Kitabı oku: «Pleasure», sayfa 7

“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—”

“No. Obviously not.” The sultan, his expression unreadable, looked at Madison. “And this is your wife.”

“Yes, Father. I told the prime minister I would bring her to you at noon.”

“Did you expect me to wait that long to see the woman who carries my grandchild?” The sultan frowned. “She could use more meat on her bones.”

“I agree, Father, and—”

“Excuse me,” Madison said with defiance, though her heart was pounding like a drum. “I do not need more meat on my bones, I do not like being spoken of as if I were not present and I am not your son’s wife.”

The sultan’s expression eased. “She is exactly as you said, Tariq.” His eyebrows rose at Madison’s look of surprise. “My son told me all about you.”

She blinked. “He did?”

“Last night, after you and he arrived. And, I admit, I was not pleased.”

An ally? Madison mentally crossed her fingers. “No. Of course you weren’t. I mean, why would you be …”

“My son is a prince. He is my heir. His wedding should have been celebrated properly, by the joined Nations.” The sultan’s expression softened. “But he explained how you met and fell deeply in love.”

Madison crossed her arms over her chest. “Did he, indeed?”

“And I understand.” The old man’s lips twitched. “I know you’d planned to seek my blessing but that fate and nature intervened. After all, I was young once. I remember how hot the blood can run.”

“No,” Madison said quickly, “that isn’t—”

“Father.” Tariq came to her side, slid his arm around her waist. It looked like a gesture of tenderness but his hand splayed over her hip as if it were made of steel. “You’re embarrassing my bride.”

“That’s not true. I’m not—”

“Of course you are, habiba.” Tariq’s voice was soft but the look he flashed at her upturned face was a cold warning. “It’s only natural that you’d feel our story is far too personal to share.”

Madison blinked. Hadn’t he told his father how this child had been conceived?

“As I said,” the sultan continued, “I am human. I stayed awake all night, thinking.” His voice went soft. “I decided to be happy for you and for my son, and especially for the baby he put in your womb, even if it was done a new way.”

Tariq felt Madison’s start of surprise. He tightened his arm around her.

“He means,” he said carefully, “without us marrying first, habiba.”

“In fact, I must admit I am delighted that you agreed to an old-fashioned joining of your bodies, hearts and souls so that no one will dare call your baby illegitimate.”

Madison ignored the pressure of Tariq’s encircling arm. “Sir,” she said, “you don’t under—”

“There is no need to thank me, my dear. I love my son. I love my people. Why would I not be prepared to love the woman he loves, and the child she carries?” The sultan smiled. “Welcome to our family, Princess.”

Madison stared at the eyes bright with hope but rheumy with age. What could she say that wouldn’t take that hope from the old man? If she told him the truth, that she hadn’t agreed to anything, that she wanted to leave this place and Tariq, she’d probably break his heart.

No. She couldn’t do that. Tariq had created this mess. Let him be the one to fix it, not she.

The sultan held out his arms. Madison fixed a smile to her lips and walked into his embrace. He kissed each of her cheeks, then held her at arm’s length and chuckled.

“Such a nice surprise my son brings me.” His smile tilted. “Did Tariq tell you of the death of his brother?”

“Yes. I mean, he said something about—”

“I am happy for the first time since that terrible day. A lovely woman, with my first grandchild in her womb. Who would have thought a tragedy could leave a man twice blessed?”

Color flooded Madison’s face. Tariq saw it and knew she was not blushing at the compliment but at the depth of their lie.

He felt something knife into his heart.

His bride had honor. She had integrity. Where was his?

“Tonight,” the sultan said briskly, “we shall celebrate. I have contacted all our friends and family. It is short notice but they assure me they will all be here to share our good fortune and to hear you announce your marriage and make it official.” He smiled. “My son, you have done well.”

A muscle flickered in Tariq’s jaw. “Father. Just a minute. I must talk to you—”

“We’ll have time to talk tomorrow.” The old man let go of Madison and clasped Tariq’s shoulders. “You have done a good thing,” he said quietly, “a fine thing. Your brother can rest easy. Wherever his spirit dwells, I am sure he is as proud of you as I.”

The sultan embraced Tariq, kissed Madison again and retraced his steps into the house.

Tariq stood motionless.

The scene had gone exactly as he’d hoped.

And he despised himself for it.

His father was wrong. Sharif would not be proud of him. No one would. He had drawn them all into a monstrous lie. His father, his people, his dead brother and, most of all, the woman who carried his child. He had dishonored all of them.

