LITMIR.BIZ

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turned away, ran his hands through his hair, forced himself to calm down. Then he swung toward her, his face a mask.

      “I will not take the child from you,” he said, his voice rough and harsh and suddenly shot with the accent he had surely lost, years ago.

      “No,” she said with conviction, “you most assuredly will not!”

      “What I will do,” Tariq said, with the assurance of a man who’d just solved the riddle of the ages, “is take you as my wife.”

      CHAPTER SIX

      RUGGED cliffs rose above the Hudson River.

      In the small hours of the night, the road that traversed those cliffs was almost deserted. Though the place was little more than an hour from the heart of Manhattan, Tariq could almost imagine he was racing his Porsche on a cliff above one of the wide mountain rivers of Dubaac.

      His foot was almost to the floor; last time he’d bothered checking, the speedometer needle hovered at one-forty. It was a dangerous speed for a dangerous road, which made it perfect for a man still filled with a savage rage.

      He had proposed marriage and Madison Whitney had laughed in his face.

      His hands tightened on the wheel.

      At first, he’d thought the expression on her face was one of shock. Who would have blamed her? He’d shocked himself but then, what other choice was there but marriage?

      Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t laughter.

      “Me?” she’d said. “Marry you?”

      Who did she think she was? She wasn’t expected to spin straw into gold, for Ishtar’s sake! He wasn’t Rumpelstiltskin. He was a sheikh. A prince. And he’d offered to make her his wife!

      Fury had surged through him. He’d grabbed her by the elbows, hoisted her to her toes, imagined shaking her until her teeth rattled.

      Imagined something far more primitive. Carrying her to the bed. Tearing off her robe. Taking her again and again until her laughter turned to cries of passion, until she understood the consequences of taunting a man until she’d stripped him of the last vestiges of self-control.

      But he hadn’t.

      He’d hung onto just enough sanity to wonder if that wasn’t exactly what she wanted, that she’d revel in turning him into a beast instead of a man.

      He’d spat out a name for women like her, shoved her aside and stormed from her apartment.

      Now he was on this road, letting out his anger and frustration, the Porsche as responsive to his touch as the woman had been.

      And who in hell gave a damn about that?

      He would never deliberately choose a wife like Madison Whitney. So what if she was beautiful? The world was filled with beautiful women. So what if she had him dancing on a sexual tightrope? He knew scores of women who would happily sate his hunger.

      Why would he want a wife who played sexual games? Who teased and taunted? Who went from sex-kitten to defiant wild-cat in a heartbeat?

      The road made a sharp turn. He took it without slowing down, finding satisfaction in the squeal of the tires and rush of adrenaline that came with the knowledge that he had sufficient control over the Porsche to keep it from skidding over the edge of the cliff.

      If only he could control this damnable female the same way.

      Still, he’d been willing to deal with that. She was not his idea of a wife but what choice did he have?

      He wanted his child.

      And he could change the woman.

      He had trained horses and dogs and birds of prey. Not that training a woman would be the same: he was a modern man, fully aware of women’s rights but, after all, the same principles would apply.

      There’d be rules. Goals. Rewards for good behavior and penalties for anything that wasn’t.

      She’d balk, but she was intelligent. She’d learn quickly enough and then everyone would benefit. His people would have their heir, his child would have its birthright and Madison would have a husband.

      That was obviously what she needed. A husband to tame her. That she’d even thought to have a child without a husband spoke volumes about the kind of obstinate, stubborn woman she was.

      He eased his foot off the gas pedal, let the car’s speed drop until the dark trees no longer flashed by and swung into what a sign identified as a scenic overlook. Then he let down the windows, shut off the engine and let the night breeze cool his flushed face.

      Madison carried his child. His child, and he would not be locked out of its life.

      The question, he thought, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, the question was, what could he do about it?

      There was no point in calling Strickland for legal advice. The man had already made it clear he didn’t have any. Besides, he had no intention of telling him that he’d asked Madison to marry him and she had laughed in his face.

      He’d be damned if he’d tell that to anyone.

      Tariq heaved a sigh.

      He was a man of this century in all possible ways. He traveled by private jet; his life was organized around his BlackBerry. He could not imagine life without computers and cell phones.

      Still, there were times he could see the benefits in the old ways.

      Centuries ago, if a man of his people wanted a woman who didn’t want him, all he had to do was kidnap her, sleep with her, then state, publicly, that he had made her his wife.

      Vestiges of the custom lived on, even today.

      A groom might carry off his bride on their wedding night. It was done in fun, to the cheers of the guests and with the bride pretending to fight her kidnapper.

      Actually, among some of his people, those who clung to the old ways, it was still all that was necessary for a marriage to be legal.

      Tariq’s fingers stilled on the steering wheel.

      No. It was crazy. It was insane.

      It was the only option he had.

      He turned the key. Peeled out of the parking area. Raced back to the city, to his penthouse and began making phone calls, never mind that it was after one in the morning. A prince had privileges. He never took advantage of them, no matter what Madison inferred, but he did, now.

      An hour later, it was done.

      His pilot, his P.A., the florist he’d used so many times before. Yes, they all said, what he asked was not a problem, with the florist adding that she’d never heard of anything more romantic.

      Romantic, indeed, Tariq thought coldly as he ended the last call.

      Let the Whitney woman laugh now, he thought, and when he tumbled into bed, he slept the sleep of a man who knows he’s done the right thing.

      Forced to do it, perhaps … but the right thing, nonetheless.

      Madison slept hardly at all.

      She tossed and turned and thought about the arrogant, insolent, vile, let-the-peasants-eat-cake prince.

      He’d really imagined his title would impress her. That she’d curtsy and bat her lashes and say, Oh, yes, your majesty, of course I’ll sell you my baby. And when that hadn’t happened—shock, shock, shock—he’d said, well, if she wouldn’t do that, then he’d take her as his wife.

      Take her, as if she were for sale!

      “Think again,” she muttered to the darkened bedroom.

      Okay. So he was upset. So he hadn’t expected his sperm to be given away. So what? She was upset, too. You made plans, you chose The Perfect

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