Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
he was upset, learning what had happened, that she was carrying his child—but it wasn’t his child. She was the one who’d arranged for the insemination, the one with a tiny life in her womb, the one whose body would nurture that life for the next eight months.
His part was over with. Besides, he had no legal rights. That was part of the FutureBorn agreement. The donor remained unknown.
Except, that wasn’t what had happened. The prince had not actually been a donor; he’d set his sperm aside for future purpose—and why would a man so incredibly beautiful, because that was the only way to describe all that dark hair, the pale gray eyes, the hawklike intensity, the hard body—
why would a man who looked like that need to store his seed in a test tube when surely any woman he wanted would.
Damn it!
Madison sat up. Switched on the bedside lamp. Folded her arms and glared at the wall.
She would never give him her baby.
She would never marry him.
But if he behaved like a human being instead of a tyrant, if he agreed to certain terms, she might permit him some contact with the child his sperm had sired. Four visits a year. Six, if he conducted himself well. Dealt only with the child and didn’t do more than say hello to her.
Didn’t kiss her.
Didn’t put his hands on her. On her breasts. Between her thighs.
Madison trembled, shut off the light and sank back against the pillows. Maybe she’d give him visitation rights. Maybe she wouldn’t. When morning came, she’d decide.
The day started well.
Her alarm went off on time; the coffeemaker did its thing and so did her new hair dryer.
While she dressed, she debated what to do about the prince. By the time she reached her office she still hadn’t decided. Then she stepped from the elevator and found most of her people waiting for her, their faces radiant with delight.
So exciting, they said. Awesome, they said. Tell us the details, they said.
Madison blinked. Did the entire world know she was pregnant?
But it wasn’t that.
It was the flowers.
THE FLOWERS, she thought in amazement, caps all the way. Vases of them. Roses in a dozen colors. Tulips in a dozen more. Baskets of violets. Of mums. Of tiny, gorgeous orchids. There were flowers everywhere, filling her office, overflowing into her P.A.’s cubicle.
And a hand-written note in a sealed envelope.
Dear Madison:
I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for my behavior last night. I was rude and insensitive, and the only excuse I can offer is the shock I felt on discovering the error that so deeply affects us both.
I would be grateful if you would agree to have lunch with me today. We can discuss our situation calmly. Be assured that I fully understand that you have no wish to accede to my impetuously made requests, and that I look forward to finding a more sensible solution that will benefit you, me and, most importantly, the child.
I will send my car for you at noon. And, again, please forgive me.
Sincerely yours,
Tariq
She looked up. Everyone was grinning. They thought all this was from a new boyfriend. Let them think it.
As for the prince’s apology … she’d accept it. Hadn’t she already tried seeing the news of her pregnancy from his point of view?
He was thinking rationally. They’d have lunch and talk, she’d grant him some visitation rights, and that would be that. She’d have to figure out how to tell her child, when it was old enough, that his—or her—father was a prince, but that wouldn’t be any more difficult than explaining how it had been conceived in the first place.
It might even be easier.
Anything was possible.
Promptly at one, Madison slipped into the glove-leather comfort of an enormous black Bentley sedan. The chauffeur closed the door, then got behind the wheel.
“For madame,” he said, and handed her an envelope.
The car glided into traffic as she took the note from the envelope and read it.
It was brief and apologetic. Tariq regretted it, but a sudden business problem meant he had to fly to Boston. He hoped she would be willing to keep their lunch appointment anyway, since he would be out of town for the next several weeks and he wanted to get this settled.
His driver was taking her to the airport; they would eat on his plane. She could spend the afternoon in Boston or his pilot would fly her home immediately.
I apologize for the change in plans.
Madison frowned. So many apologies from a man she would have sworn had never offered one in his life.
A tingle of apprehension danced across her skin but, really, what was there to be apprehensive about? In the prince’s world, lunches on his plane were undoubtedly commonplace.
Why not go along with what was, after all, an efficient arrangement?
His plane was waiting on the tarmac, in a section of Kennedy Airport that was new to her.
The fuselage bore the image of a fierce golden hawk with the words Kingdom of Dubaac engraved below its talons. It was, Madison realized, a royal crest.
Somehow, that changed things—and wasn’t that ridiculous? A private plane was exactly that. What did it matter if it was a corporate jet or a royal one? Still, she hesitated as the driver opened the limousine’s rear door.
“Madame?”
She looked at the outstretched hand. The unrevealing expression. Don’t, a tiny voice inside her whispered but she ignored it, accepted the driver’s hand and walked to the plane.
An attendant waited at the foot of the steps.
“Ms. Whitney,” he said pleasantly. “How are you today?’
A second attendant smiled as Madison stepped through the door to the cabin.
“Welcome, Ms. Whitney.”
So many welcomes. So many polite smiles. So much grandeur, Madison thought, and caught her breath.
She had flown first-class many times on business but this—this was another world. Deep blue carpeting stretched the length of the cabin; cream-colored leather love seats and chairs were arranged in small groupings. A smoked glass table, set for two, stood between two of the chairs. Flowers. White linen napkins and place mats. Gleaming china and flatware.
“Madison.”
And coming toward her was Tariq, wearing a gray suit, white shirt, maroon tie … and, God, he was beautiful. So beautiful.
“Your highness.”
He smiled as he took her hand. “Surely we can dispense with such formality. Won’t you address me as Tariq?”
“Tariq,” she said, and wondered at the flutter of her pulse. He was very different today. Smiling, gracious, charming. Very different, this man who was the father of her child, the source of the sperm that had entered her.
Color flooded her cheeks. Quickly she withdrew her hand and searched for something to say.
“Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful.”
“I’m glad you liked them. It was gracious of you to accept my apology.”
“Well, I think—I think we both were in shock yesterday.”
“I agree.” The plane’s engines had started; she could