Nan Ryan (15 page)

A canteen of water and some dates and nuts and other edibles soon joined the hidden map. All she lacked was something to wear on her ride across the desert. That would be the tricky part.

But she managed to hide a dress.

Each day toward dusk Rhikia brought several elegant gowns to the Sheik’s tent, and it was always from among these that Temple was to choose one for the evening. This time Temple acted as if she couldn’t make up her mind which one she wanted to wear. All were so lovely, she would need a few moments to decide. Pondering, making faces, she held up one dress, then another. Understanding, Rhikia smiled, turned away, and busied herself with laying out lacy underwear and checking the temperature of Temple’s bath water.

By the time the unsuspecting Rhikia turned back, Temple had hidden—beneath the pillows of her sleeping divan with the rest of her stash—a white silk dress.

“This one,” Temple said, smiling, holding up an ice blue evening gown of shimmering silk shantung. “I’ll wear this blue one tonight.”

Rhikia nodded and took an exquisite necklace from the velvet-lined case. A huge square-cut sapphire, surrounded by diamonds, was suspended from a delicate platinum chain. She held the exquisite sapphire against the blue gown and raised her eyebrows questioningly to Temple.

“Yes,” said Temple, taking the necklace, “perfect. Just perfect.”

Pleased, Rhikia began gathering up the garments that were not to be worn. Soon she began to frown and Temple tensed and held her breath. She knew what was going through Rhikia’s mind. Did I bring five or six dresses with me? Rhikia looked all about, puzzled, unsure.

Temple remained outwardly composed. Ignoring the bewildered expression on Rhikia’s face, she began to strip for her bath. Naked she eased down into the steaming water and watched from beneath lowered lashes as Rhikia continued her search. Finally the servant gave up, decided she had miscounted, shrugged, and gathered up the clothes.

When Rhikia left, Temple exhaled heavily with relief. She started to smile as she lifted the soapy washcloth to her left shoulder.

Concealed safely beneath the pillows on her sleeping divan was the dress she would wear to make her escape. A more serviceable garment would have been preferable, but the wispy white silk gown had been the easiest to snatch away and hide.

Temple was so nervous at dinner, her hand shook when she picked up the heavy silver cutlery. She tried in vain to slow her anxious breathing, the furious beating of her heart. She flushed when the Sheik, seated across the candle-lighted table, brazenly lowered his inky dark gaze to her exposed bosom.

Had she realized the blue shantung’s bodice was so daring, she would have chosen another gown. And had she known that the chain of the stunning sapphire necklace was too long, she wouldn’t have worn it, either.

She felt naked and vulnerable and miserable. Her shoulders, back, and arms were completely bare. Worse, the gown’s bodice was so uncomfortably tight and dipped so embarrassingly low, her pushed-up breasts came dangerously close to spilling from the plunging décolletage with each rapid rise and fall of her diaphragm.

The huge, heavy sapphire was wedged painfully in her cleavage, and she longed to lift it free but didn’t dare. Not with his dark eyes fixed on her, watching her every move.

Maybe it was the way the candlelight played on the planes and hollows of his dark, brooding features or the fact that she was so nervous over her planned escape, but it seemed to her he looked even more menacing than usual this evening. Maybe it was the way he was dressed.

The Sheik wore a black evening suit of European cut. But instead of the requisite white dress shirt, he wore one of fine black silk. No cravat or tie. No studs or cuff links. The black shirt’s collar was open at the throat and unbuttoned midway down his dark chest.

Black hair, black eyes, black suit, black shirt. The provocative Prince of Darkness. That’s what he looked like. He might have been Satan himself come to steal her soul and spirit her down to hell. Never had he seemed more frightening or more fascinating.

The meal was an exercise in strained silence. Temple, far too nervous to actually be hungry, knew the Sheik was watching her closely. She would have known even if she had never looked up. She could feel the hot pressure of his eyes on her, causing her skin to grow warm, her heart to misbehave.

