“You find this amusing?”

“Amusing? How about appalling?” She slid from the stool, stalked to where he stood, lifted that I-dare-you chin and looked him in the eye. “Listen, and listen hard, because I’ll say this only once. This baby is mine. It is not yours. You have nothing to say about how I conduct my pregnancy, where I live, what I do, or what happens after my child is born. Got that, Your Highness?”

“Ms Whitney—”

“Get out! Get out of my home and my life… I never want to see you again.”

“I am the Crown Prince of Dubaac,” Tariq said coldly. “And you carry my heir.”

THE SHEIKH TYCOONS

by

Sandra Marton

They’re powerful, passionate— and as sexy as sin!

Three desert princes— how will they tame their feisty brides?

THE SHEIKH’S DEFIANT BRIDE

August 2008

THE SHEIKH’S WAYWARD WIFE

December 2008

THE SHEIKH’S REBELLIOUS MISTRESS

February 2009

THE SHEIKH’S DEFIANT BRIDE

BY

SANDRA MARTON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

The Kingdom of Dubaac, early summer:

THE sun poured like a ribbon of molten gold from a pale blue sky.

Beneath its brutal rays, a small band of men sat motionless on their horses, embraced by the endless silence of the desert.

All eyes were on the rider whose stallion stood apart from the rest, and on the hooded goshawk that clung to his leather-gloved wrist with lethal talons.

At last, one of the men softly urged his own mount forward until it stood alongside the rider and his stallion.

“It is time, Tariq,” the man said softly.

The man called Tariq nodded. “I know.”

He did know. It was time; his father was right but, somehow, this final tribute to his dead brother was turning out to be as emotionally torturous as Sharif’s funeral.

Who would have thought such an ancient custom would tear so at the heart? Tariq had been raised in Dubaac but he had lived away from the Nations for years. He was a modern, well-educated, urbanized man and this was just a symbolic gesture…

“Tariq?”

He nodded and lifted his arm. The hawk gave a little shudder of anticipation as it awaited the unlacing of its hood.

Instead Tariq undid the bird’s jesses. The tiny bells that adorned the slender leather streamers fastened around the bird’s legs tinkled as they fell to the sand. A second’s hesitation, and then he unlaced the hood and tossed it aside.

For the first time since its captivity and subsequent training, the hawk was completely free.

Tariq lifted his face to the scorched sky, his profile as fiercely elegant as the hawk’s.

“Sharif, my brother,” he said huskily, “I send Bashashar to you. May you and she fly together forever in the vastness of the skies above our homeland.”

Another hesitation. Then he swung his arm forward and the hawk spread its powerful wings, leaped from his gloved hand and flew unhesitatingly toward the blazing sun.

For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then the sultan cleared his throat.

“It is done,” he said gruffly.

Tariq nodded. He stood with his face still lifted to the sky, though the hawk had disappeared from sight.

“Yes, Father.”

“Your brother is at peace.”

Was he? Tariq wanted to think so but Sharif’s sudden death was still too new. His plane had gone down on a routine flight; it had taken days to find what remained of Sharif after the crash and the subsequent fire…

“He was a good son,” the sultan said quietly.

Tariq nodded.

“Someday, he would have led our people well. Now he is gone and we must rethink our plans for the future.”

A muscle in Tariq’s jaw tightened. He had known this was coming, but not so quickly. Still, why put off what he knew had to be done?

“I understand, Father.”

The sultan sighed. “There is no time to waste, my son.”

Tariq looked at his father in alarm. “Are you ill?”

“Only if old age is illness,” the sultan said quietly. “But Sharif’s death is proof, as if we needed it, that Kismet rules our lives. You are my heir now, Tariq. I tremble at the thought, but if anything should happen to you…”

There was no need to say more.

The burden of succession had fallen to Tariq. And to ensure that succession, the unbroken line of rulers that stretched back centuries, it was now his responsibility to marry and produce a son.

If only Sharif had married and created sons…

If only Sharif had lived, Tariq thought, and felt the unaccustomed sting of tears in his pale gray eyes.

“Think of what has happened elsewhere in the Nations, when there has been a question about succession,” the sultan said, misinterpreting Tariq’s silence. “Would you wish that for our people?”

Tariq cleared his throat. “I don’t need convincing, Father,” he said gruffly. “I will do what must be done.”

The sultan gave a faint smile. “That is good. Come now. We shall ride back to the palace and celebrate your brother’s life.”

“You go on with the others. I—I want to be alone for a while.”

The sultan hesitated. Then he swung his horse around and signaled to his men. They rode off as they had come, single-file, in respectful silence.

Tariq dismounted. He patted the stallion’s arched neck, then looked once more at the sky.

“A wife, Sharif,” he said, quietly. “That is what I must find because of you.” He smiled; his brother, if he could hear him, would understand this kind of banter. They’d shared it since they were boys. “And how will I do that, hmm?”

The sigh of the wind was his answer.

“Shall I let Father and the council choose my bride? You know who she’d be. Abra, who would talk me to death. Lilah, who will surely soon outweigh me.”

The wind sighed again.

“Surely a man has the right to choose his own bride.”

Beside him, the stallion snorted and pawed the sand.

“Where shall I find her, Sharif? In the Nations? In America? What do you think?”

Of course, Sharif was not there to answer but it wasn’t necessary. Tariq knew what he’d have said.

The perfect wife would not be American.

There were only two kinds of American females: those who were flighty and interested in things of no consequence, and those who were headstrong and breathed the fire and brimstone of equality.

Neither would do.

Yes, he wanted a wife who would be attractive but there were other requirements. She would have a pleasant personality. She would be capable of carrying on appropriate dinner conversation in the circles in which he moved in a manner that would never be confrontational.

In other words, the perfect wife would understand her role as his consort but not as his equal.

A man who would one day ascend the throne needed such a woman. The truth was, any man would want such a woman. And the place to find her was here, among his own people.

The wind moaned and a tiny whirlwind of sand spun before him.

He had been educated in the States; he lived and worked there but from now on, his way of life would be grounded in the customs of Dubaac, where a man ruled his home and his wife.

A harsh cry rang out across the desert. Tariq shaded his eyes, looked up and saw Bashashar sailing high above him.

A sign, some would say. Not that he believed in signs. Still, the more he considered finding a bride, the more appeal he saw in confining his search to Dubaac and, if necessary, the other Nations.

The stallion nuzzled his shoulder. Tariq gathered the reins and mounted.

Problem solved. He would stay in Dubaac a week. Perhaps two, but no more than that.

After all, how difficult could finding a suitable wife possibly be?

