The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Tariq signed some papers, stepped into a small room with a glass vial in his hand, turned down an offer of Playmate magazine with the arrogant assurance of a man who knows the power of his own sexuality…
And his imagination failed him. Nothing happened until he closed his eyes, remembered the woman, remembered her taste, her scent, her silky skin…
Then, only then, he’d done what he had to do.
Now, he could put the humiliation of the morning, his fury at the woman, behind him.
Madison usually began her days calmly.
Serenely, Barb had once said, with a roll of the eyes. Well, why not? Planning ahead, doing things carefully, was how Madison had learned to overcome the uncertainties of a chaotic childhood.
Her automatic coffeemaker was programmed to turn on at six, her alarm at six-oh-five. By six-fifteen, she was always in the kitchen, showered, dressed, ready for her first jolt of caffeine. Ten minutes after that, hair blow-dried into submission, makeup on, she was ready to face the world.
Monday morning, none of that happened.
The coffee hadn’t brewed. Her hair dryer died when she plugged it in. There were no clean panty hose in the drawer. Even her mascara failed her, depositing a smear of black on the lashes of one eye and nothing at all on the other.
Her fault. All of it.
The coffeepot made a carafe of boiled water, not coffee. The dryer had been at death’s door last time she’d used it. Her panty hose were all in the hamper, the mascara had produced a pathetic dab of color because it was empty. Most unbelievable of all, she’d overslept because she’d forgotten—forgot-ten, for the first time in her life!—to set the alarm.
She’d intended to deal with all that Saturday and Sunday. Go to Zabar’s for coffee, to Macy’s for a new hair dryer, to Saks for mascara, wash her lingerie…
Instead she’d spent both days feverishly doing stuff that didn’t need doing.
She’d cleaned cupboards and closets, floors and furniture until someone from the Department of Health could have done a white-glove inspection and come away smiling and at night, she’d watched reruns of Sex and the City for the hundredth time, made low-cal, low-fat, low-taste microwave popcorn and stuffed her face with it even though she wasn’t hungry.
“And for what reason?” she demanded of her reflection in the bathroom mirror Monday morning.
Because she couldn’t get the SOB, the stranger who’d almost seduced her, out of her head. Because even the memory of what had happened was humiliating.
Because she knew, deep down, that blaming him for everything was the worst kind of lie.
He hadn’t tossed her over his shoulder and carried her away.
He hadn’t lured her into that summerhouse.
He’d kissed her, was what he’d done, and her libido had done the rest, turning her into a creature she didn’t know, a woman who had let a stranger do things to her that still made her blush…
That still made her bones melt, just remembering.
Damn it.
What was the sense in rehashing it all? She’d done what she’d done. It was over.
A deep breath. Another look in the mirror. A lift of the chin.
“Stop whining,” Madison told herself briskly.
Who cared about Friday night? Today was Monday. The Monday. It was the first day of the rest of her life, the day she hoped to conceive her baby, and if that made her sound like a greeting card, so what?
It was the truth.
Madison’s expression softened.
Her baby. A child to love. To nurture. That was all that mattered. Friday night, the man—not worth another second. What mattered was her appointment this afternoon and the sweet, bright promise of pregnancy. She turned her back on her reflection, went to the closet and flung the door open.
It was just that it was crazy that she, of all people, could have been swept off her feet not by a prince, as Barb had teasingly promised, but by the kind of sleazy Don Juans who’d tromped in and out of her mother’s life.
He’d been good-looking but Don Juans always were. Tall.
Dark. Drop-dead gorgeous. And with an aura, a hint of some thing in his bearing, in his speech that hinted at the exotic.
Madison snorted.
He’d probably been born in Brooklyn—and why was she wasting time on him again?
Forget the panty hose. The smooth, tamed hair. Coffee? There was a Starbucks on the corner. Concentrate on the present, not the past.
She dressed quickly. Comfortably. A white blouse. A pale pink skirt. White sling-backs with a comfortable heel, no mascara because she didn’t have any, just some lip gloss, then some gel to tame her hair.
Monday might not have started well but it was going to end brilliantly. And when this was all over and her pregnancy was confirmed, she’d tell Barb Friday night’s Big Lesson.
If you had to weigh the benefits of a man against a test tube, the test tube would win, every time.
No one at FutureBorn knew this was not going to be an ordinary day.
Madison, of course, was the sole exception.
How could she keep her mind on work when something so important was going to happen at two o’clock?
She watched the hands of her watch creep from nine to ten, from ten to eleven, then—was it possible?—slow from a creep to a crawl.
At noon, she opened a container of yogurt, shut her office door, took the file folder that held the data about the donor she’d selected from her locked desk drawer.
She read as she spooned up yogurt.
Yes, absolutely, she’d chosen the right man.
Educated. Healthy. Nice-looking. Polite, soft-spoken and modest. The file didn’t mention anything but education and health but she knew the rest would be true.
Excellent traits for fatherhood.
The stranger had been none of those things. He’d been a walking, talking ad for self-centered arrogance, passionate intensity and macho attitude.
In other words, he’d been sexy as hell.
Madison rolled her eyes, dumped the yogurt in the trash and put away the file.
“Are you crazy?” she muttered.
She had to be.
So what if being in his arms had been like nothing she’d ever experienced in her life?
His touch. His kisses. His hunger…and, oh, the hunger that had blazed inside her. She’d wanted him. Needed him. Another few seconds, she’d have let him take her right there, in the garden where anyone might have stumbled across them.
Let him tear aside her panties. Her thong—and what had made her wear a thong, anyway? A thong and no panty hose. A good thing, because panty hose would have gotten in his way, delayed that incredible minute when he’d put his hand between her thighs…
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно