Although, maybe offered was the wrong word.
“Everything is lovely,” she said, his focus on her dinner plate.
“And yet you sound like a petulant child who has been denied a pony for Christmas.”
Her head snapped up, her green eyes glittering. “Do you think so?”
“I know so.”
“Quite the pronouncement. Especially coming from a man who’s never been denied anything.”
He shrugged. “It’s true, I had seven of my own Arabian horses by the time I was six. They were not considered ponies.” He studied the glass of sharbat in front of him. “But you’re wrong.”
His stomach burned as she glared at him, the green turning arctic, the corners of her lush lips curved down. “Is that so?”
“I have been denied things I’ve desired greatly,” he said, thinking of the years he’d gone without her, of the months after she’d left him. Of the feeling of arousal, relief and utter fear he’d felt when she’d called him again.
“Have you?” she said, scraping her empty plate with her fork.
“You have no idea, do you?”
“I don’t play guessing games, Sheikh, so you might as well cut to the chase.”
“Taj. You will call me Taj. And I’m not trying to play a game. Do you think I gave no thought to you over the past three years?”
She tilted her chin up. “I can hardly say.”
“I did. I thought of you every night. Every time a woman looked my direction. I thought of the one woman I truly desired. And how she had been denied to me.”
Her lips thinned, her body going stiff. “Now who sounds like the petulant child, Taj?”
He leaned back in his chair, arousal and annoyance battling each other. “I have been accused of being petulant, it’s true. But I am royal and it’s my right.”
“Indeed!” she snapped.
“Yes. Indeed. But one thing I am not and you should know this, Angel, is a child.”
Crimson color flooded her cheeks and she stood. He stood as well, anger more in play than any sense of good manners. “I can’t deal with you right now.”
She turned to go and he caught her arm. “Then when will we deal with each other?” He leaned in and caught her scent. Vanilla soap and something beneath it, something clean and unique to Angelina. “When?” he asked again, loosening his hold on her but keeping his hand on her soft skin, his thumb stroking her. “On our wedding night? When our child is born?”
She shook her head. “I…no. But not now.”
He leaned in and kissed her, a challenge. To her strength. Her defiance. To the fact that she seemed so utterly composed and distant while he felt like his desire was a living thing, burning him alive from the inside out.
She kissed him back. Her lips clinging to his, her body arching to his. Then, as suddenly as she acquiesced, she broke away, her eyes wide, her chest rising and falling on short, choppy breaths.
“I’m not in the mood for that, either,” she said.
“Your body, and your manner, would suggest otherwise, my Angel,” he said, his need threatening to strangle him.
“My body isn’t running the show. My mind is.”
“Was that true a couple of months ago?”
A false smile curved her lips. “I think we both know it wasn’t. Call it temporary insanity, sugar.” That name again. She used it to put distance between them. He would not allow it.
“With permanent consequences,” he said.
Lust leached from him as he looked down at her flat stomach. A sense of surreal awe filling him. She was carrying his baby. Their baby.
He’d thought about children, in terms of heirs and fulfilled duty. But he’d never thought about what it would really mean to create a child. To have a baby that was part of him, part of its mother. Part of Angelina.
If they had a daughter, would she have her mother’s red hair? Or would his Middle Eastern heritage dominate? He’d never given time to such thoughts before. And now he seemed to be bogged down by them.
“You’re pregnant,” he said, releasing his hold on her completely and taking a step back. It was no longer desire that was trying to strangle him.