CHAPTER ONE

New York City, two months later:

IT WAS not often that His Excellency Sheikh Tariq al Sayf, Crown Prince and Heir to the Throne of Dubaac, made an error in judgment.

Never in business. Even his enemies, who’d said he was too young for the task and had predicted failure when he’d taken over the New York offices of the Royal Bank of Dubaac four years ago, had to admit that the bank had flourished under his hand.

He rarely made mistakes in his personal life, either. Yes, an occasional former lover had wept and called him a cold-hearted bastard when he ended a relationship but it wasn’t his fault.

He was always truthful, if perhaps a bit too blunt.

Forever was of no interest to him. He went out of his way to make that clear to women. Forever meant a wife, marriage, children—things that he’d known he must have in the future…

But the future had turned out to be now.

And so he’d stood under the hot desert sun of his homeland and told himself he would find a wife in a week. Two, at the most. After all, how difficult could that be?

Standing at the wall of glass in his huge corner office, Tariq looked out over the Hudson River in lower Manhattan and scowled.

Not difficult at all, as it had turned out.

Impossible, was more like it.

“Idiot,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

Two weeks at home had stretched into three and then four. His father had hosted an elegant state dinner to which he’d invited every high-ranking family in the country that had an eligible daughter.

Tariq had found fault with all of them.

Next, his father had hosted a dinner and invited high-ranking families with eligible daughters from all the Nations of their world. Tariq still flinched at the memory. All those young women, lined up to be presented to him, every one of them fully aware of why she was there…

He’d said “hello, how are you?”; he’d kissed their hands, made inane conversation, watched them titter and blush and never look him in the eye because young women of good reputation would not do such an outlandish thing.

He’d bought horses this same way, he’d thought suddenly, and once that image had lodged itself in his head, that was how he’d viewed them all. As mares, docilely awaiting the stallion’s selection.

“Well?” his father had said impatiently, at the end of that second dinner. “Which one do you like?”

None.

They were too tall. Too short. Too thin. Too rounded. They talked too much. They didn’t talk enough. They were introverted, extroverted… Frustrated, angry at himself for failing to do what had to be done, Tariq had returned to New York a month ago.

Maybe he’d been wrong about American women. Maybe he’d find one here who would meet his requirements. When he thought it over, he’d realized he’d overlooked several things that might make them desirable choices.

On the whole, American women were attractive. All that sun, braces on their teeth in childhood, lots of vitamins and calcium…

Such things added up.

And they were socially adept, good at parties, conversant in the kinds of talk that kept people smiling but raised no hackles.

Perhaps best of all, they were in love with titles. The ones he’d met over the years had made it embarrassingly clear they’d do anything to snag a husband who had royal blood.

Of course, until now, the more obvious they’d made that, the quicker he’d fled…but that was before.

Now, an appropriate candidate’s eagerness to marry into royalty was an advantage.

At any rate, he’d decided, it would do no harm to extend his search. Look around New York and see what he could find.

The answer was, nothing.

Tariq had accepted endless invitations for sails on the Sound, summer parties in Connecticut and charity events in the Hamptons. He’d taken an endless list of women to dinner, to the theater, to the concerts in Central Park they all seemed to adore despite the bad acoustics and the sullen heat and humidity of Manhattan.

He’d dated so many women that after a while, he’d run the risk of calling them by the wrong names, and where had it gotten him?

“Nowhere,” he said aloud, his tone grim.

He wasn’t any closer to finding the proper candidate for marriage than he’d been two months ago.

As they’d been when he’d confined his search to his homeland, the women were too everything—including too eager to please. No downcast eyes here in the States but the intent was the same.

Yes, your highness. Of course, your highness. Oh, I agree completely, your highness.

Damn it, did he have a sign hanging around his neck declaring himself in the market for a wife?

Not that he didn’t want an obedient wife. He did. Certainly, he did. After all, he would someday be the leader of his people. It would not serve his purposes to marry a woman who was not respectful.

Tariq narrowed his eyes.

Then why, once a prospective candidate seemed attractive enough—though none, to his surprise, was quite the precise physical specimen a wife of his ought to be—still, once a candidate’s appearance was acceptable, why did he resort to what even he suspected were stupid tests?

He’d tell a joke that had no punch line. Make a foolish comment about world affairs. Then he’d wait, though not for long. Every time, the woman he was secretly vetting for matrimony would laugh merrily or nod her overcoiffed head like a bobble doll, and he’d look at his watch and say, “My, look at the time, I didn’t realize it was so late…”

On top of that—not that he was a prude—most of them were far too sexual. Well, not exactly sexual. Obvious. That was the word. A man wanted a wife who enjoyed sex but he also wanted her to have a certain amount of reserve.

And, yes, he knew that was sexist and chauvinistic but—

But, by Ishtar, he’d dug himself into one hell of a deep hole.

Maybe that was why, a couple of weeks ago, over drinks and dinner with his two oldest friends, he’d ended up telling them about his quest.

Khalil and Salim had listened, their faces expressionless. Then they’d looked at each other.

“He’s trying to find a wife,” Salim had said solemnly.

“But he can’t,” Khalil had said, just as solemnly.

Salim’s mouth had twitched. Khalil’s, too. Then they’d snorted and burst into laughter.

“The Sahara Stud,” Khalil had choked out. “Remember when that girl called him that at Harvard?”

“And he can’t find a wife,” Salim said, and they’d dissolved into laughter again.

Tariq had jumped to his feet. “You think this is amusing?” he’d said in fury. “You just wait until you have to get married!”

Shudders had replaced laughter.

“Not for years and years,” Khalil had answered, “but when the time comes, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way. I’ll let my father make the arrangements. A prince’s marriage has nothing to do with romance. It’s all about duty.”

Tariq sighed and stared vacantly out the window. True. Absolutely true. Then, what was taking him so long?

His brother was gone. His father was no longer a young man. What if something happened? To his father? To him? Anything was possible. Without an heir to the throne, Dubaac could be plunged into turmoil. And that must not happen. He could not let it happen….

A knock sounded at the door. Tariq swung around as his P.A. popped her head into the room.

“The Five O’Clock Financial News is on CNN, sir. You wanted to watch…?”

He gave her a blank look.

“To see if MicroTech would announce their new acquisi tion…?”

No wife. No functional brain, either, Tariq thought bleakly, and nodded his thanks.

“Right. Thank you, Eleanor. Have a good evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The door swung shut. Tariq sat down at his desk, picked up the remote control and pointed it at the flat screen TV on the wall. A couple of clicks and he was looking at some set director’s idea of an office. Pale walls, dark floor, windows, a long table at which a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit sat facing three other middle-aged men in dark blue suits…

And a woman.

