for an evening on the town. Laughable, except for the sudden chill working its way down his spine.
“Sent out where?” he said, very softly.
“To an office. A doctor’s office.”
“Well, get it back!”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, your highness. It’s been—it’s been used.”
“Used?”
“Yes, sir. Given to a—a recipient.”
“You mean,” Tariq said carefully, “you mean that some woman has been impregnated with my sperm?”
“Inseminated, sir. It would be premature to say she’s been—”
“How in hell could such a thing happen?”
“I don’t know, your highness.”
Tariq’s head was spinning. Somewhere in the vast city, a part of him had entered the womb of a stranger. If she became pregnant, if she bore a child.
“Who is she?”
“Sir. With all due respect—”
“Who is she, Strickland?”
“Your highness, there are issues of privacy here. Until I can research them—”
“Privacy?” Tariq roared, as he shot to his feet. “Some woman I’ve never even laid eyes on is carrying my seed and you’re worried about her privacy? Tell me who she is or so help me, you’ll regret it.”
There was silence. Then Strickland cleared his throat.
“Her name,” he said, “her name is Madison Whitney.”
Tariq had heard that a man’s vision went red with rage.
A lie.
If anything, his took on a brilliant clarity. He could see Madison Whitney as if she were standing in front of him. That coldly beautiful face, her contempt for him glittering in her eyes.
Impossible. Strickland had her name wrong. Or there was another Madison Whitney in New York.
Strickland erased those possibilities. Tariq’s seed had been, as he delicately put it, “misdirected and utilized.” Utilized by the very woman whose image had made Tariq’s “donation” possible.
The irony was inescapable. And, all at once, so was a far darker possibility.
“She is a vice president at FutureBorn,” Tariq said sharply.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps she did this deliberately.”
“Your highness—”
“If she knew what I intended to do—”
“Sir, it’s not very likely that—”
“She would also know who I am. That I am a man of considerable wealth and—”
“And what, sir? What possible benefit could she see in it? Even if the procedure she underwent worked—and there’s no guarantee it did—having your child to get at your money is a bit far-fetched—if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”
Tariq rubbed his forehead, where an entire assortment of percussionists seemed to have set out their drums.
“Additionally, your highness, it seems the woman had been planning this for some time. She had already selected a donor.”
“A man she knows?” Tariq asked sharply, though why that should matter made no sense.
“She opted for an anonymous donor, sir.”
Tariq closed his eyes while Strickland went on talking.
“I’ll begin checking the grounds on which we’ll sue, and—”
“Is that your best legal advice? That I should sue and let the entire world laugh?”
“The woman might choose to sue, even if you don’t.”
Could this nightmare get worse?
“Thus far, no one has told her of your involvement. It might not please her, any more than it pleases you.”
“I am a prince,” Tariq said imperiously. Later, he would recall those words and wince.
“Your highness. For now, the best option might be to do nothing.”
“And if the Whitney woman becomes pregnant? Are you suggesting I let her raise a royal prince of Dubaac as a—a street urchin?”
“Hardly that,” Strickland said dryly. “She’s well-educated. She holds a very responsible position. She—”
“I don’t care if she’s Mother Teresa incarnate,” Tariq snapped. He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Very well. For now, do nothing. Make sure whoever knows about this—this ‘misdirection’ does nothing. Is that clear?” Tariq sank down on the edge of the bed again, hand over his eyes, his clever plan lying in pieces around him “How long before we know if she is pregnant?”
“A month, sir.”
“How will we get the information?”
Strickland cleared his throat. “I have ways, your highness. Be assured, we will know minutes after she does.”
A month. Four weeks. Four endless weeks.
“Wait the month,” Tariq said softly. “Meanwhile, have her watched.”
“Sir?”
“I know something of this woman,” Tariq said coldly.
“Ah. I had no idea—”
“Her sexual habits leave much to be desired. If she sleeps with another man during the next month—”
“Of course. I should have thought of—”
“But you did not,” Tariq said sharply, “I did.” He paused, fought for control. “Wait the month. Then, if action on our part is necessary.” Five hundred years before, the expression on his face would have been the last thing an enemy saw before his death. “Then,” Tariq said, each word encased in ice, “you will visit her, and you will make it clear that she shall carry my child to term, deliver it … and hand it over to me.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THIRTY days was an eternity when a man was waiting to learn if he had created life within the womb of a stranger.
Tariq buried himself in work. With meetings. With one woman after another. And found himself leaving each at her door, looking up at him in
