LITMIR.BIZ

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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, habiba. It’s a letter from my attorney. I suggest you read it before you say anything else.”

      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.

       Strickland, Forbes, DiGennaro and Lustig, Attorneys at Law.

      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.

       Your most respected excellence, Prince Tariq al Sayf, Crown Prince of Dubaac, Heir to the Throne of the Golden Falcon. Greetings.

      Okay. So he had a real title. What did she give a damn about titles?

       … reference to our earlier conversation …

      Legalspeak filled the next paragraph. Madison felt the tension easing. An abundance of legalspeak often meant an abundance of crapola.

       Unfortunately I must tell you that our concerns have been confirmed. Despite our legal directives, errors of significant magnitude …

      Her vision blurred again. She took a breath, waited, then continued reading.

       FutureBorn admits that the semen of your highness, Prince Tariq al Sayf, which was to be kept for use only by you or those duly authorized to act on your behalf, was inadvertently delivered to Jennifer Thomas, M.D., and introduced into the womb of Ms. Madison Jane Whitney who resides at …

      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, habiba. I am not in the habit of telling falsehoods.”

      The sanctimonious son of a bitch! His only concern was that she hadn’t believed him. What about her concerns? She was the one who’d been deceived. He was only the donor; she was the woman who’d wanted a child.

      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 business, Prince Tariq, is inside me! I think that makes it my business, too.”

      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.

      “For my people.”

      She blinked. “I don’t understand.”

      “I am the son of the Sultan of Dubaac. My father has—my father had two sons. My brother, Sharif, and me.” He paused; it still hurt to say the words. “Sharif died in an accident some months ago. He was not married, he had no children, left no heir, which means I am now the successor to the throne of the Golden Falcon.”

      “And?”

      “And though I tried, I could not find a suitable wife. It must be done quickly, you see. My father is in good health but no one can predict the future and if something were to happen to him and then to me …”

      Why was he telling her all this? Her question was simple; so should have been his answer.

      Tariq

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