She wore a dark blue suit, too, but that was where the resemblance ended.

Tariq’s eyes narrowed.

It was difficult to tell her age, thanks to bulky, tortoise-framed glasses with darkly smoked lenses. The glasses lent her a look of severity. So did the way she wore her pale gold hair, drawn back from her oval face in a low chignon.

She sat straight in her chair, hands neatly folded in her lap, legs demurely crossed.

They were excellent legs. Long. Lean. Nicely toned…

His belly knotted with hunger.

He could see himself lifting the woman from her chair. Letting her hair down. Taking off her glasses so he could see if she was merely attractive or heart-breakingly beautiful…

Damn it.

He was not given to fantasies about women, especially ones he had never met. Was this what his search for a wife had reduced him to? Lust for a woman on television? A woman whose name he didn’t even know?

Tariq scowled.

This was what came of celibacy.

He had not been with a woman in two months. He’d thought it wise not to let a woman’s talent in bed influence him in his choice of a wife.

It had seemed a clever idea.

It still was.

He just had to stop fantasizing like a schoolboy.

Tariq tore his eyes from the woman. The program’s moderator, the Suit seated across from her, was speaking.

“…true, then, that MicroTech has acquired controlling interest in FutureBorn?”

The paunchiest of the Suits nodded.

“That’s correct. We believe FutureBorn represents the future. No pun intended,” he added with a thin smile. The two men seated with him laughed in hearty appreciation; the woman showed no reaction at all. “You see, Jay, as men and women delay childbirth, FutureBorn’s new techniques will become even more important.”

“But FutureBorn is in an already crowded field, isn’t it?”

Another thin smile. “So it would seem. Artificial insemination has been around for a long time, but FutureBorn’s new techniques… Perhaps our vice president for Marketing can explain it best.”

All heads turned toward the woman. Vice president for Marketing, Tariq thought, raising one dark eyebrow. An impressive title. Had she earned it? Or had she slept her way into it? He’d been in business long enough to know those things happened.

She looked at the camera. At him, his gut said, though he knew that was ridiculous.

“I’ll certainly try.”

Her voice was low-pitched, almost husky. He tried to concentrate on what she was saying but he was too busy just looking at her…

“…in other words, absolutely perfect for storing sperm.”

Tariq blinked. What had she just said?

“Can you explain that, please, Miss Whitney?”

Tariq sent a silent “thank you” to the moderator for asking the question. Surely the woman could not have said—

“I’ll be happy to,” the woman said calmly. “It’s true, as you pointed out, artificial insemination is not new, but the method FutureBorn’s developed to freeze sperm is not only new, it’s revolutionary.”

Tariq stared at the screen. What sort of talk was this from a woman?

“And the benefits are?”

“Well…” The woman ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. It had to have been an unconscious gesture but it turned his own mouth dry. “Well, one obvious benefit is that a man who has no wish to sire children at the present time can leave a specimen with us. A donation for the future, as it were, secure in the knowledge it will be available for his use years later.”

A donation, Tariq thought. An interesting choice of words.

“Or, if not for his use, then for use on his behalf.”

“In what way?” the moderator said.

“Well, for example, a man might wish to leave instructions as to how his sperm should be used after his death.” She smiled politely. “Frozen sperm, along with proper legal documentation regarding its use, could be a twenty-first century method of ensuring a wealthy man had an heir…

Or a crown prince had a successor.

Tariq frowned.

What if he left a—a—What had she called it? A donation. What if a test tube of his semen was set aside in case the unthinkable happened and fate intervened before he’d found a suitable wife?

Hell. Was he crazy?

Tariq aimed the remote at the screen. It went blank and he shot to his feet.

A real man did not make a “donation” to a test tube. He made it in the womb of a woman.

He had not looked hard enough, that was all. In this city of millions, surely there was a perfect candidate just waiting for him to find.

He’d been invited to a party tonight. His lawyer had bought a town house on the East Side and wanted to celebrate. Tariq, imagining all the long-legged women who’d undoubtedly be there, had at first thought it an excellent opportunity. Then he’d shuddered at the realization he’d reached the point at which he thought of such things as opportunities, and he’d sent his regrets.

Another mistake, he thought as he pulled on his suit jacket and strode toward the door. First, choosing celibacy that had clearly affected his concentration. Then, refusing an invitation to a place that might, indeed, provide excellent prospects for his search for a wife.

An old American expression danced into his mind. Three strikes and you’re out. It referred to baseball but it could just as readily refer to his quest. First, his search in Dubaac, then in the Nations…

Well, there wasn’t going to be a third strike. He hadn’t been looking hard enough, that was the problem.

And that was going to change, starting now.

“Okay, people. We’re off the air.”

Madison Whitney rose to her feet, unclipped the tiny black mike from the lapel of her suit and handed it to the waiting technician.

“Madison,” her boss said, “you did a fine job.”

“Thank you.”

“Excellent.” He laughed—ho, ho, ho, Madison thought, just like an actor doing a really bad interpretation of Santa—and leaned in close. “Suppose we have a drink and discuss things?”

Discuss what? she wanted to say. How you can figure out a way to get me into bed? But Mrs. Whitney had not raised a stupid daughter so Madison smiled brightly, just as she’d been doing ever since MicroTech had taken over FutureBorn and said oh, that would be lovely, but she had a previous engagement.

The phony smile of her very married employer turned positively feral.

“Now, Madison, it isn’t wise to say ‘no’ all the time.”

It isn’t wise to court a sexual harassment lawsuit, either, Madison thought, but she knew what he didn’t, that their uneasy alliance would soon be over.

It was enough to make another smile easy to produce.

“Some other time, Mr. Shields. As I say, I have a date.”

She felt his eyes on her as she walked away.

Twenty minutes later, she slid into a booth at a quiet bar on Lexington Avenue. Two things were waiting for her: a cold Cosmopolitan cocktail and her old college roommate, Barbara Dawson.

Madison sighed, lifted the drink and took a long, long sip.

“Bless you for ordering ahead. I really needed that.”

“I live to serve,” Barb said lightly. She smiled, and jerked her chin toward the TV screen above the bar. “I caught the show. Still hiding behind those tortoiseshells, huh?”

Madison grinned. “They make me look intellectual.”

“You mean, they make you look untouchable.”

“If only,” Madison said, and took another sip of her drink.

“Don’t tell me. The lecher’s still leching?”

“Uh-huh. Did you know you were my date for tonight?”

“Why, Maddie,” Barb purred, batting her lashes, “I never knew you felt that way.”

