Sandra Marton - Pleasure - The Sheikh's Defiant Bride

Tariq sighed and stared vacantly out the window. True. Absolutely true. Then, what was taking him so long?

His brother was gone. His father was no longer a young man. What if something happened? To his father? To him? Anything was possible. Without an heir to the throne, Dubaac could be plunged into turmoil. And that must not happen. He could not let it happen… .

A knock sounded at the door. Tariq swung around as his P.A. popped her head into the room.

“The Five O’Clock Financial News is on CNN, sir. You wanted to watch …?”

He gave her a blank look.

“To see if MicroTech would announce their new acquisition …?”

No wife. No functional brain, either, Tariq thought bleakly, and nodded his thanks.

“Right. Thank you, Eleanor. Have a good evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The door swung shut. Tariq sat down at his desk, picked up the remote control and pointed it at the flat screen TV on the wall. A couple of clicks and he was looking at some set director’s idea of an office. Pale walls, dark floor, windows, a long table at which a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit sat facing three other middle-aged men in dark blue suits …

And a woman.

She wore a dark blue suit, too, but that was where the resemblance ended.

Tariq’s eyes narrowed.

It was difficult to tell her age, thanks to bulky, tortoise-framed glasses with darkly smoked lenses. The glasses lent her a look of severity. So did the way she wore her pale gold hair, drawn back from her oval face in a low chignon.

She sat straight in her chair, hands neatly folded in her lap, legs demurely crossed.

They were excellent legs. Long. Lean. Nicely toned.

His belly knotted with hunger.

He could see himself lifting the woman from her chair. Letting her hair down. Taking off her glasses so he could see if she was merely attractive or heart-breakingly beautiful …

Damn it.

He was not given to fantasies about women, especially ones he had never met. Was this what his search for a wife had reduced him to? Lust for a woman on television? A woman whose name he didn’t even know?

Tariq scowled.

This was what came of celibacy.

He had not been with a woman in two months. He’d thought it wise not to let a woman’s talent in bed influence him in his choice of a wife.

It had seemed a clever idea.

It still was.

He just had to stop fantasizing like a schoolboy.

Tariq tore his eyes from the woman. The program’s moderator, the Suit seated across from her, was speaking.

“. true, then, that MicroTech has acquired controlling interest in FutureBorn?”

The paunchiest of the Suits nodded.

“That’s correct. We believe FutureBorn represents the future. No pun intended,” he added with a thin smile. The two men seated with him laughed in hearty appreciation; the woman showed no reaction at all. “You see, Jay, as men and women delay childbirth, FutureBorn’s new techniques will become even more important.”

“But FutureBorn is in an already crowded field, isn’t it?”

Another thin smile. “So it would seem. Artificial insemination has been around for a long time, but FutureBorn’s new techniques … Perhaps our vice president for Marketing can explain it best.”

All heads turned toward the woman. Vice president for Marketing, Tariq thought, raising one dark eyebrow. An impressive title. Had she earned it? Or had she slept her way into it? He’d been in business long enough to know those things happened.

She looked at the camera. At him, his gut said, though he knew that was ridiculous.

“I’ll certainly try.”

Her voice was low-pitched, almost husky. He tried to concentrate on what she was saying but he was too busy just looking at her …

“… in other words, absolutely perfect for storing sperm.”

Tariq blinked. What had she just said?

“Can you explain that, please, Miss Whitney?”

Tariq sent a silent “thank you” to the moderator for asking the question. Surely the woman could not have said—

“I’ll be happy to,” the woman said calmly. “It’s true, as you pointed out, artificial insemination is not new, but the method FutureBorn’s developed to freeze sperm is not only new, it’s revolutionary.”

Tariq stared at the screen. What sort of talk was this from a woman?

“And the benefits are?”

“Well.” The woman ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. It had to have been an unconscious gesture but it turned his own mouth dry. “Well, one obvious benefit is that a man who has no wish to sire children at the present time can leave a specimen with us. A donation for the future, as it were, secure in the knowledge it will be available for his use years later.”

A donation, Tariq thought. An interesting choice of words.

“Or, if not for his use, then for use on his behalf.”

“In what way?” the moderator said.

“Well, for example, a man might wish to leave instructions as to how his sperm should be used after his death.” She smiled politely. “Frozen sperm, along with proper legal documentation regarding its use, could be a twenty-first century method of ensuring a wealthy man had an heir.

Or a crown prince had a successor.

Tariq frowned.

What if he left a—a—What had she called it? A donation. What if a test tube of his semen was set aside in case the unthinkable happened and fate intervened before he’d found a suitable wife?

Hell. Was he crazy?

Tariq aimed the remote at the screen. It went blank and he shot to his feet.

A real man did not make a “donation” to a test tube. He made it in the womb of a woman.

He had not looked hard enough, that was all. In this city of millions, surely there was a perfect candidate just waiting for him to find.

He’d been invited to a party tonight. His lawyer had bought a town house on the East Side and wanted to celebrate. Tariq, imagining all the long-legged women who’d undoubtedly be there, had at first thought it an excellent opportunity. Then he’d shuddered at the realization he’d reached the point at which he thought of such things as opportunities, and he’d sent his regrets.

Another mistake, he thought as he pulled on his suit jacket and strode toward the door. First, choosing celibacy that had clearly affected his concentration. Then, refusing an invitation to a place that might, indeed, provide excellent prospects for his search for a wife.

An old American expression danced into his mind. Three strikes and you’re out. It referred to baseball but it could just as readily refer to his quest. First, his search in Dubaac, then in the Nations.

Well, there wasn’t going to be a third strike. He hadn’t been looking hard enough, that was the problem.

And that was going to change, starting now.

“Okay, people. We’re off the air.”

Madison Whitney rose to her feet, unclipped the tiny black mike from the lapel of her suit and handed it to the waiting technician.

“Madison,” her boss said, “you did a fine job.”

“Thank you.”

“Excellent.” He laughed—ho, ho, ho, Madison thought, just like an actor doing a really bad interpretation of Santa—and leaned in close. “Suppose we have a drink and discuss things?”

Discuss what? she wanted to say. How you can figure out a way to get me into bed? But Mrs. Whitney had not raised a stupid daughter so Madison smiled brightly, just as she’d been doing ever since MicroTech had taken over FutureBorn and said oh, that would be lovely, but she had a previous engagement.

The phony smile of her very married employer turned positively feral.

“Now, Madison, it isn’t wise to say ‘no’ all the time.”

It isn’t wise to court a sexual harassment lawsuit, either, Madison thought, but she knew what he didn’t, that their uneasy alliance would soon be over.