It was not difficult to see that he had dishonored his unborn child, too.

“Tariq?”

He felt Madison’s hand fall lightly on his shoulder. He ached for her touch, for her absolution, but he knew damned well he didn’t deserve it so he swung toward her and caught hold of her wrists.

“I was wrong,” he said harshly. “About everything. I got so caught up in the need for an heir that I was blind to everything else. And—and I forgot a simple thing called honor.”

Madison stared at the stranger who was her husband. Moments ago, all she’d wanted was to finish this awful charade. Then, she’d met an old man fighting the ravages of time, the loss of a son and the burden of leadership.

Looking at Tariq’s drawn face, her heart constricted.

He had been born to awesome responsibility. He’d lost his brother and, from the looks of it, he would probably soon lose his father, too. In the face of all that, he had done what he had to do.

What any man of honor would do. How could she not have recognized that until now?

“Habiba. I have wronged you. And I—”

Madison shook her head. “You did what fate demanded.”

“Sharif would not be proud of me.”

“I think he would.”

“I lied to my father, I forced you into marriage—”

“You loved your brother.”

“With all my heart.”

“And you love your father. You love your land and your people.” She shook her head. “I didn’t really understand.”

“What is there to understand? I put myself ahead of everything. Ahead of you, our baby, even the righteousness of truth. And that is an unforgivable evil.”

“You were worried,” she said softly. “About the future of your people and your child.”

“You’re being generous, habiba. I didn’t think of our baby, I thought of my heir.”

“Maybe—but somewhere along the way, your heir became our baby.” Her lips curved in a smile. “And look at what’s just happened. You said you were wrong. You apologized. Tariq, this is a day to remember.”

Tariq looked at his wife. How good she was, this woman whose life he had turned upside down. How could he have seen her only as a vessel for his needs?

He took a strand of her hair and let it curl around his finger, stalling for time even though he knew what he had to do.

“Madison. I’m going to take you home. To New York. We’ll meet with my attorney and work out some sort of arrangement. I will, of course, support our child. I only ask that you let me share in its life and teach it to be proud of its heritage.”

“You don’t have to ask those things of me, Tariq. We’re married.”

Not yet, Tariq thought. He had announced the marriage to his flight staff, to his father, but until he stood before his people with Madison at his side.

“We are, aren’t we, Tariq?”

He hesitated. She deserved the truth.

“Tariq. Are we married?”

Tariq looked at the impossible, difficult, untamable female who carried his child.

Her eyes were very dark; her breathing was quick. She was not what he had ever looked for. Except for her beauty, she had none of the traits he’d believed a wife should have.

And the thought of giving her up made his heart ache.

“If I were not a royal, we would be,” he said softly. “But I am a prince, habiba. So until my father makes the announcement before our people—”

Madison put her fingers over his lips.

“I had no father, Tariq. I told myself that my child wouldn’t need one, either. And then you appeared at my door. The anonymous donor who’d made me pregnant.” Her eyes met his. “But you’re not that anymore. You’re a man. A good man. How can I deny your right to this child, or its right to you?” She swallowed dryly. “Let your father make the announcement tonight.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Then Tariq groaned and gathered her in his arms.

“You do me an incredible honor,” he said softly. “I will be a good husband. A good father. I swear it, habiba. I will do everything I can to make you happy. I swear that, too.”

Madison nodded. She knew that he would.

But he would not love her. That was all right, wasn’t it? Love wasn’t part of this arrangement. Why would she want it to be? She didn’t love this man. Certainly she didn’t love—

“Habiba?”

Madison stopped thinking, rose to her husband and sealed their agreement with a kiss.

CHAPTER NINE

TARIQ said he would see her later, that he’d have to spend most of the day in meetings.

“Will you be all right, habiba?”

Madison had said yes, of course, she’d be fine. She was accustomed to being on her own; why would this be any different?

The answer came within seconds of his closing the door.

There was a phone beside the bed. Seeing it made her realize she hadn’t contacted her office. Even if she’d had the time, her cell phone wasn’t geared for overseas use.

All right. She’d call now. Her P.A. was probably frantic, trying to figure out what had happened to her.

A tingle of disbelief raised goose bumps on her arms. She was getting married. That was what had happened to her.

Her office was in for quite a surprise.

Smiling, Madison picked up the phone, waited for the dial tone, punched in the number.

The line went dead.

Well, of course. You had to dial the international dialing code first, then the one for Manhattan. She did that … and, once again, found herself holding a dead phone in her hand.

Maybe she had the codes wrong. Or maybe you had to dial for an outside line. Sahar would know or, if she didn’t, she’d find someone who did. But where was Sahar? How was she supposed to summon her—and what an awful word that was! You summoned a taxi, not a person—

Someone rapped lightly at the door. Madison heaved a sigh of relief.

“Sahar. Please, come in. I was just thinking about—” “My lady.”

This wasn’t Sahar. It was a man who looked even older than the sultan.

“My lady,” he said in a quavery whisper, and bowed until Madison thought she heard his bones creak.

“Please, she said quickly, “stand up. You don’t have to—”

“I am Fouad, Doorkeeper of the Golden Palace. What you might call the major-domo. His highness, the crown prince, thought you might wish to tour its rooms.”

“Yes. Yes, thank you, I would but first. This telephone doesn’t seem to work.”

“Whom did you wish to call, my lady?” Madison raised an eyebrow. None of your business, was her typically New York reaction, but Fouad was old enough to be her grandfather.

“My office,” she said politely, “in—”

“Ah. That has been done.”

“No, it hasn’t. I haven’t spoken to them since—”

“It has been done, my lady. My lord saw to it.”

Madison raised her eyebrows. “The prince?”

“Yes. He took care of it.”

“Well, that was good of him but I want to phone anyway, so if you’d just show me how to use this—”

“You are to see the palace, ma’am. The prince so commanded.”

The prince had made a call she hadn’t asked him to make. Had he also commanded she tour the palace, or was the old man’s formal use of English putting the wrong spin on things?

“My lady?”

There was no sense in asking questions of Fouad. She’d save them for Tariq.

“I’d be happy to see the palace,” Madison said pleasantly.

The old man made another of those backbreaking bows, followed by a sweeping gesture toward the door.

“If you would accompany me, please?”

Madison forced a polite smile and fell in beside him.

Walking through the palace was like walking through a dream.

High coffered ceilings. Frescoed walls. Blue-veined marble floors. Priceless paintings that surprised her by starting with Michelangelo and proceeding through Jasper Johns. Sculptures by Praxitales, Rodin and Brancusi. There were elegantly appointed sitting rooms, other rooms that held shiny banks of computers. The palace was filled with things as ancient as the desert, as modern as Manhattan, a dizzying blend that seemed to say time was as fluid as the waters that danced in the fountains of the exquisite gardens.

Or was that an illusion?

For all the signs of modern life, the Golden Palace was rooted in the past. Servants bowed as she passed; when she greeted them or asked their names, they responded politely but with heads bowed and eyes averted.

It was, Fouad said, as if he couldn’t believe she didn’t understand, the custom.

So was the way all conversation ceased when she entered a room. So was the way women curtsied. The custom, all of it … and a constant reminder of how different this world was from her own.

It was a sobering thought.

So was the realization that the palace, as beautiful as it was, was more a museum than a home. Did Tariq actually intend them to live here? The idea was not a happy one. What about New York? Did he have a place there, too? She assumed he did; she’d expected they’d live there … well, no. To be honest, she hadn’t really thought about it.

Everything had happened far too quickly … maybe even including her acquiescence.

The tour lasted for what seemed hours. At the end, Fouad did another of those awful-looking bows.

“Please,” Madison said quickly, “you don’t have to do that!”

“It is the custom, my lady.”

Was that the answer for everything in Dubaac? That it was the custom? What other customs were there? She wanted to ask Fouad or, after he’d shuffled backward out the door, Sahar.

But the maid said lunch was ready on the terrace and before Madison could say she wanted answers, not food, a girl who spoke no English curtsied and dipped and blushed her way into the room.

Madison signaled her to look up but it was pointless—the girl was obviously horrified by the suggestion.

“She is here to tend to you, my lady,” Sahar explained. “To ready you for tonight. She will draw your bath, do your nails and your hair, as is—”

“The custom,” Madison said, more sharply than she’d intended. “But my custom is to do things for myself.”

“That is not our way.”

“And all this—this bowing and scraping is? At least, I don’t see you crawling on your hands and knees!”

Sahar’s eyes narrowed. “No one crawls,” she said carefully, “we simply do what is—”

“Don’t say it!”

The woman looked at Madison as if she’d lost her mind. Madison swung away and tried to think. Was she crazy? Maybe. If not, why would she have agreed to become Tariq’s wife without at least asking him where they’d live, what he expected of her.

The girl was whispering frantically to Sahar. Madison turned and looked at them, her temper growing even shorter at the pallor that had settled on the girl’s face.

“Now what?”

“The girl wishes to know if she may do her job, my lady, or if she must report her failure to please you to Fouad.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake! Madison marched to a chair and sat down.

“Tell her to do whatever she’d been sent to do,” she said, and for the next few hours, she endured the attention of the girl, of Sahar and, eventually, of half a dozen women while the distant sounds of arriving planes seemed to fill the sky overhead.

Finally, at dusk, Sahar looked her over, nodded in approval and sent the others away.

“It is time, my lady. I will dress you now.”

“In what? I don’t have—”

Sahar hurried into the dressing room and emerged a moment later with a garment wrapped in layers of tissue paper.

“Your gown,” she said happily. “It arrived while you were with Fouad.”

“It arrived?” Madison said stupidly. “How? From where?”

Sahar smiled as she gently removed the layers of paper, then eased the gown over Madison’s head.

“Shoes, as well, my lady,” she said, bending to slip a pair of high-heeled gold sandals on Madison’s feet. “And all from Paris, of course, by plane, just like all the other things in your dressing room. Will you please turn, so I can do up these buttons?”

“Paris? Those things came from Paris? They weren’t here all along?”

“Of course not,” Sahar said with indignation. “The prince ordered them especially for you.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. “It was a close call—is that how you say it? My lord had so little time, because of your elopement. The couturier did say this dress, your celebration dress, would be late. But it all worked out. After all, the prince is the prince. He can do magic!”

Stunned, Madison stared blindly at the mirror.

Magic, indeed.

Her husband had arranged for her kidnapping, for hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of designer clothing, for a gown for their wedding celebration, all in the certainty that she would do exactly as he wished.

What else had he arranged? The visit from his father and those touching sentiments? Tariq’s sudden tenderness, his offer to set her free? Had it all been a lie, carefully choreographed to turn her into a docile wife instead of a woman determined to fight him?

Madison shuddered.

A little while ago, she’d asked herself if she were crazy. The answer was, yes, she had to be, to hand herself over to a man who had such power and used it so ruthlessly.

“Ohhh … Look at yourself, my lady. You are so beautiful! What a bride you will be tonight!”

Madison stared at her reflection. The gown was beautiful, a froth of cobalt-blue silk studded with tiny jewels, as if she were wearing a bit of the night sky. Small white orchids adorned her hair. Even her shoes were elegant, nothing but wisps of gold and jewels on high, slender heels.

Was this really she? Was this Madison Whitney, vice president of a Fortune 500 firm? Was this the woman with two university degrees? A woman the New York Times had referred to as someone who epitomized the success of women in business?

Madison spun toward her servant. Her obedient, it-is-the-custom servant.

“I want to see the prince!”

“You will, and very soon, my lady.”

“I want to see him now!”

“That is not possible. The custom—”

Madison snatched the circlet of flowers from her head and flung it at the wall.

“Damn the custom! I will see Tariq now!”

“But a bride may not—”

“How is it you’ve suddenly started calling me a ‘bride,’ Sahar? Aren’t I already married? Isn’t that—that barbaric custom of stealing a woman and forcing her into a man’s bed a wedding ceremony? Because if it isn’t—”

“Oh! My lord!”

Sahar all but sank to the floor when the door swung open and banged against the wall as Tariq strode into the room. He wore a cream-colored uniform jacket over black trousers and boots; a single gold medallion blazed like the sun against the jacket.

“The doors here are thick, habiba,” he said coldly, “but not thick enough to keep your angry words from spilling into the hall.” He made a quick gesture; Sahar scurried away and he slammed the door after her. “What is happening here?”

“I’ve come to my senses,” Madison said. “That’s what’s happening here! And I’ve finally realized what a—what a liar you are!”

He was on her in a heartbeat, catching her by the shoulders, drawing her to her toes, looking down into her face through eyes gone dark with rage.

“Do not,” he said in a voice so soft and cold it was barely a whisper, “ever use such a word to describe me!”

“You had this all planned!”

“Of course I did. You knew that. How else was I to make you listen to me if I hadn’t brought you on board my plane?”

“Kidnapped me, you mean!”

“I did it for a reason. I explained all of that to you and yet now, you call me—”

“You took it upon yourself to phone my office.”

“Yes. I did.” Tariq let go of her and folded his arms. “I thought the announcement of our ‘elopement’ might sound better, coming from me.”

Madison stamped her foot in fury. “I do not need anyone to speak for me!”

“All right,” he said, fighting to stay calm, “in the future, I won’t.”

“And then there’s that dressing room. The clothes. This gown. Everything was here, waiting for me. You planned it all!”