“Hey, there’s an idea. Maybe that’ll be my next excuse.” Madison shook her head. “He’s impossible but then, he’s a man.”

“Have you ever considered it’s time you stopped thinking every guy out there is a cheating, conniving jerk like your once-upon-a-time fiancé?”

“No,” Madison said firmly, “because they are. And that includes my own father, who only stopped being unfaithful to my mother because he died. Men are all the same. It’s a fact of life.”

“Wrong.”

“Right. There are no good guys, Barb. Well, except for yours, but Hank’s the last one on the planet.”

“Maddie…”

“Did you read the latest alumni newsletter?”

Barb looked glum. She knew where this was going. “No.”

“Remember Sue Hutton? Graduated a year after us? Divorced. Sally Weinberg? Divorced. Beverly Giovanni? Divorced. Beryl Edmunds? Div—”

“Okay, okay. I get the message, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Yes. It does.” Madison gulped down the last of her drink and looked around for the waiter. “I am not getting married, Barb. Not ever!”

“No husband? No family? No kids?”

Madison hesitated. “No husband doesn’t mean no kids. Actually—actually, I do want kids. Very much.” She paused again. “But I don’t want a husband to get in the way.”

Barb raised an eyebrow. “And you’re going to manage this how?”

Okay, Madison thought, now was the time.

“Artificial insemination,” she said, and if her heart hadn’t been beating so hard at this first public admission of what she was about to do, she’d have laughed at the look on Barb’s face. “Surprised you, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, I know a lot about A.I. It’s safe, it’s reliable—and it means a woman needs a syringe of semen, not the man who provided it.”

Something dropped to the floor. Madison looked up. The waiter, a young guy of maybe twenty, was standing next to their table. Either his jaw or his order pad had just hit the ground.

It was just what Madison needed to ease the tension.

“Another Cosmopolitan for me,” she said sweetly, “another glass of Chablis for my friend…and if I dinged your ego, I apologize.”

Barb groaned and put her head in her hands. “Nice,” she said, once the waiter had scurried off.

Madison tried a quick smile. “Sometimes, the truth hurts.”

“Speaking of which…I’m going to be blunt here, okay?”

“We’re friends. Go for it.”

“Well, have you thought this through? I mean, have you really considered why you want a kid? Could it be to sort of relive your own childhood? Erase your mom’s mistakes? Oh, hell,” she said, as Madison’s smile vanished. “Maddie, I didn’t mean—”

“No. It’s okay. You said you were going to be blunt. So will I.” Madison leaned forward. “My mother depended on the men she married for everything. I never wanted to be like that. I was intent on making my own way in life. On not having to rely on anyone, ever. Doing well in school mattered. So did getting a degree, and an M.B.A., and making it up the corpo

rate ladder.”

“Honey. You don’t have to ex—”

Madison reached over the table and caught Barb’s hand.

“I was sure I’d never want marriage or children, any of that stuff.” She paused; her voice grew soft. “Then, one day I looked around and realized I had it all. The undergrad degree. The

M.B.A. The great job. The Manhattan apartment… Except, something was missing. Something I couldn’t identify.”

“See? I’m right, Maddie. A guy to love and—”

“A child.” Madison flashed a quick smile that didn’t do a thing to rid her eyes of a sudden suspicious-looking dampness. “There’s a thousand dollar Picasso print on the wall next to my desk. My P.A. has one of those school photos of her little girl next to her desk and you know what? It hit me one morning that her photo was a lot more important than my Picasso.”

“Okay. I shouldn’t have said—”

“And then, a couple of months ago, a girl who once interned for me dropped by. She had a belly the size of a beachball, her back hurt, she had to pee every five minutes—and even I could tell that she’d never been happier in her life.”

Madison let go of Barbara’s hand and sat back as the waiter served their fresh drinks. When he was gone, she picked up her glass.

“Right about then,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted and failing, “I realized I’m going to be thirty soon. That sound you hear is my biological clock ticking.”

“Thirty’s nothing.”

“Not true. My mother had an early menopause. For all I know, it’s hereditary.” “I still say there’s a man out there meant for you.” “Not if my mother’s bad taste in men is also hereditary. Go on, give me that look, but who knows? She was married three times, always to rich, gorgeous, world-class bastards. If she hadn’t been in that accident, she’d probably be on husband number four.”

“What about kids needing two parents?” Barb said stubbornly.

“Did you have two parents?”

“Well, no, but—”

“One loving parent is better than two who screw things up. And, yes, I know A.I. might not be the answer for everyone, but it is for me.”

“You really are serious,” Barb said, after a second.

“Yes.” Madison gave a shaky smile. “I want a child so much…I ache, just thinking about it. The whole thing, you know? The good and the not so good. A tiny life kicking inside me. My baby in my arms. Diapers and two a.m. feedings, the first day of kindergarten, visits from the tooth fairy and in a few years, arguments about curfews…”

“Okay. I’m convinced. You actually might do this.”

Madison took a breath. “I am going to do it,” she said quietly. “I’ve already made the arrangements.”

Barb widened her eyes. “What?”

“I’ve seen my OB-GYN, I’ve been charting my periods—and I went through the donor files at FutureBorn and picked out a guy who seems perfect.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s in his thirties, he has a Ph.D., he’s in excellent health, he likes opera and poetry and—”

“What’s he look like?”

“Average height and build, light brown hair, hazel eyes.”

“I mean, what’s he look like?”

“Oh, you don’t get to see photos. It’s all very anonymous. Well, unless the donor wants his sperm kept for his own future use, of course, but when a woman purchases sperm—”

“Purchases,” Barb said, with a lift of her eyebrows.

Madison shrugged. This part of the conversation was easier. Talking about the emotions driving her was tough; the technicalities were a snap.

“It’s not a romance novel,” she said dryly. “The purpose is to have a baby, not a relationship.”

“And you’re going to do this…when?”

“Monday. And if things go well—”

“Monday? So soon?”

“There’s no point in waiting. Yes. Monday, two o’clock. If all goes well, nine months from now, I’ll be a mother.” Madison hesitated. “Will you wish me luck?”

Barb looked at her for a long moment. Then she sighed, picked up her glass and held it out.

“Of course. I wish you all the luck in the world. You know that. I just hope—”

“I’ll be fine.”

The friends touched glasses. They smiled at each other, the kind of smile women share when they love each other but disagree about something truly important. Then Barb cleared her throat.

“So,” she said briskly, “since Monday’s the big day, how about we celebrate tonight?”

“Aren’t you meeting Hank?”

