Сандра Мартон – Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride (страница 16)
“You mean, now, we talk.”
“Fine.” Madison folded her hands on the counter. “Talk, then. Just don’t take too long to come up with a convincing explanation of why you came here tonight.”
“I’ve already told you that.”
She sighed. All at once, she was exhausted. It had been a long day, starting with the exciting news from her doctor and ending with Tariq al Sayf’s intrusion into her life.
“Yes. You have. So let me tell you why what you claim is impossible—assuming you really are a FutureBorn donor.”
“That is not how I would describe it.”
“How
His lips curved in a mirthless smile. “I certainly did not intend to be.”
“My selection was—is—a perfect match for my requirements.”
For her requirements, Tariq thought. Interesting, that she should have thought of a father for her child in the same terms as he had thought of a woman to bear him an heir.
“I chose a man who was gentle. Easygoing. An intellectual, with creative leanings.”
Another quick, dangerous smile.
“And here I am, instead. A barbarian from a land you never heard of. Cruel. Unfeeling. About as intellectual as a game of rugby. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
Why lie? Madison shrugged. “You said it, not me. And besides all that, I don’t really see you as a do—” She frowned as he took an envelope from his back pocket and tossed it on the counter. “What’s that?”
“Open it.”
She looked from the envelope to him. His expression gave nothing away; the very absence of emotion in his eyes had more meaning than anything he’d said until now.
“It won’t bite you,
She didn’t want to. She didn’t even want to touch it. For some crazy reason, her thoughts swung back to childhood, to an old ditty about what evil would befall you if you stepped on a crack in the sidewalk.
She’d never believed stuff like that. Her childhood had not lent itself to silly superstitions. Still, she had the awful feeling that if she picked up the envelope, read the letter inside it, she’d somehow unleash the hounds of hell.
“Read it,” Tariq said, and there was no way on earth to ignore that command.
The envelope was of ivory bond, heavy and rich to the touch. The single page within it was the same.
The engraved letterhead sent her heart skittering into her throat.
She knew the name. Anyone who did business in New York would. There were bad law firms and good law firms. There were those that were excellent, and those people talked about in tones of hushed reverence.
And then there was Strickland, Forbes, DiGennaro and Lustig. The firm was almost as old as the city; its reputation had never been touched by scandal, and the blood of its clients was the bluest of blue.
They would not represent a bogus prince, and they would not support a bogus claim.
Madison’s throat constricted. She stared blindly at the paper.
“Shall I read it to you?”
Her head came up. The prince was watching her the way a cobra would watch a hapless mouse.
“No,” she said, and then she cleared her throat. “Surprisingly enough,” she said with what she hoped was a careless smile, “I’m capable of doing that for myself.”
At first, the words were a blur. Then, gradually, they came into focus.
Okay. So he had a real title. What did she give a damn about titles?
Legalspeak filled the next paragraph. Madison felt the tension easing. An abundance of legalspeak often meant an abundance of crapola.
Her vision blurred again. She took a breath, waited, then continued reading.
The letter fluttered to the counter.
Introduced, Madison thought, and felt the bite of hysterical laughter in her throat. Introduced, his sperm to her womb.
She looked up. He was watching her as he had before, with a frigid clinical interest. Without volition, her hands folded over her flat belly.
“I told you the truth,
The sanctimonious son of a bitch! His only concern was that she hadn’t believed him. What about
Except, the letter had inferred something else. She picked it up, read again the paragraph about his sperm being stored for use only by him.
Madison lifted her head.
“But—but what does this mean? It says you didn’t intend to have your—your—” It was foolish, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. “You didn’t intend your donation for anonymous use?”
He flashed a thin, unpleasant smile. “I make donations to the Boy Scouts. To the ASPCA and to the Nature Conservancy. Not to sperm banks.”
“Then, why …”
His expression hardened. “That is my business.”
“Your business?” The hysterical laugh she’d suppressed burst from her throat. “Your
Was she right?
Tariq scowled, went to the stove and began brewing a mug of tea he didn’t want. Anything, to give himself time to think.
He had to admit that this was a difficult situation for her. Not as fraught with problems as for him, of course; she was not attempting to safeguard the future of a nation but still, she had wanted one kind of man to sire her child and, instead, she had him.
There were women who would kill to trade places with her but he knew she’d probably laugh in his face if he told her that.
She was fearless.
Fearless, and beautiful, and bright. So, why had she turned to a sperm bank? Surely she could have any man she wished. Why wasn’t she married? At the very least, why hadn’t she asked a lover for his seed?
He could surely ask her that.
“I have questions, too,” he said, turning toward her.
“For instance?”
“Why aren’t you married? Why did you choose to have a child by using the sperm of a stranger?”
Color swept into her face but she didn’t flinch.
“I could give you the answer you just gave me, that it’s none of your business, but what would be the point? I’m not married for the same reason I used a sperm bank. I don’t believe in marriage or relationships.” Her chin lifted. “Is that clear enough for you?”
It was not. A woman who turned to fire in a man’s arms was meant for sex, not for syringes and test tubes … but he knew better than to say so. He needed her cooperation, not her animosity.
“Now it’s your turn, your highness. Why did you turn to FutureBorn?”
A muscle knotted in his jaw. Perhaps she was entitled to an answer.