly, “will someday inherit the throne of an ancient and honorable kingdom. For the sake of his future, for the sake of my people’s future, our union must have the royal blessing.”

      “My son speaks the truth, young woman. My approval is vital to the future of Dubaac.”

      Madison shot to her feet. A small man, white-haired and stooped, stood in the doorway. Tariq, looking startled, hurried toward him.

      “Father. I did not expect—”

      “No. Obviously not.” The sultan, his expression unreadable, looked at Madison. “And this is your wife.”

      “Yes, Father. I told the prime minister I would bring her to you at noon.”

      “Did you expect me to wait that long to see the woman who carries my grandchild?” The sultan frowned. “She could use more meat on her bones.”

      “I agree, Father, and—”

      “Excuse me,” Madison said with defiance, though her heart was pounding like a drum. “I do not need more meat on my bones, I do not like being spoken of as if I were not present and I am not your son’s wife.”

      The sultan’s expression eased. “She is exactly as you said, Tariq.” His eyebrows rose at Madison’s look of surprise. “My son told me all about you.”

      She blinked. “He did?”

      “Last night, after you and he arrived. And, I admit, I was not pleased.”

      An ally? Madison mentally crossed her fingers. “No. Of course you weren’t. I mean, why would you be …”

      “My son is a prince. He is my heir. His wedding should have been celebrated properly, by the joined Nations.” The sultan’s expression softened. “But he explained how you met and fell deeply in love.”

      Madison crossed her arms over her chest. “Did he, indeed?”

      “And I understand.” The old man’s lips twitched. “I know you’d planned to seek my blessing but that fate and nature intervened. After all, I was young once. I remember how hot the blood can run.”

      “No,” Madison said quickly, “that isn’t—”

      “Father.” Tariq came to her side, slid his arm around her waist. It looked like a gesture of tenderness but his hand splayed over her hip as if it were made of steel. “You’re embarrassing my bride.”

      “That’s not true. I’m not—”

      “Of course you are, habiba.” Tariq’s voice was soft but the look he flashed at her upturned face was a cold warning. “It’s only natural that you’d feel our story is far too personal to share.”

      Madison blinked. Hadn’t he told his father how this child had been conceived?

      “As I said,” the sultan continued, “I am human. I stayed awake all night, thinking.” His voice went soft. “I decided to be happy for you and for my son, and especially for the baby he put in your womb, even if it was done a new way.”

      Tariq felt Madison’s start of surprise. He tightened his arm around her.

      “He means,” he said carefully, “without us marrying first, habiba.”

      “In fact, I must admit I am delighted that you agreed to an old-fashioned joining of your bodies, hearts and souls so that no one will dare call your baby illegitimate.”

      Madison ignored the pressure of Tariq’s encircling arm. “Sir,” she said, “you don’t under—”

      “There is no need to thank me, my dear. I love my son. I love my people. Why would I not be prepared to love the woman he loves, and the child she carries?” The sultan smiled. “Welcome to our family, Princess.”

      Madison stared at the eyes bright with hope but rheumy with age. What could she say that wouldn’t take that hope from the old man? If she told him the truth,