She raised her head anxiously, looked at him. The flame from the candlelight reflected in the depths of his black eyes, he stared at her unblinkingly, saying nothing. It made her more nervous than ever. She felt as if she would surely choke on every mouthful of food she raised to her lips. She wondered if she could possibly make it through the entire evening without falling apart.

After what seemed an eternity, the tension-filled meal ended and Temple could hardly keep from leaping out of her chair. She didn’t. She stayed where she was as the Sheik rose languidly to his feet, pushed back his chair, and came around the table.

He pulled out her chair and politely offered his hand. Temple took it, hoping her fingers wouldn’t tremble too much in his firm grasp. She allowed him to draw her to her feet. As soon as he released her hand she turned to move away, but he caught her elbow, drew her back.

“What?” she asked, overwrought. “What is it?”

“Just this,” he said, and Temple stared at him, her lips pressed together, as he raised his hand and wrapped his fingers around the delicate platinum chain supporting the heavy diamond-rimmed sapphire.

Slowly he lifted the weighty blue stone up out of her low-cut gown from where it was lodged.

“Just what are you doing?” she asked, appalled by the shiver of excitement that raced up her spine at the brush of his hand on her flesh.

“I’ll have the chain shortened,” he said, “so that the necklace will no longer hurt your—”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she interrupted, flustered, her cheeks aflame. “Take the necklace if you like, but take your hands off me.”

“The stone wasn’t hurting you?”

“No, of course not.”

“My mistake, then,” he said, and his black eyes told her he knew he had made no mistake.

His lean fingers continuing to grip the platinum chain, he smiled satanically and, boldly pulling the low-cut bodice of her dress lower still, inserted the immense sapphire back in its warm resting place between her full breasts. He released it, turned, and walked away.

Her hands balled into fists at her sides, Temple watched as he leaned over and took a cigarette from the silver box on the table. To her dismay, he did not leave the tent as she had hoped. He did not go for his usual walk after dinner.

He sat down on the divan, lighted his cigarette, and stretched his long legs out before him.

“Check
…”
Temple
delicately advanced the carved ivory knight. “And mate.” She looked up and gave him a self-satisfied smile.

“Give, me another chance?” Sharif asked, reaching for a cigarette.

Temple nodded, barely able to conceal her irritation. Her teeth clamped tightly together, she set up the black and white ivory pieces for another game of chess. Sharif put the cigarette between his lips, struck a match, cupped his hands around the tiny flame, and puffed the smoke to life. He inhaled deeply, blew a perfect blue smoke ring that hung in the still air.

Temple was silently seething. Obviously he intended to spend the entire evening with her. She might have known! It was just like him to do the unexpected. He had stayed away from the tent almost every evening until way into the night since she’d been in camp, but not tonight. Oh, no. He was going to stay right here and watch her every move like a cat with a mouse. Damn him. Damn him to eternal hell!

“Your first move,” she said as calmly as she could.

For another agonizingly long hour they played chess, he sitting on the long divan with his knees wide apart, leaning over the low ebony table, she on the opposite side of the table, seated on the lush Persian rug.

He had won the first two games. She the next five. She had the advantage.

The Sheik couldn’t keep his mind on the board. Not with this beautiful woman facing him. She was breathtaking with her shimmering blue skirts spread out around her and her pale, full breasts swelling against her low-cut bodice and her glorious blond hair pulled up atop her head to expose the graceful curve of her neck.

He was an expert chess player, but he’d never been pitted against a feminine foe whose radiance had clouded his brain. He had never sat across from a player whose fragile beauty made him want to sweep all the men off the board and declare her the winner.

Let her win.

All he really wanted was to take her in his arms, yank down the low-cut bodice, and press his lips to the spot where the heavy sapphire stone rested.

“Check and mate!” Temple again announced as she won her eighth straight game.

“I’m outclassed,” said Sharif, his hand toying with one of the carved ivory pieces.

