on such outdated nonsense.
But her derision set a warning bell ringing in his head.
Americans loved titles, the women especially. How often had a woman fluttered her lashes at him and cooed “your highness” or “your majesty” and, one memorable time, “your sheikness?”
His frown deepened.
Madison Whitney was not turning out to be what he’d expected.
Beautiful women, sexy women, weren’t supposed to be made of steel. They weren’t supposed to look a prince in the eye and make his title sound silly or, worse, call him a liar.
Perhaps she was not going to be as easy to deal with as he’d hoped.
Of all the millions of women in this country, that this one should be pregnant by him seemed to be turning into a cosmic joke.
“I’ll give you two minutes to explain yourself,” she said briskly. “After that, you’re history.”
Her chin was lifted at an angle that could only be called pugnacious. Her face was bare of makeup. Her robe was a joke, her feet were bare, her hair had dried into wild waves.
And still, she was magnificent. Not just beautiful but brave and proud, and by Ishtar, he could feel it in his bones. She was definitely going to give him trouble.
“You’ve already wasted a minute.”
“I told you why I’m here, habiba. You just refuse to accept the explanation.”
“That crazy story?” She snorted. “Try again, Mr. Prince!”
His jaw knotted. Such insolence!
He wanted to grab her and shake her—or grab her and kiss her. Silence her as he had that night in the garden, as he had a little while ago by covering her mouth with his, kissing her until she sighed with passion. He’d carry her into the bedroom, fill her womb with his seed the way it should have been done.
Tariq muttered a short, succinct word, turned on his heel and strode into the kitchen.
“Hey. Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going to make you some toast and tea. Once you’ve eaten, we’ll talk.”
“I do not want toast or tea, I do not want to talk and I certainly do not want you in my kitchen.”
Speaking to the wall would have made more sense. Madison glared at the man who thought he could take charge of her life as he flung open cupboard doors.
“Where do you keep the tea?” He glared at her. “Herbal tea. Pregnant women do not use caffeine.”
What did he know about pregnant women? Did he have a wife? For all she knew, he had a harem.
“Lovely,” she said brightly. “I see that you’re an expert on pregnant women.”
“Are you asking if I am married?”
Color swept into her face. “Why would I care?”
“For the record, I have no wife. I have no children. I do have female cousins and female friends. I am aware of these things. Now, where is the tea?”
Stiff-necked, arrogant bastard! What was the sense in arguing? She’d never get rid of him that way. The best plan was to let him play amateur chef and then throw him out on his royal tail.
“Bottom shelf, over the sink,” Madison said coldly. “And I like my toast lightly buttered.”
To her surprise, he laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”
Grumbling, she flung herself onto a stool at the counter and watched him move around her kitchen, taking bread from the fridge, selecting a tea bag from the canister—she noticed that he didn’t bother asking if she wanted orange blossom or green apple but then, why would he when he was sure he had all the answers?
God, she despised him! To think that he, of all the men on file at FutureBorn, should have fathered her baby.
Sired. Not fathered. Sired. There was a big difference.
Besides, he hadn’t. She was positive of it. He didn’t need the money, didn’t have a selfless bone in his hard, gorgeous body.
Why, then, would he tell her the baby was his?
“Why?” she blurted, because, despite what she’d just told herself about waiting, she couldn’t stand it another minute. “Why have you come here? Why the fantastic story? What reason could you possibly have for—”
He set a plate in front of her. Buttered toast, with a dollop of strawberry jam alongside.
“Eat.”
She glared at him, saw that tight jaw, the icy eyes, and decided doing as he said might be a good idea. She really was starving, even maybe a little light-headed, and after all, she was eating for two now.
She picked up a piece of toast, slathered jam over it and bit in. The prince-turned-chef put a mug of steaming tea beside the plate.
“You have no honey,” he said accusingly, “only white sugar, which is not good for you or the child.”
Madison batted her lashes.
“How nice,” she said sweetly. “A prince. A cook. And a medical expert. Lucky me, having you stop by.”
He probably thought so, anyway. He probably thought himself a gift to womankind, and his DNA a gift to the world. Even the way he stood beside the counter, hip-shot, arms folded, face expressionless as he watched her, spoke of supreme self-assurance.
Such nonsense, his claim that he’d donated sperm—but if he had, the woman who got it would be lucky, assuming she put any store in a man’s looks.
Despising the sheikh of Dubaac didn’t mean she was blind.
Women probably fell at his feet. Even she, before she’d wised up to him. She’d made a fool of herself, letting him kiss her, touch her, until all that mattered was the feel of his hands, the taste of his mouth.
The only “donation” a man like him would make would be in bed, with the woman beneath him begging for his possession.
“Whatever are you thinking, habiba?”
Madison’s gaze flew to him. His voice was low and rough; those gray eyes glittered like silver. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn he’d read her thoughts.
The air between them seemed to thicken. She wanted to look away but she couldn’t.
“There’s jam on your lip.” His voice was rough.
“Where?” she said, the word barely a whisper.
“Right—there,” he said, and leaned toward her.
She felt the whisper
