Sandra Marton - Pleasure

God, she despised him! To think that he, of all the men on file at FutureBorn, should have fathered her baby.

Sired. Not fathered. Sired. There was a big difference.

Besides, he hadn’t. She was positive of it. He didn’t need the money, didn’t have a selfless bone in his hard, gorgeous body.

Why, then, would he tell her the baby was his?

“Why?” she blurted, because, despite what she’d just told herself about waiting, she couldn’t stand it another minute. “Why have you come here? Why the fantastic story? What reason could you possibly have for—”

He set a plate in front of her. Buttered toast, with a dollop of strawberry jam alongside.

“Eat.”

She glared at him, saw that tight jaw, the icy eyes, and decided doing as he said might be a good idea. She really was starving, even maybe a little light-headed, and after all, she was eating for two now.

She picked up a piece of toast, slathered jam over it and bit in. The prince-turned-chef put a mug of steaming tea beside the plate.

“You have no honey,” he said accusingly, “only white sugar, which is not good for you or the child.”

Madison batted her lashes.

“How nice,” she said sweetly. “A prince. A cook. And a medical expert. Lucky me, having you stop by.”

He probably thought so, anyway. He probably thought himself a gift to womankind, and his DNA a gift to the world. Even the way he stood beside the counter, hip-shot, arms folded, face expressionless as he watched her, spoke of supreme self-assurance.

Such nonsense, his claim that he’d donated sperm—but if he had, the woman who got it would be lucky, assuming she put any store in a man’s looks.

Despising the sheikh of Dubaac didn’t mean she was blind.

Women probably fell at his feet. Even she, before she’d wised up to him. She’d made a fool of herself, letting him kiss her, touch her, until all that mattered was the feel of his hands, the taste of his mouth.

The only “donation” a man like him would make would be in bed, with the woman beneath him begging for his possession.

“Whatever are you thinking, habiba?”

Madison’s gaze flew to him. His voice was low and rough; those gray eyes glittered like silver. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn he’d read her thoughts.

The air between them seemed to thicken. She wanted to look away but she couldn’t.

“There’s jam on your lip.” His voice was rough.

“Where?” she said, the word barely a whisper.

“Right—there,” he said, and leaned toward her.

She felt the whisper of his breath. The fleeting touch of his tongue. Her eyes closed; a murmur rose in her throat.

She jerked back. So did he. He turned away but not before her gaze swept down his body, to where the softly-faded denim of his jeans cupped the sudden tumescent bulge of his sex.

He wasn’t the only one.

Heat bloomed between her thighs. She could feel the almost painful budding of her nipples against the thinness of her robe.

Had he noticed? She wanted to cross her arms over her breasts but that would only draw attention to what had happened.

How could a kiss have such an effect?

Carefully she picked up the napkin and wiped her lips. She waited until her heartbeat steadied. When she looked up again, Tariq was at the sink, rinsing dishes as if he did things like that every day of his no-doubt useless life.

“All right,” she said briskly. “You’ve done your Good Samaritan act. You made tea and toast, cleaned up after yourself and I’m feeling much better. Thank you—and now, go away.”

He shut off the water. Dried his hands on the towel hanging beside the sink and then turned and looked at her. What had happened a moment ago might never have taken place; his eyes were the cool eyes of a stranger.

“You mean, now, we talk.”

“Fine.” Madison folded her hands on the counter. “Talk, then. Just don’t take too long to come up with a convincing explanation of why you came here tonight.”

“I’ve already told you that.”

She sighed. All at once, she was exhausted. It had been a long day, starting with the exciting news from her doctor and ending with Tariq al Sayf’s intrusion into her life.

“Yes. You have. So let me tell you why what you claim is impossible—assuming you really are a FutureBorn donor.”

“That is not how I would describe it.”

“How I would describe it is that I carefully selected a donor from the files. You, your highness, are not that man.”

His lips curved in a mirthless smile. “I certainly did not intend to be.”

“My selection was—is—a perfect match for my requirements.”

For her requirements, Tariq thought. Interesting, that she should have thought of a father for her child in the same terms as he had thought of a woman to bear him an heir.

“I chose a man who was gentle. Easygoing. An intellectual, with creative leanings.”

Another quick, dangerous smile.

“And here I am, instead. A barbarian from a land you never heard of. Cruel. Unfeeling. About as intellectual as a game of rugby. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Why lie? Madison shrugged. “You said it, not me. And besides all that, I don’t really see you as a do—” She frowned as he took an envelope from his back pocket and tossed it on the counter. “What’s that?”

“Open it.”

She looked from the envelope to him. His expression gave nothing away; the very absence of emotion in his eyes had more meaning than anything he’d said until now.

“It won’t bite you, habiba. It’s a letter from my attorney. I suggest you read it before you say anything else.”

She didn’t want to. She didn’t even want to touch it. For some crazy reason, her thoughts swung back to childhood, to an old ditty about what evil would befall you if you stepped on a crack in the sidewalk.

She’d never believed stuff like that. Her childhood had not lent itself to silly superstitions. Still, she had the awful feeling that if she picked up the envelope, read the letter inside it, she’d somehow unleash the hounds of hell.

“Read it,” Tariq said, and there was no way on earth to ignore that command.

The envelope was of ivory bond, heavy and rich to the touch. The single page within it was the same.

The engraved letterhead sent her heart skittering into her throat.

Strickland, Forbes, DiGennaro and Lustig, Attorneys at Law.

She knew the name. Anyone who did business in New York would. There were bad law firms and good law firms. There were those that were excellent, and those people talked about in tones of hushed reverence.

And then there was Strickland, Forbes, DiGennaro and Lustig. The firm was almost as old as the city; its reputation had never been touched by scandal, and the blood of its clients was the bluest of blue.

They would not represent a bogus prince, and they would not support a bogus claim.

Madison’s throat constricted. She stared blindly at the paper.

“Shall I read it to you?”

Her head came up. The prince was watching her the way a cobra would watch a hapless mouse.

“No,” she said, and then she cleared her throat. “Surprisingly enough,” she said with what she hoped was a careless smile, “I’m capable of doing that for myself.”

At first, the words were a blur. Then, gradually, they came into focus.

Your most respected excellence, Prince Tariq al Sayf, Crown Prince of Dubaac, Heir to the Throne of the Golden Falcon. Greetings.

Okay. So he had a real title. What did she give a damn about titles?

… reference to our earlier conversation …

Legalspeak filled the next paragraph. Madison felt the tension easing. An abundance of legalspeak often meant an abundance of crapola.