“And I’m exhausted,” said Temple, raising a hand to her mouth and yawning dramatically.

“I don’t get at least one more chance?”

“Not tonight,” she said, rising to her knees.

He was up and around the table to her before she could stand. He took her hand in his but didn’t immediately draw her to her feet. He left her there on her knees. Puzzled, Temple threw back her head and looked up at him.

He enclosed her hand in both of his, drew it up slowly, pressed it against his hard abdomen, and pinned her with his penetrating stare. His black gleaming eyes so bewitched her, Temple made no move to rise. She couldn’t. She allowed him to keep her there, kneeling before him, unable to move or to look away.

His hypnotic gaze rendering her totally defenseless, she knelt willingly before him as if she were one of his obedient slaves. She didn’t flinch or make a sound when he lowered a hand, cupped her upper arm. But her breath grew short when his fingertips stole possessively up over her bare shoulder, caressed the side of her throat, touched the pulse that was throbbing wildly there, and finally settled under her jaw.

The rough pad of his thumb skimming back and forth over her chin, he said, “To suppose you can outwit or deceive me is a mistake, Temple.”

“I’ve made no attempt to deceive you,” she said, a chill of fear racing up her spine, her heart thundering against her ribs.

In the flick of an eyelash, he yanked her to her feet, drew her close against him. His feet apart, a steely muscled arm around her waist, he held her so close that she could feel the granite hardness of his body crushed intimately to hers. Temple’s arms remained at her sides. She made no effort to pull away. She was powerless against him and knew it. The Sheik put a hand in her hair, tipped her head back, and lowered his dark face until his lips were almost touching hers.

“You cannot win against me,” he said, his eyes holding hers. “You will not go until I set you free, Temple.”

“I … I … know.”

“Remember it,” he said, then swiftly released her.

He reached for another cigarette, crossed the tent, and called for Rhikia. Rhikia appeared almost instantly, and Temple followed her into the bedroom without saying another word to Sharif.

Inside the bedroom Temple stripped dutifully. She was hoping against hope that she might somehow manage to hang on to an article of underwear, but she failed. Rhikia took everything. Naked, Temple crawled into bed while Rhikia carried the clothes away. Moments later—to Temple’s astonishment—Sharif came through the curtains.

She closed her eyes tightly and waited. He blew out the lamp. Her eyes opened and she watched through lowered lashes as he undressed. Tense, unnerved by his strange behavior, Temple wondered if he had somehow learned of her plan to escape. Was that why he had stayed in all evening? Had he come to bed early to keep a watchful eye on her? What if he didn’t go to sleep? What if he stayed awake all night so that she wouldn’t have a chance to slip away?

In agony, Temple lay there in the darkness, filled with doubt. But soon, to her surprise and relief, Sharif fell asleep.

Temple’s heart began to pound with hope and anticipation. She waited an hour. Two. And longer. Finally, shortly before three o’clock in the morning, she threw back the sheet and rose. She glanced at the face of the sleeping Sheik, then took the crudely drawn map, the canteen, the food, and the folded white silk dress from underneath the sofa pillows.

After glancing cautiously at Sharif once again, she slipped out into the tent’s main room. There she hurriedly pulled the silk dress over her head, wishing she had some underwear and a pair of shoes. She reminded herself she was lucky to have the dress.

Certain the lone sentry guarding the tent would be dozing by now, Temple moved toward the closed flap, planning how she would circle behind the tent, slip quietly down to where her stallion, Toz, was stabled. Toz would recognize her, and she could quickly quiet him. She would grab a bridle from the wall, lead Toz outside, and when they were a few yards away from camp, she’d mount him and ride to freedom!

Pausing directly before the tent’s entrance, clutching the map, canteen, and the precious food tied up neatly in a silk scarf, Temple glanced one final time at the curtains separating the main room from the bedroom. All was silent. The Sheik slept on. Freedom was within reach.