“Actually I thought we’d both meet Hank. His boss just bought a place on Sixtieth off Fifth, and he’s throwing a big party.”

Madison batted her lashes. “A party in the city in June?” she said in her very best East Coast boarding school voice. “How unfashionable.”

“Come on, don’t say no. It’ll be fun.”

“And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be swept off my feet by some Prince Charming.” Madison laughed at Barb’s blush. “You are so transparent, Barbara!”

“Heck, this is only Friday. Your date with a test tube isn’t until Monday.”

“Very amusing.”

“Come on, Maddie. If your mind’s made up about this test tube thing—”

“It’s not called ‘this test tube thing,’ it’s called—”

“I know what it’s called.”

Madison sighed. “It’s been a long day. And I’m not dressed for—”

“The party’s only a couple of blocks from your place. We can stop by first so you can change. Please?”

“Sometimes, I forget what you’re like when you get an idea.”

Barb grinned. “Like a dog with a bone, that’s me. Look, one last try at finding Prince Charming can’t hurt.”

“There are no princes, there are only toads.”

“You’re a tough woman, Madison Whitney.”

“No, I’m a sucker for an old friend.”

“You’ll go?”

Madison nodded. She’d go, but only because it meant a lot to Barb. Come Monday, she’d put all this nonsense behind her.

The procedure would take.

She would get pregnant.

She’d have a baby, raise it alone and give it all the love in her heart.

CHAPTER TWO

BY THE time Tariq’s taxi pulled up in front of the town house in the Sixties, he was having second thoughts.

Second thoughts? The truth was, he was on thirds and fourths.

What on earth had made him come here? He was looking for a wife, and were the chances of that happening at a summer party in Manhattan?

The cabbie looked at him. “Mister? You getting out or not?”

Not, he thought, but he was here. He might as well go inside.

The cab pulled away and Tariq looked around him. The street, bounded at either end by wide, busy, heavily trafficked thoroughfares, was tree-lined and quiet like many others in this part of the city but by the time he got to the front door, he could hear the beat of overamped music.

Finger poised above the bell, he hesitated.

It was not too late to change his mind. Strike three, he thought with a mixture of amusement and irritation, but not an important one. He’d go home, change into his running gear and head out again. A couple of miles through Central Park, perhaps he’d clear his head enough to stop thinking about obligation and duty and—

The door swung open.

One hundred and twenty decibels of guitar riff inundated him. A brunette with a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other tilted her head back and flashed him a delighted smile.

“Well, well, well,” she said, “such a nice package to find on the doorstep!”

She was a nice package, too, especially in a translucent dress that would have been bedroom lingerie meant only for a husband’s eyes in his country but was the latest fashion in these circles.

“Isn’t it lucky for both of us I decided to step outside for a cigarette right this second?”

Her smile, her voice… This was the opening gambit of a game he’d played dozens of times. A few drinks, some conversation and he’d take her home. To her bed, not his, because it was less complicated that way, whether what began tonight lasted for a few weeks or even a couple of months. And then, inevitably, he’d lose interest and she would demand to know why…

The woman moved closer. “Aren’t you coming in?”

She lay her hand on his arm. He looked down at her crimson-tipped fingers, then at her face. She was beautiful but the truth was, there’d be a dozen more just like her inside. Beautiful women who’d throw themselves at him because of his looks—there was no point in being modest about what was, basically, a gift of nature that had nothing to do with him.

And when they found out who he was, that he had a title and more money than even he could comprehend…

No, he thought, he was not in the mood for that tonight.

“Sorry,” he said politely, “but I seem to have come to the wrong address.”

“Silly,” she said, moving closer, letting her breasts brush against his arm. “You’ve come to exactly the right address—but if you’d prefer, we can go someplace quiet.”

Suddenly everything about the situation was distasteful. Tariq’s expression hardened; he shook her hand away and stepped back.

“I’m not interested,” he said coldly. Her face filled with color and he told himself he was being a son of a bitch, but—

“Your highness!”

Tariq jerked his head up. One of his attorney’s younger partners was hurrying toward him. Hell, he thought grimly. He was trapped.

The brunette made a quick recovery. “Your highness?” she said in a breathy voice. “You mean, you’re a king?”

“It’s an old joke,” Tariq said sharply, “and not a very good one. Isn’t that right, Edward?”

The lawyer looked puzzled. Then, to Tariq’s relief, he grinned.

“A joke. Oh, yeah, absolutely.” He reached out, as if to clap Tariq on the shoulder, thought better of it and, instead, made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Come on—sir. Let me get you a drink.”

“Hey,” the brunette said.

Tariq ignored her and followed the lawyer into the house. It wasn’t easy; the place was packed with people but, finally, they found a small patch of empty space.

“Tariq. Your highness—”

“No, please. Call me by my name. Did I get your name right? It is Edward, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Well, Edward, this has been a very long week for me. The last thing I need tonight is to have anyone treat me with formality.”

“Of course, sir.” The young lawyer cleared his throat. “Mr. Strickland—John—will be delighted to see you. Let me just find him and—”

“That’s not necessary. I’d just as soon wander around a bit on my own. You know, unwind.”

“Ah. I get it. You want to spend the evening under the radar. Sure. Whatever you like, your highness.”

Tariq thought of correcting the man again, but what for? Five minutes and he’d be out of here. Monday, he’d have his P.A. send flowers to John Strickland and his wife, along with a card thanking them for their hospitality and wishing them well in their new home.

So he smiled, exchanged a handshake with Edward and watched him melt into the crowd.

A waiter came by with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Tariq shook his head. Another waiter, another tray. The third time, just to avoid having another tray thrust at him, he accepted something that looked like it might have flown away if a frilled red toothpick hadn’t kept it anchored to a sliver of toast. He held on to it for a while, then inched toward a table and surreptitiously deposited it on a half-filled plate…

“Are you alone?”

The voice was soft and came from just behind him. Tariq turned and found himself looking at a blonde. Here we go again, he thought.

And then he stopped thinking. Logically, at any rate.

The brunette had been beautiful. This woman was—hell, she was spectacular.

Her hair was the color of spring wheat, falling in soft waves around her oval face. She had high, elegant cheekbones; her mouth was full and soft-looking. Her eyes were dark brown and bright with intelligence. She was tall and slender, her curves accented by a simple black silk dress that clung to her high breasts, narrow waist and gently rounded hips like a lover’s caress.

“I said, are you alone?”

The same game, but a different gambit. Maybe he needed a break from the routine of the last weeks.

Maybe the evening was looking up after all.

He smiled, took the single step that brought him closer to her.

“What happens if I say yes?”

“If you say yes, you’ll save my life.”

