Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
understatement of the century.”
“And I have come here tonight to remedy it.”
She looked at him with interest. “How are you going to do that?” Her expression turned icy. “If you think I’d do anything to stop this pregnancy …”
“I would never ask such a thing!”
“Good, because—”
She paused. He was dragging yet another envelope from his pocket. “Another letter?” she said warily.
Tariq smiled. “The resolution to our problem.” He took a sheet of paper from the envelope and laid it on the counter. “I will, of course, pay for your medical care.”
“What? No. I don’t need that. I don’t want it! This baby is—”
“And your living expenses. You will not work during your pregnancy. That is a given.”
She stared at him. “I don’t think you get it, Prince! You have nothing to do with—”
“Once my heir is born, you will take proper care of him.” He looked around, as if seeing her place for the first time. “Your quarters are acceptable but I would prefer moving you to a larger apartment—”
“Are you crazy?”
“One with room for a nanny, though I expect you to provide primary care for the child.”
Madison laughed. He felt his face heat with rage.
“You find this amusing?” he said, his tone silken.
“Amusing? How about appalling? How about, are you as dense as you seem?” She slid from the stool, stalked to where he stood, lifted that I-dare-you chin and looked him in the eye. “Listen and listen hard, because I’ll only say this once. This baby is mine. It is not yours. You have nothing to say about how I conduct my pregnancy, where I live, what I do, or what happens after my child is born. Got that, your highness?”
“Ms. Whitney—”
“Get out! Get out of my home and my life. You are a horrible, impossible man and I never want to see you again.”
“I am the Crown Prince of Dubaac,” Tariq said coldly. “And you carry my heir.”
“The hell I do!”
“Ten million dollars.” She stared at him, her expression blank. “Very well,” he said grimly. “Twenty million.”
“For what?”
“That is what I will pay you on my child’s first birthday, when he is old enough to leave his mother. You will, of course, have visitation rights—”
He saw the blur of her fist as she swung but there was no time to sidestep. She caught him square in the eye and, to his amazement, rocked him back on his heels.
“You—you evil, miserable, self-important son of a bitch!”
She flew at him again; he grabbed her by the wrists, which wasn’t easy because his eye hurt like hell. Damn it, how could this slip of a female have managed a punch like that?
She was panting, struggling to get free. He was half-blind so he did what boxers do when they’re on the ropes—threw his arms around her, used his body to immobilize her and keep her from doing more damage.
“This is my baby, you pathetic bastard! Not your heir. Not a—a thing to be sold! And if you try to take my child, the least I’ll do is see to it that you rot in jail for the rest of your life.”
“You’re an intelligent woman,” he said, giving it one last try. “Stop and think. You’re young, obviously fertile. You can always have another child.”
“How about you having another brain? I want this child. I love my baby. You hear me, your lowliness? I-love-my-baby!”
Tariq frowned.
Of all the things he’d considered, he’d overlooked that possibility. He wanted a child because of his commitment to his people. She wanted one because she had those female hormonal instincts.
It had not dawned on him to factor love into the equation.
His mother had been a perfumed figure who’d drifted in and out of his life and Sharif’s. She’d seemed pleased with them, but love …?
“Love?” he said.
“Love,” Madison said fiercely.
Tariq’s frown deepened.
If this were his country, he would simply command her to do as he wished—but this was America, she was American and she had a sentimental view of things.
Strickland had already warned him there was no case law to fall back on, no situation he could find in which a sperm donor and the recipient of that sperm both wanted custody of the resultant offspring.
Now what?
A long, drawn-out, scandalous legal battle? The whole embarrassing story splashed across the gossip columns? The media vultures would feed on the story for months.
His reputation would be ruined. Far worse, his father, his people, his country, would be humiliated. And no matter how the case ended, the child, his heir, would forever be the butt of a thousand terrible jokes.
The woman was still fighting him, twisting and struggling in his arms. It was impossible not to be aware of her. The softness of her breasts. The thrust of her hips. Even the smell of her, sexy and female.
Despite everything else—his anger, her intransigence, the legal quagmire he’d stepped into—his body was responding.
He was growing hard. Growing hard? He was already so erect he was like stone.
And she knew it.
Suddenly she became absolutely still. Her face lifted to his; he tried to read the dark mix of rage and fear in her eyes but it was impossible.
He only knew there was something else there, too.
Hunger.
He groaned. Brought her hand to him. Let her feel what she had done to him. And when she gave a hot little cry, he brought his mouth to hers. Kissed her, kissed her without mercy. She hissed like a wildcat. Her sharp teeth sank into his bottom lip. The taste of blood, of anger, of something darker and even more primitive was in his mouth and then her tongue was dancing against his, her hands were in his hair, she was kissing him back and moving, moving against him.
He slid his hands inside her robe.
Cupped one breast. Caught his breath as the nipple budded under the brush of his thumb. As she cried out and lifted herself against him.
“Yes,” he said thickly, “yes …”
His hand moved down her body, over her belly, brushed over her mons. She cried out again and as he kissed her, she sucked the tip of his tongue into her mouth.
Tariq grabbed the lapels of her robe. Jerked them open. Began pushing the robe from her shoulders but suddenly, she went crazy, pulled away from him, slammed her fists against his chest.
“No,” she said, her voice trembling, “no, no, no!”
He didn’t listen. Couldn’t listen. He wanted this, had to have this. And then she said “no” again and this time he was the one who jerked back, his breathing ragged.
She had played this game with him before.
“Get out!” she whispered. Her voice trembled. “Do you hear me? Get out!”
He stared at her and thought how easy it would be to finish this. He could carry her to the bed, show her what happened when a woman teased a man beyond endurance.
But the stakes were too high.
There was a new playing piece on the game board: the child they’d created