Sandra Marton - Pleasure

Apartment 609 was at the end of the hall. The carpet muted the sound of his steps. When he reached the door, he hesitated. Maybe this really was a job for a lawyer. Maybe he should stop procrastinating, he thought grimly, and pressed the doorbell.

Why did everything always happen at the same time?

Murphy’s Law, Madison thought, when the doorbell rang just as she stepped from the shower.

Hadn’t Torino’s logged in her call? She’d ordered a pizza, then canceled it. Just the thought of all that gooey cheese had made her stomach dip. Silly, probably; it was too soon for morning sickness, even if this had been the morning …

The bell rang again.

“One second,” she yelled.

Okay. So she’d eat pizza. Or throw it out. Whatever, there was no time to towel off. No time to get annoyed at Torino’s for making a mistake, not on a night like this, not at the end of such a wonderful, magical day.

Riinnng!

Madison rolled her eyes, slipped on a robe, shoved her wet hair from her face and padded, barefoot, to the door.

“Okay,” she said, undoing the lock, “I heard you the—”

The rest of the sentence caught in her throat.

“Good evening, Ms. Whitney.”

The voice was exactly as she remembered it. Deep. Husky. And yes, definitely touched by some sort of accent. The tall, powerful body was as she remembered it, too. Lean and male and hard.

And that face. The face of a fallen angel. Cruel. Dangerous.

Fascinatingly beautiful.

Madison reacted instantly, tried to shut the door but he was too quick. His hand shot out, flattened against the door and forced it open.

“Is that any way to treat a guest?”

Sardonic amusement tinged his words but his eyes glittered coldly as he looked at her. Madison’s heart rose to her throat. She was naked under her robe, alone with a man with ice in his eyes. What did he want? How had he found her?

Excellent questions, but their importance paled beside the need to get rid of him.

“Stand back,” she said, and congratulated herself on how calm she sounded, “or I’ll scream.”

“A man, an old acquaintance, stops by to say ‘hello’ and you scream?” He gave a soft laugh. “Not very hospitable, habiba .”

“If you think you can frighten me—”

“Frighten you? Please, Ms. Whitney. Spare us both the dramatics.”

No dramatics. He was right. Straight to the point. That was the only way to deal with him.

“What do you want?”

The amused look vanished. “To talk to you.”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“Unfortunately, we do.”

He brushed past her as if she were an infinitesimal annoyance. It was deliberate, she knew, a way of making it clear he would invade her space whether she liked it or not.

“I didn’t invite you in!”

“No. You did not. But what I have to tell you requires privacy.”

His gaze drifted over her. She knew she was blushing under that slow scrutiny. She shivered and folded her arms over her breasts.

“If you think—if you, even for a moment, think—”

“Oh, I think, habiba.” His voice roughened. “Believe me, I think. What happened the night we met has been burned deep in my brain.”

No. She would not let him draw her into talking about that night; she would not defend herself when she needed no defense.

“I don’t know how you found me. Or why you’ve come here. But—”

“I told you, I came to talk.” His gaze moved over her again. “Although, I admit, finishing what we began that night is tempting.”

Her heart was pounding so loudly that she wondered if he could hear it.

“Get out.”

“Believe me, habiba, I wish I could.”

“Listen, mister—”

“Your highness.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am addressed as ‘your highness,’ not ‘mister.’”

She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had. What did his title matter?

It was only that he’d expected a different reaction from her. Surprise, yes. And even fear. Well, there was that. She was white-faced and trembling; the pupils of her eyes were dilated with terror.

And yet, she was defiant.

Defiant, and beautiful.

It was clear she’d just come from the shower. The water had turned her gold hair to bronze; it tumbled wet and wild down her back. The robe she wore was old; there was nothing even remotely sexy about it—except that it outlined her damp body. The sharp little points of her nipples. The curve of her waist. The roundness of her hips and the length of her legs.

His blood leaped. He cursed himself for it. Sexual desire was not what this was about; that she should have that effect on him, even now, sharpened his anger.

“Wait a minute …”

There was something different in her voice, an awareness that matched the way she suddenly looked at him.

“You’re a prince?”

Well, there it was. She was beautiful and defiant but, like every other woman he’d ever met, once she learned he was a royal, he could do no wrong.

“That’s right. I am His Highness, the Crown Prince Tariq al Sayf of Dubaac.”

“A prince,” she repeated, except, she didn’t really say the words, she snorted them on a whoop of laughter. “Ohmygod, a prince!”

“What,” he said coldly, “in bloody hell is so amusing?”

“I get it now. Barb sent you.”

“Who?”

“She doesn’t know you and I—that we met before. And she probably thinks you’re God’s gift to women. Well, it’s obvious you certainly do, and—”

He was beside her in a heartbeat, clasping her by the elbows, lifting her to her toes.

“Do not,” he said through his teeth, “laugh at me!”

But she was laughing. She kept laughing, and the more she did, the more he seethed.

“Stop it,” he commanded, shaking her. “Do you hear me, woman? Stop right now!”

“I can’t,” she gasped. “I mean, if Barb only knew the truth about you—”

“Here is the truth about me,” Tariq said, and crushed her mouth beneath his.

The second he tasted her, he understood what had kept him from bedding a woman the last four weeks. It wasn’t that Madison had turned him off sex.

It was exactly the opposite.

What he’d wanted, what he’d needed, was this.

This woman, in his arms, her breasts soft and full against his chest. Her belly pressed to his instantly erect flesh.

She was struggling. He didn’t give a damn. He would take what he wanted. What she owed him. Take and take and take until.

Until she gave a desperate little sob, wrapped her arms around his neck, opened her mouth to his.

Exactly as she had done when she’d teased him. When she’d humiliated him.

That wasn’t going to happen again.

He caught her wrists, dragged them to her sides. He slid his hands up her arms, fingers biting into her flesh as he held her from him.

A man who made a mistake once learned from it. A man who repeated the same mistake was a fool.

Her eyes flew open, wide and dark as night. She looked bewildered, but he knew better.

“Did you think you could play this game again?” he said in a dangerous voice.

“Game?”

She gasped as his grip tightened.

“Do not think you can toy with me, habiba, or, so help me, you will regret it.”

Color swept into her face. Her mouth trembled and, for an instant, he wanted to haul her against him again, kiss her until the tremor became sweet compliancy.

A muscle knotted in his jaw.

She was good at this. He had to remember that.

“Let go of me!”

He made a show of lifting his hands from her. “With pleasure.”

“If anyone’s going to regret anything, it’ll be you, Prince Whoever You Are, if you don’t get the hell out of my apartment right now.”