So much for staying calm.

“Damn it, woman, I have not denied it! Would you have preferred I offered you rags to wear?”

He was right; she knew he was. Nothing had changed … and yet, everything had changed! Carrying her off in the heat of the moment was somehow not the same as all these signs of careful, cool-headed planning.

And it certainly wasn’t the same as imagining that part of the reason he’d kidnapped her, even the smallest part, was that he’d suddenly realized how badly he wanted her.

“Well? Is that what you’d have preferred?”

Madison blanked her mind to everything but her anger at the situation this man, this—this arrogant man, had forced upon her.

“I would have preferred,” she said, as coolly as he, “to have had a choice as to whether or not I wanted to marry you in the first place. Is that so damned difficult to understand?”

He glared at her, turned and strode away, then came back to where she stood.

“Perhaps something’s gone wrong with your memory as well as your sense of reason. I did give you a choice, habiba. This morning. I offered to fly you back to New York, remember? To tell my father the truth, admit that you had not come with me willingly, that I really had taken you from New York against your will—”

“That you took me to your bed the same way!”

His eyes narrowed. “I took you to my bed because it was what you wanted.”

“Liar!”

It was all the protest she had the chance to make. Tariq’s mouth dropped to hers, covering it, capturing it, possessing it.

Madison struggled. Fought. Refused to give in to what she knew he wanted. She’d made enough mistakes; she would not make any more. Instead she forced herself to endure his kiss instead of tumbling into it as she ached to do, to stand unmoving even as her heart begged her to respond to him.

It worked.

Tariq lifted his head. Nothing showed in his eyes, not even anger. She had won, she thought, though the victory left her hollow.

“Tell your father the truth now,” she said in a low voice. “That this was wrong. That it was never meant to be. That you are going to send me home because you regret what you did.”

Tariq stepped back. “The only thing I regret,” he said tonelessly, “is believing you cared for our child—and even, perhaps, for me.”

“You’re twisting everything, damn you! I’m not the one who started all this! I’m not the one who told such monstrous lies.”

“I told you not to make such accusations about me.”

Madison slapped her hands on her hips. “And I’m telling you, oh almighty sheikh, do not think you can control—”

She gasped as he pulled her into his arms again, as his hands rose to frame her face and imprison it.

“Fouad tells me you found our customs interesting, habiba. Well, here’s another custom.” His fingers tunneled into her hair; even in his blind fury he was aware that it felt like silk, that her skin smelled of flowers and sunlight. Another time, such things might have calmed him. Now, they only fueled his anger. “As my wife, you belong to me. You have no rights other than the ones I grant you. That is the way of things, in Dubaac.”

“No.” The word was a whisper. “Tariq. You wouldn’t—”

“I would,” he said harshly. “I already have. Five hundred guests have gathered to celebrate our union. If you think I am going to stand before them and tell them there is no union, that I have decided to let my American wife raise my child six thousand miles away from me, you are sadly mistaken.”

Tears rose in Madison’s eyes.

“You’re lower than scum. A degenerate tyrant. And I hate you! I hate you, hate you, hate you—”

Tariq crushed her in his arms, kissed her mouth again and again, taking instead of giving, despising this woman for what she had made him become.

Despising himself, because she was right, this was all his fault. There were surely easier ways to secure his legal rights to his child.

But there was no easy way to secure his rights to the woman who carried it and that realization thundered through him with each beat of his heart.

When he let her go, Madison wiped the back of her hand over her lips.

“You will never touch me again,” she said in a trembling voice. “Never, as long as I live.”

Tariq smiled. It was a smile of such awareness, such intimate knowledge, that it brought a rush of pink to her face—and despair to her heart.

After all this, she still wanted him. And he knew it.

“I will touch you, habiba,” he said huskily. “We both know that.”

“Sex,” she said dismissively, “that’s all it—”

Tariq bent his head and kissed her. Don’t respond, Madison told herself, oh, don’t …

And she wouldn’t have, had his kiss been one of domination. But it wasn’t. Despite their harsh words, his kiss was soft on her lips.

“Sex is passion,” he murmured. “And passion is life.” He met her eyes and lay his hand gently over her still-flat belly. “And then there is this child you carry. Our child. Would you really want me to be the kind of man who would walk away from it, and from you?”

He could see her struggling for an answer. Well, he was struggling, too.

Perhaps he was the things she’d called him.

But maybe—maybe he was only a man who knew, deep in his heart, he would have wanted this woman even if she weren’t pregnant with his baby.

And maybe he was too much a coward to admit it.