we still cling to the past.”
“That’s fascinating,” she said, trying to control the tremor in her voice, “but—”
“For instance, a man who wishes to take an unwilling woman as his bride may still resort to the old ways. He carries her off, takes her to his bed and she is his forever.”
He saw the color drain from her face.
“That’s ridiculous. It’s barbaric. It’s—it’s a joke.”
“No joke, sweetheart. There is more to the world than America.”
“Are you trying to scare me? Because it won’t work, your highness. Luckily for me, this is America, not Dubaac!”
He caught her face between his hands and kissed her, hard, again and again until he felt the first softening of her mouth under his.
The knowledge that she still wanted him, despite everything, made him want to push her back against the pillows and take her again and again until she was clinging to him, whispering to him, until his possession was all that mattered.
But he was not a fool.
She knew how to use her sexuality, and he knew better than to succumb to it.
So he drew back, ran his thumbs over the razor-sharp bones of her cheeks and smiled into her eyes.
“We are over the Atlantic, habiba. And though I am sure you find my title an amusing anachronism I assure you, it is quite real. It has power. For instance, it means that this plane is the equivalent of Dubaacian soil.”
Her eyes widened; he smiled.
“That’s right, habiba. For all intents and purposes, you are already in Dubaac. And, because of what just happened in my bed, you are now my wife.”
He let go of her so suddenly that she tumbled back against the pillows.
“And I,” he said, his smile gone, his eyes flat as glass, “am your lord and master.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MMADISON stared at the door Tariq had shut behind him.
Shut. Not slammed. A display of hot anger would have been frightening. His icy calmness was terrifying.
She flew to the door and locked it even though she knew it was an empty gesture. A lock would not keep him out. This was his plane, staffed by people loyal to a prince who thought he lived in an earlier century.
That he had brought her on board, carried her to his bed, kept her in it while he forced himself on her.
She bit back a moan.
Tariq hadn’t forced himself on her. She had responded to each touch, each kiss, urged him to do more, to take her and take her and take her.
No. She wasn’t going there. Her moment of weakness was in the past. She’d had sex with him. It wasn’t the end of the world. She was almost thirty, she was not a virgin; she’d had sex before.
But never like that.
Never so she wouldn’t have noticed if the world had ended as long as Tariq held her, moved deep, deep inside her.
Madison spun away from the door.
What he had done had been a pure, masculine flaunting of power. What she had done was disgrace herself, but reliving what had happened was pointless. Thinking about that—that nasty fairy tale he’d told her about kidnapped women and forced marriages, was pointless, too.
It had to be a lie.
Not even the Prince from Hell would think he could get away with that kind of thing.
He’d tried to scare her and he’d succeeded, but she was past that now. What mattered was getting through the next hours, until he wearied of this new game. That meant getting dressed, leaving this room and facing him with her head high.
First, she needed to clean up. She could smell his scent on her skin.
There was another door in the room. Did it open onto a bathroom? Yes. A bathroom, complete with a shower stall. She turned the water on full, stepped under it, reached for the soap.
His soap.
This same bar had slid over his body, over all those hard muscles, over the steel-in-silk part of him that had filled her.
Madison caught her breath.
She waited, let the water beat down on her bowed head. Then she got busy scrubbing and rinsing.
She dried off. Finger-combed her hair. Stepped back into the bedroom, flung open the drawers of a built-in dresser and found shirts and jeans. His clothing, of course, and she hated the thought of it against her skin but what choice did she have?
She dressed quickly, rolling up the legs of a pair of faded jeans, securing the waist with a belt she dragged through the loops and knotted. She plucked a shirt from the drawer, cotton so soft it might have been silk. The fit was a bad joke but she managed, folding back the sleeves, gathering the tails together and tying them just above the jeans.
Then she went back into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror.
A dressed-for-success vice president had boarded this plane.
The woman looking back at her now was a mess.
No makeup. Her hair was drying in wavy tendrils, the way it always did if she didn’t blow it dry. She looked ridiculous in Tariq’s clothing and there was no way his crew would not know why she was wearing it but hadn’t she just finished telling herself that they’d know, anyway, and that she didn’t give a damn?
All that mattered was finding out what he was up to because surely, he would not take her out of the States. He wasn’t a fool. Prince or no prince, she would bring charges against him.
He had to realize that.
Madison hesitated, hand on the knob. A deep breath. A slow exhalation. Then she unlocked the door and stepped into the cabin.
Someone had dimmed the lights, though a bright spotlight illuminated Tariq, who was seated on a leather love seat. A tall, ice-filled glass was on the table next to him; an open portable computer was in his lap.
He looked calm and contained, every dark hair in place, his clothes neat and unruffled.
Why did that made her angry?
“Tariq.”
He looked up, saw her, let his eyes sweep over her. She could read nothing whatsoever in his face. Her temper, already at a simmer, began to boil.
“I see you found something to wear.”
Madison raised her chin. “Not the latest in fashion, but it will have to do.”
“I also see that we’re finally on a first
