Assuming, of course, the child was his.
How had his brother let this happen? Drunk or sober, how could he have forgotten to use a condom?
Had the woman seduced him into forgetting? That was always a possibility.
Karim wasn’t naïve. A man who was born to a title and a fortune learned early how things went.
Women set snares; his own mother had been pregnant with him before his father had married her.
He wasn’t supposed to know that, but any fool could count. And once he’d figured it out he’d had a better idea of why his parents’ marriage had failed.
You chose a wife—especially if you had the responsibilities of a prince—because she met certain criteria. Common interests and backgrounds. Common goals and expectations.
You chose her; you didn’t put yourself in a position where fate or expediency or, even worse, a foolish night of passion became the deciding factor—
A small fist hit his shoulder. Karim blinked in surprise. The woman had moved right up to him. Her eyes flashed with anger.
“Are you deaf? Give—me—the—baby!”
The child made an unhappy sound. Its mouth, that mouth that was the image of hers, began to tremble.
Karim narrowed his eyes.
“Whose child is this?”
“What is this? An interrogation? Give Ethan to me and then get the hell out!”
“Ethan?”
Dammit, Rachel thought, she hadn’t intended to give him anything—not even the baby’s name.
“Yes. And he’s wary of strangers.”
Karim’s mouth twisted. “Was he wary of my brother?”
“I’d tell you that you’ve overstayed your welcome, Your Sheikhiness, but you were not welcome here in the first place.”
“Do not,” Karim said grimly, “call me that.”
He regretted the words even as he said them. It was a mistake to let her know she was annoying him because that was damned well what she wanted to do.
“I’ll ask you again,” he said, struggling to control his te
mper. “Who does this child belong to?”
“He belongs to himself. Unlike you and your countrymen, Americans don’t believe people can be owned like property.”
“A charming speech. I’m sure it will win applause on your Fourth of July holiday. But it hasn’t got a damned thing to do with my question. Once again, then. Whose child is this?”