or he had to fly to Dubaac. He had to go over some notes.
Once, he’d even found himself pleading a headache.
Pathetic.
The truth was that sex suddenly held less appeal than at any time in his life.
It was her fault, he’d think, lying awake in the small hours of the night. Madison Whitney. The ugliness of the incident in the garden, now the incredible knowledge that she carried his seed.
Her fault, that he was turned off. What man wouldn’t be?
But his subconscious mind didn’t seem to know it. He still had the kind of dreams a grown man should not have, and they all featured the same blonde.
And that, too, was her fault.
Thirty days went by. Then thirty-one. By the thirty-second day, he was starting to breathe easier. Perhaps nothing would come of the so-called “misdirection.”
That evening, a courier delivered a letter marked Personal. Tariq took a long breath, opened the envelope … and let the air hiss from his lungs.
Madison Whitney was pregnant.
His worst fears had come true. A stranger—a woman he had every reason to despise—was pregnant with his child.
Phone me when you are ready, your highness, Strickland’s accompanying note said, and we can finalize how you wish me to break the news of your involvement to her.
His involvement. Tariq snorted with derision. Wasn’t that one hell of a word to describe his part in this disaster?
For the first time, he wondered how the Whitney woman would react to learning she carried his child. She would give it up to him; there was no question about that. He was who he was.
That made all the difference in the world.
He had a name to carry into the future. A throne to secure.
Tariq frowned.
Why had Madison Whitney wanted a child? She was a woman without a husband, a woman with a successful career and yet, she had decided to have a child. And, having made that choice, what on earth had impelled her to use artificial means?
She surely would have her choice of lovers. The investigators Strickland had hired had found no evidence of any men in her life but surely, if she’d wanted to become pregnant.
Tariq looked at Strickland’s note again. Phone me when you are ready.
He was ready now, but not to call the lawyer. He had questions; the Whitney woman had answers and he wanted to hear them without them filtered through seven layers of explanation from a lawyer.
Tariq punched the intercom and spoke with the doorman. By the time he reached the lobby, his Porsche was waiting at the curb.
Madison Whitney’s address was part of the lab report.
It turned out to belong to a high-rise building on a nondescript street on the upper East side. There was no doorman, but the lobby door was locked.
Tariq checked the nameplates on the entry wall. M. Whitney, Apt 609.
Now what? In the movies, he’d ring the intercom and say he was a delivery man but there was no way that would work at eight-thirty in the evening.
Hell. What was he doing here? Why put himself into a situation his attorney should handle?
He stepped back—and the lobby door opened. A middle-aged woman carrying a Maltese terrier stepped out. She smiled; the terrier yapped, and she did the polite thing and held the door for him.
Well, why not? He’d come this far. Why not see it through? So he smiled in return, said “Thank you,” walked through the lobby and took the elevator to the sixth floor.
Apartment 609 was at the end of the hall. The carpet muted the sound of his steps. When he reached the door, he hesitated. Maybe this really was a job for a lawyer. Maybe he should stop procrastinating, he thought grimly, and pressed the doorbell.
Why did everything always happen at the same time?
Murphy’s Law, Madison thought, when the doorbell rang just as she stepped from the shower.
Hadn’t Torino’s logged in her call? She’d ordered a pizza, then canceled it. Just the thought of all that gooey cheese had made her stomach dip. Silly, probably; it was too soon for morning sickness, even if this had been the morning …
The bell rang again.
“One second,” she yelled.
Okay. So she’d eat pizza. Or throw it out. Whatever, there was no time to towel off. No time to get annoyed at Torino’s for making a mistake, not on a night like this, not at the end of such a wonderful, magical day.
Riinnng!
Madison rolled her eyes, slipped on a robe, shoved her wet hair from her face and padded, barefoot, to the door.
“Okay,” she said, undoing the lock, “I heard you the—”
The rest of the sentence caught in her throat.
“Good evening, Ms. Whitney.”
The voice was exactly as she remembered it. Deep. Husky. And yes, definitely touched by some sort of accent. The tall, powerful body was as she remembered it, too. Lean and male and hard.
And that face. The face of a fallen angel. Cruel. Dangerous.
Fascinatingly beautiful.
Madison reacted instantly, tried to shut the door but he was too quick. His hand shot out, flattened against the door and forced it open.
“Is that any way to treat a guest?”
Sardonic amusement tinged his words but his eyes glittered coldly as he looked at her. Madison’s heart rose to her throat. She was naked under her robe, alone with a man with ice in his eyes. What did he want? How had he found her?
Excellent questions, but their importance paled beside the need to get rid of him.
“Stand back,” she said, and congratulated herself on how calm she sounded, “or I’ll scream.”
“A man, an old acquaintance, stops by to say ‘hello’ and you scream?” He gave a soft laugh. “Not very hospitable, habiba.”
“If you think you can frighten me—”
“Frighten you? Please, Ms. Whitney. Spare us both the dramatics.”
No dramatics. He was right. Straight to the point. That was the only way to deal with him.
“What do you want?”
The amused look vanished. “To talk to you.”
“We have nothing to talk