“I’m impressed. Such high drama at a run-of-the mill party.”

A quick smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

“Okay, you won’t save my life but you’ll save me from being unkind to a toad. Can you do that?”

“A toad?”

“A man. He just looks like a toad.”

“Ah.” Tariq grinned. “So, I’ll get an award from the Save the Toads Society?”

The blonde laughed. Her laugh was charming, light and easy and natural.

“Something like that. Look, it’ll only take a few minutes. Just talk to me. Smile. Cocktail party stuff. Please?”

“Well,” Tariq said, looking serious, “if it’s to conserve wildlife…”

“Wonderful. Thank you.” She looked past his shoulder. “There he is,” she said softly, and she flashed him a bright smile. “Oh,” she said gaily, her voice just loud enough to carry beyond the two of them, “that’s so true! I wouldn’t have put it that way, but—” She stopped in midsentence and rolled her eyes. “He’s gone.”

“Toads have a way of doing that,” Tariq said solemnly. “Here one second and then, hop, gone the next.”

She gave another of those wonderful laughs as she looked up at him. Her eyes weren’t just brown, he noticed, they were the color of rich chocolate.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled, reached out and traced the arc of one perfect cheekbone with the tip of his finger. “What’s your name?”

“My name?”

“Your name. Your address. Your phone number.” His voice grew husky. “We can start there, habiba.”

“You mean—you mean, you think…” Her face took on a hint of color. “You don’t understand. I wasn’t coming on to you. Seriously I’m…” She looked past him. “Oh, darling,” she trilled, “yes, thanks, I’d love to!”

Tariq raised an eyebrow. “The toad is back?”

“Yes.”

“If he’s done something to offend you, habiba…”

“No. Nothing like that. I just couldn’t lose him. And I didn’t want to come straight out and tell him he was wasting his time.”

“A woman with a heart.” Tariq’s voice dropped to a husky growl. “What about me, habiba. Am I wasting mine?”

Oh God, Madison thought, out of the frying pan and into the fire—except, this fire could absolutely burn a woman to a crisp…

And leave her thrilled it had happened.

Not a woman like her, of course. Not one who wanted no more of these silly games, but a woman who was impressed by good looks, a sense of humor, clothes that said a man had money, could definitely be in trouble any second.

And sex appeal. No point denying that. This man was sexy as hell.

Not like the toad.

He’d cornered her an hour ago, managed to separate her from Barb, or maybe Barb had done the separating. Either way, Madison had found herself trapped in a corner while he talked about himself. His success. His money. His genius in a high-tech field.

“Well, that’s interesting,” she’d said, when he’d paused for breath. “I’m in a high tech field, myself, and—”

She might as well not have bothered. He’d started talking again, his words silencing hers, about his expensive condo, his expensive car, his Miami pad…

“Oh, there’s someone I promised to say hi to,” Madison had said brightly, and she’d zoomed straight for the only man who’d seemed to be by himself.

She’d wanted a savior.

What she’d found was a man who would never save a woman from anything but would surely lead her straight into sin.

He was gorgeous. There was no other word to describe him. Tall, tall enough to still tower over her even though she was wearing spiked heels. Dark-haired, with eyes so gray they were almost silver. Broad shoulders, trim waist, long legs. He had the faintest accent that only added to his sex appeal.

He was a magnificent predator and it would be oh, so easy to celebrate this last night before her life changed forever by giving in to what was happening because she knew it was happening, that he wanted to take her home, take her to bed and she—and she—

Madison took a shaky breath and stepped back. Or tried to step back; the room was so crowded that she couldn’t.

“Listen,” she said quickly, “What I started to tell you a couple of minutes ago is the truth. I don’t blame you for misunderstanding. I mean, it’s my fault entirely, but—”

“Have we met before?”

Her eyebrows lifted. Such a trite line from a guy like this?

“No, we haven’t. And as I was just saying—”

“We must have. At a party, perhaps?”

“Sorry. I just have that kind of face.”

His gaze moved slowly, almost insolently over her face, lingering on her mouth with such intensity that her heart began to gallop.

“Trust me,” he said softly. “You don’t.”

The surge of the crowd pushed them closer. Madison felt her breasts brush against his chest. Heat raced through her at the contact.

His reaction was far more blatant.

His body hardened.

She felt it, felt that swift male arousal…and felt the shock of an answering curl of desire low in her belly.

Quickly she put out her hands and pressed them against his chest.

“Thank you for your help,” she said brightly.

“Planning an exit, habiba?”

His voice was soft, filled with sexual promise. No, she thought wildly, no, I am not going to do this, not with the rest of my life so perfectly planned.

“I am,” she said in that same artificially bright tone. “He’s gone.”

His smile was wonderful, slow and sexy and completely male. “But he’ll be back.”

“I’m sure he won’t.”

“He will, if he has an ounce of blood in his veins. No man would be fool enough to let you walk away from him.”

“Look, I don’t—I mean, you don’t—” Madison’s gaze slid past the stranger. “Oh, hell,” she said unhappily, “here he comes.”

“Come on.”

The man’s hand—big, hard, powerful—clasped hers.

“Where?”

“Out those doors. See? There’s a patio…or would you rather let the toad catch you?”

The blonde hesitated, but only for an instant.

“All right,” she said, and Tariq hurried her through the crowd, through the French doors, onto the patio.

He knew damned well he could have gotten rid of her pursuer with one look but why do that when he could, instead, bring the woman here, where it was quiet and cool?

He hadn’t come here looking for a night’s diversion but he’d told her the truth. Only a man with no blood in his veins wouldn’t want her. He was going to have her for the night. Hell, for the weekend, and nothing was going to stop him.

The French doors swung open.

The toad stepped outside.

He looked at them and his face lit.

“There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking everywhere. I never did finish telling you about the place I just bought in Miami—”

Tariq looked at the blonde. She bit her lip, just lightly enough to make him wish he was the one doing the biting.

“Oh, hell,” she whispered.

Tariq felt his blood leap.

“Indeed,” he said softly.

A heartbeat later, he had her in his arms. She looked up at him, eyes wide.

“What are you—”

“I’m making it clear who owns you tonight,” Tariq said thickly, and he bent his head and kissed her.

She gasped. Her breath sighed against his lips. He made a sound deep in his throat and drew her closer.

“Kiss me back,” Tariq whispered.

And she did.

Her lips parted; he slid the tip of his tongue between them, silk meeting silk, heat meeting heat, and the patio faded, the toad faded, nothing existed but the woman in his arms, the feel of her…

“Oh,” she whispered, and he knew it was the same for her.

