Sandra Marton - Pleasure - The Sheikh's Defiant Bride

“And I told you to get up,” he snapped. “Learn to do as you are told and things will go easier for you. And before you bother telling me that you hate me. Hatred is always the prerogative of a wife.”

She snarled a word at him. He ignored it, turned his back, folded his arms and let his damnable imagination take over as he heard the whisper of silk, the pad of bare feet, the hiss of the shower running in the en suite bathroom.

And groaned.

Why was he standing here when he could strip off his clothes, go to her, step under the water and take her in his arms?

She would protest, because she hated him. But hating him didn’t keep her from wanting him and once he touched her, drew her naked body back against his so she could feel the urgency of his desire, she would sigh his name, let her head droop against his shoulder as he cupped her breasts, as he slid his hands down her body in the most intimate of caresses.

Then he would turn her toward him, she would raise her mouth to his, wind her arms around his neck and he would cup her bottom, lift her to him, feel her legs wrap around his hips as he thrust deep, deep into her heat.

Tariq groaned again. He was a man in the sweetest kind of pain.

She was killing him, this woman he had not wanted in his life. Killing him—and his sanity depended on concentrating on the long nights he would spend, making her pay the penalty for it.

Madison stood under the shower, waiting. She knew Tariq’s game.

Any minute now, he’d open the bathroom door and step into the shower stall with her. As far as he was concerned, he could bark at her, order her around, then take her in his arms and dazzle her with his sexual expertise. Well, it wasn’t going to work this time. It wasn’t going to work at all, she realized as the minutes slid past, because it wasn’t going to happen. The door to the bedroom stayed shut. She was alone, and he was going to leave her that way. Good, she thought grimly. The last thing she wanted was him forcing himself on her again. Caressing her. Kissing her.

A little sound whispered from her lips. What was happening to her? She was changing into a woman she didn’t know.

Too little sleep, that was the problem. That, and the change in time zones.

Madison frowned, lifted her face to the spray and blanked her mind to everything but survival.

The dressing room opened off the bath as well as the bedroom. It was the size of her Manhattan living room and filled with clothes. Acres of them. Trousers. Sweaters. Blouses. Dresses. Gowns. Shoes. There was lingerie, too: delicate bras and thongs in soft shades of peach and palest blue, all surely handmade.

She selected a bra. A thong. A gorgeous pair of white cotton trousers and a white silk T-shirt.

Everything fit perfectly.

Her mouth thinned.

Tariq obviously preferred his women to be built as she was. Surely all these things, this suite, had been arranged by a prince for his mistress. For his mistresses.

Not that she gave a damn.

She dropped the towel, dressed quickly, slid her feet into a pair of exquisite white high-heeled sandals. The dressing room was mirrored; Madison glanced at her reflection, ran her hands through her still-damp hair, flung open the door and marched into the bedroom.

“Here I am,” she said briskly, “appropriately dressed or—”

But the room was empty.

Tariq had drawn back the gauzy curtains, revealing a door in the wall of glass. He stood on a stone balcony beside a table set for breakfast, sipping from a cup as he looked out over a turquoise sea.

Madison’s breath caught.

How beautiful this place was. How beautiful Tariq was.

If only he’d brought her here because he wanted her. Because he needed her. Because she was someone he cared for instead of his virtual captive.

Did he sense her presence? He must have because he swung toward her, his gray gaze sweeping from the top of her head to her toes and then back up again.

She thought her heart would stop at the sudden glint in his eyes.

“You look.” He cleared his throat. “You look beautiful, habiba.”

She came within a breath of saying he did, too, before she regained her senses.

“I’m so glad you approve,” she said, frost clinging to every word.

“Come,” he said, motioning to the table. “Sit with me and have breakfast.”

The word made her salivate. “I’m not hungry,” she lied. “And I’m not Sahar. I don’t take orders from you.”

His gaze flew over her again. “No,” he said softly, “you are not.” Smiling, he held out his hand. “Join me. Please.”

She wondered how much the simple word had cost him. Enough to make doing as he’d asked worthwhile? She decided it was, if only because not eating was foolish and she knew she’d need all her wits about her to make him stop toying with her.

She ignored his outstretched hand, pulled out a chair for herself and sat down at the table. Tariq shrugged and sat down across from her. She’d half expected him to clap his hands or press a buzzer that would bring Sahar running. Instead he poured her juice, served her crepes with crème fraiche and tiny raspberries, and filled her cup with tea.

She was almost painfully aware of him watching her as she ate. Finally he cleared his throat.

“Good?”

She thought of lying, but what was the point?

“Yes.”

“And you feel well? The baby—”

“The baby’s fine. So am I—unless you count the fact that I’m angry as hell!” She put down her fork, touched her mouth with her linen napkin and decided there’d never be a better time than right now. “Tariq. I want this nonsense to end.”

His eyes narrowed. “Nonsense?”

“Nonsense. You know. The flight here. This—this little sojourn at—at—”

“The Golden Palace.”

“Whatever. I’ve had enough. I want to go home.”

“You are home,” he said evenly. “I thought you understood that.”

“You said what—what you’d done made me your wife.”

“Carrying you off? Making love to you?”

She felt her face heat. “Stealing me,” she said. “And then—and then taking me.”

A little smile, quick and sexy, slanted across his mouth. “I may have stolen you, habiba , but I did not ‘take’ you. We made love.”

“I’m not going to debate it. The fact is, you said those things made me your wife.”

“They did.”

Madison took a deep breath, held it for an instant, then let it out.

“And yet, this morning you said it would not have been proper for you to have put me to bed last night. Or to have shared that bed with me.”

“Believe me, habiba,” he said, his voice low and a little rough, “I regret not having been able to do those things as much as you do.”

“I don’t regret them! That’s not my point at all!”

“Then, what is your point, Madison?”

“If you’d told the truth, if I really were your wife—”

“You are.” Tariq tossed his napkin on the table and rose to his feet. “But I want my father’s recognition of that fact. His formal recognition.”

“How touching.”

His face darkened. “You would make a joke of it. I assure you, this is not a joking matter. My child—”

“My child.”

“Our child,” he said coldly, “will someday inherit the throne of an ancient and honorable kingdom. For the sake of his future, for the sake of my people’s future, our union must have the royal blessing.”

“My son speaks the truth, young woman. My approval is vital to the future of Dubaac.”

Madison shot to her feet. A small man, white-haired and stooped, stood in the doorway. Tariq, looking startled, hurried toward him.

“Father. I did not expect—”