Her hands rose, flattened against his chest, slipped up and up until her fingers were deep in the thick, silky hair at his nape. She leaned into him, her breasts soft against his chest, her scent in his nostrils.

Tariq groaned.

All the taut sexual control he’d maintained for the past two months fell away. His sex hardened; he felt it leap against her and when she moaned and lifted herself to him, he gathered her closer, deepened the kiss, tasting her, letting her taste him, running his hands down her spine, cupping her bottom, lifting her, bringing her hard against him, cradling the power of his erection in the hot vee of her thighs.

Somehow, they were moving. Off the patio. Into the garden, letting the gathering night close around them, sealing them in its velvet darkness, its sweet floral scent.

The sounds of the party faded; the light spilling from the house diminished. Tariq felt something at his back. The wall of a small building. A summerhouse, screened and secluded, lit by only the softest of lights.

He drew the woman inside; she clung to him, her mouth hot and open to the penetration of his tongue, her breathing as ragged as his, her hands clasping his face as she gave herself over to the wildness of his kiss.

“I want you,” he said thickly.

“Yes,” she whispered, “yes…”

His mouth was at her throat; his hand was on her breast, cupping it, shaping it, his fingertips moving over the engorged nipple that pressed through the silk of her dress and teased his palm.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, “so beautiful…”

She slid her hand under his suit jacket, then inside his shirt. Her touch scalded him; he groaned again, grasped the hem of her dress, pushed it up her thighs.

And reached between them.

Skin. Silken and smooth. A strip of lace. Heat. The softness of damp curls…

By Ishtar, he was going to come. He, who never let passion fully sweep him away, who always maintained just enough emotional distance to observe the woman in his arms as he took her…

He was going to come.

But not like this. Damn it, not like this. He wanted to be inside her. Feel her womb close around him. Feel her legs wrap around his waist…

“No!”

Her cry shattered the stillness in the little summerhouse. Tariq raised his head, looked at her through eyes that were all but blind.

“Damn you, get away from me!”

Her fist slammed against his shoulder. It was enough to drag him back toward reality if not fully into it.

“What?” he said. “What?”

“You—you bastard! You no-good son of a—”

Madison slapped both hands against the stranger’s chest, shoved hard. She could feel the panic spreading through her, not of him as much as of herself, at what she had almost done.

“Let go of me,” she said. “Do you hear me? I said—”

“I heard what you said.” His voice was cold. “I’m sure half of Manhattan heard what you said.”

His hands fell away from her. He stepped back but it didn’t mean a damn; she could hear his ragged breathing, smell his maleness. Oh, yes, a predator, and the worst kind. Handsome. Arrogant. Wealthy. He moved in the right circles.

He was everything she despised and somehow, she’d been hovering on the brink of having sex with him. Hovering? Hell, she’d been a kiss away from it. How could that have happened?

A shudder racked her body. “You took advantage of me!”

“I took advantage of you?” he said…and he began to laugh.

She wanted to hit him again, but she was angry, not insane.

“You think this is amusing?”

“What I think,” he said, “is that I probably should thank you for our little encounter. You see, I’ve been searching for something and now I realize it’s going to take longer to find than I thought.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And, also thanks to you, I just realized how easy—and how unfortunate—it would be should some woman make me give up something I must not give up, except to the right one.”

“Gibberish,” Madison said, folding her arms. “But I don’t care. Whatever you’re talking about means nothing to me.”

“Exactly. And it means everything to…” He paused, frowned, cocked his head. “Of course,” he said softly.

“Of course, what?”

“I just realized why you looked familiar. You’re the ice princess from—what’s that outfit? FutureTense?”

“FutureBorn,” Madison said, “and what would you know about it?”

His cool smile faded. She could almost see his brain rev into high gear.

“Not as much as I’m going to know,” he said cryptically.

“Do you know my boss? If you think you can get me fired—”

He laughed and turned away.

“You can’t,” Madison yelled. “I’m not going to be there long enough for that.”

Tariq didn’t turn around. Whatever she said meant nothing to him.

The toad was still standing on the patio. Tariq flashed a vicious smile. “The lady’s all yours,” he said, and made his way into the house, through the foyer, through the dining and sitting rooms, his purposeful stride attracting curious glances until, at last, he saw his attorney.

Strickland was part of a small knot of people, laughing and chatting.

Tariq stood a few feet away. “Strickland?”

The attorney looked up, saw Tariq and fell silent in midsentence.

“Your highness.”

People turned and stared. Tariq knew the look; it was part respect, part awe, part outright envy.

Ordinarily he loathed it. Now, he welcomed it.

The blonde had made a fool of him tonight but no one else would dare.

Strickland came to his side. “Edward said you were here, your highness. I looked for you, but—”

“I need legal advice.”

The lawyer blinked. “Now?”

“Right now.” Tariq took his cell phone from his pocket, pressed a button and heard, as he had known he would, the voice of his personal physician answering the number that connected him to only this one patient. “Dr. Miller,” he said, with the crisp conviction of a man who never has to ask but has only to command. “I am at my lawyer’s home. Please meet me here in half an hour.”

“Are you ill, sir?” Strickland murmured after Tariq rattled off the address and ended the call.

“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

“Yes, of course.”

The lawyer led the way to the second floor and a handsomely furnished den far from the noise of the party.

“No,” Tariq said, once the door was shut, “I’m not ill.”

“Then what…”

“I wish to safeguard the rightful succession of my heir to the throne of Dubaac,” Tariq said briskly, “in the unlikely event something should happen to me before I find a suitable wife. I’ve asked my doctor here to discuss the details but, basically, I intend to have a sample of my sperm frozen and to do it as quickly as possible. Do you foresee any legal problems?”

The attorney smiled. “None, your highness. Actually I’ve handled similar situations before.”

“Good,” Tariq said, and for the first time since his brother’s death, he breathed a long sigh of relief.

CHAPTER THREE

AT NINE Monday morning, Tariq left his Fifth Avenue penthouse, rode his privately keyed elevator to the lobby, declined the doorman’s offer of a taxi and headed south at a brisk walk.

It was a bright summer morning but he’d have walked even if the city was gripped by a January blizzard.

He’d spent most of the night on his terrace, looking blindly into the darkness of Central Park while he told himself what he was going to do this morning was a modern version of an appointment with destiny.

A sly little voice inside him kept describing it in much more earthy terms.

Any way he looked at it, he was about to have sex with a test tube.

He was sure he’d made the right decision but it still made him wince. A healthy man in the prime of his life, a man who’d never met a woman who hadn’t smiled and made it clear she was interested in more than conversation, could not possibly be in any great rush to spill his seed in the romantic confines of a doctor’s office.

Saturday, he’d kept busy reading fifty pages of legalese that spelled out how his “donation” would be stored and how it could be used. He’d gone to bed with all that mumbo-jumbo dancing through his head and awakened to more of the same on Sunday.

Then he ran out of reading material.

Maybe that was why he’d had those dreams Sunday night.

About the blonde. Madison Whitney. The dreams had been intense, erotic…and infuriating. He was a grown man, damn it, not a horny teenage kid.

If he hadn’t awakened just in time, he’d have found himself in a dress rehearsal for what he was scheduled to do this morning.

The only good that had come out of the Friday night disaster was that it had reminded him that he was a prince with an obligation to find a wife, not a man on the hunt for a night’s pleasure.

Still, he hesitated once he reached his doctor’s office.

Don’t be an ass, he told himself, and he raised his chin, tightened his jaw and rang the bell.

The procedure was over in minutes.

Tariq signed some papers, stepped into a small room with a glass vial in his hand, turned down an offer of Playmate magazine with the arrogant assurance of a man who knows the power of his own sexuality…

And his imagination failed him. Nothing happened until he closed his eyes, remembered the woman, remembered her taste, her scent, her silky skin…

Then, only then, he’d done what he had to do.

Now, he could put the humiliation of the morning, his fury at the woman, behind him.

Madison usually began her days calmly.

Serenely, Barb had once said, with a roll of the eyes. Well, why not? Planning ahead, doing things carefully, was how Madison had learned to overcome the uncertainties of a chaotic childhood.

Her automatic coffeemaker was programmed to turn on at six, her alarm at six-oh-five. By six-fifteen, she was always in the kitchen, showered, dressed, ready for her first jolt of caffeine. Ten minutes after that, hair blow-dried into submission, makeup on, she was ready to face the world.

Monday morning, none of that happened.

The coffee hadn’t brewed. Her hair dryer died when she plugged it in. There were no clean panty hose in the drawer. Even her mascara failed her, depositing a smear of black on the lashes of one eye and nothing at all on the other.

Her fault. All of it.

The coffeepot made a carafe of boiled water, not coffee. The dryer had been at death’s door last time she’d used it. Her panty hose were all in the hamper, the mascara had produced a pathetic dab of color because it was empty. Most unbelievable of all, she’d overslept because she’d forgotten—forgot-ten, for the first time in her life!—to set the alarm.

She’d intended to deal with all that Saturday and Sunday. Go to Zabar’s for coffee, to Macy’s for a new hair dryer, to Saks for mascara, wash her lingerie…

Instead she’d spent both days feverishly doing stuff that didn’t need doing.

She’d cleaned cupboards and closets, floors and furniture until someone from the Department of Health could have done a white-glove inspection and come away smiling and at night, she’d watched reruns of Sex and the City for the hundredth time, made low-cal, low-fat, low-taste microwave popcorn and stuffed her face with it even though she wasn’t hungry.

“And for what reason?” she demanded of her reflection in the bathroom mirror Monday morning.

Because she couldn’t get the SOB, the stranger who’d almost seduced her, out of her head. Because even the memory of what had happened was humiliating.

Because she knew, deep down, that blaming him for everything was the worst kind of lie.

He hadn’t tossed her over his shoulder and carried her away.

He hadn’t lured her into that summerhouse.

He’d kissed her, was what he’d done, and her libido had done the rest, turning her into a creature she didn’t know, a woman who had let a stranger do things to her that still made her blush…

That still made her bones melt, just remembering.

Damn it.

What was the sense in rehashing it all? She’d done what she’d done. It was over.

A deep breath. Another look in the mirror. A lift of the chin.

“Stop whining,” Madison told herself briskly.

Who cared about Friday night? Today was Monday. The Monday. It was the first day of the rest of her life, the day she hoped to conceive her baby, and if that made her sound like a greeting card, so what?

It was the truth.

Madison’s expression softened.

Her baby. A child to love. To nurture. That was all that mattered. Friday night, the man—not worth another second. What mattered was her appointment this afternoon and the sweet, bright promise of pregnancy. She turned her back on her reflection, went to the closet and flung the door open.

It was just that it was crazy that she, of all people, could have been swept off her feet not by a prince, as Barb had teasingly promised, but by the kind of sleazy Don Juans who’d tromped in and out of her mother’s life.

He’d been good-looking but Don Juans always were. Tall.

Dark. Drop-dead gorgeous. And with an aura, a hint of some thing in his bearing, in his speech that hinted at the exotic.

Madison snorted.

He’d probably been born in Brooklyn—and why was she wasting time on him again?

Forget the panty hose. The smooth, tamed hair. Coffee? There was a Starbucks on the corner. Concentrate on the present, not the past.

She dressed quickly. Comfortably. A white blouse. A pale pink skirt. White sling-backs with a comfortable heel, no mascara because she didn’t have any, just some lip gloss, then some gel to tame her hair.

Monday might not have started well but it was going to end brilliantly. And when this was all over and her pregnancy was confirmed, she’d tell Barb Friday night’s Big Lesson.

If you had to weigh the benefits of a man against a test tube, the test tube would win, every time.

No one at FutureBorn knew this was not going to be an ordinary day.

Madison, of course, was the sole exception.

How could she keep her mind on work when something so important was going to happen at two o’clock?

She watched the hands of her watch creep from nine to ten, from ten to eleven, then—was it possible?—slow from a creep to a crawl.

At noon, she opened a container of yogurt, shut her office door, took the file folder that held the data about the donor she’d selected from her locked desk drawer.

She read as she spooned up yogurt.

Yes, absolutely, she’d chosen the right man.

Educated. Healthy. Nice-looking. Polite, soft-spoken and modest. The file didn’t mention anything but education and health but she knew the rest would be true.

Excellent traits for fatherhood.

The stranger had been none of those things. He’d been a walking, talking ad for self-centered arrogance, passionate intensity and macho attitude.

In other words, he’d been sexy as hell.

Madison rolled her eyes, dumped the yogurt in the trash and put away the file.

“Are you crazy?” she muttered.

She had to be.

So what if being in his arms had been like nothing she’d ever experienced in her life?

His touch. His kisses. His hunger…and, oh, the hunger that had blazed inside her. She’d wanted him. Needed him. Another few seconds, she’d have let him take her right there, in the garden where anyone might have stumbled across them.

Let him tear aside her panties. Her thong—and what had made her wear a thong, anyway? A thong and no panty hose. A good thing, because panty hose would have gotten in his way, delayed that incredible minute when he’d put his hand between her thighs…

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