Nan Ryan (19 page)

Her breath caught when he suddenly kicked Bandit’s sleek flanks and sent the stallion racing rapidly into the village. Temple’s hand lifted to her tight throat and she felt her entire body tense for what was about to come. She knew exactly what Sharif was going to do. But still it frightened and impressed her.

Riding at a tremendous speed, his white robes billowing out behind him, Sharif abruptly gave the reins a powerful jerk that sent the big white straight up into the air, spinning high on his hind legs. It was a favored trick among these fearless Arab horsemen, and it never failed to quicken Temple’s heartbeat.

Especially when it was the Sheik who pulled the dangerous stunt.

Relief flooded through her when the rearing stallion’s front feet came back down and again struck the earth. She exhaled heavily as the daredevil Sheik dismounted, tossed the reins to a smiling young groom, and joined a waiting, worshipful gathering of his men, all applauding his bravado and anxious to talk with him.

Sharif, Temple knew, had been out for a long morning ride in the desert alone.

Again.

For two weeks now the Sheik had not ridden with her once. Nor had he ridden with anyone else. Each morning he set out alone, refusing the company of any of his trusted lieutenants or even that of the loyal Tariz. Tariz was hurt, but Temple was simply puzzled.

The man was ever a mystery.

It had been only a week since he’d been wounded in the frightening nighttime raid, but to look at him you’d never know it. His broad shoulders were firmly erect beneath his long flowing robes, and he moved his left arm as if he had never been injured.

He stood now, booted feet apart, hands on his slim hips, looking every inch the formidable, hawk-faced desert Sheik.

Well, good!

She was glad. She hoped he would always look as he did right now. Then she’d never be able to forget just how different were their two worlds, their cultures, their civilizations.

Temple’s delicate jaw hardened, and her eyes narrowed as she continued to stare at him. A slight breeze came up out of the north and blew the tasseled ends of his black double headcord about his tanned, handsome face. He raised a lean hand, brushed them away, threw back his head and laughed at something that amused him.

The conversation grew livelier. All the men were laughing now, their voices rising and falling excitedly. Temple heard the name “Hishman” spoken several times and knew they were talking about tomorrow’s upcoming visit from one of the tribes allied with the Sheik. Tariz had told her about it. He’d said Sheik Hishman Zahrah Rahman and his tribe would be arriving tomorrow, the honored guests of Sharif. They would stay in the village for at least two or three days.

Obviously everyone was looking forward to the visiting Sheik’s arrival. They were probably planning all kinds of primitive festivities. Well, they could count her out. She had no intention of sitting around sweltering before a roaring campfire while they drank that horrid thick black coffee they all loved so much and stuffed greasy strips of half-done mutton into their bearded mouths.

Temple shook her head in scorn.

She could well imagine what passed for entertainment among a bunch of unwashed, uncouth, uncivilized Arab heathens.

“I’ve no intention of joining
your ‘barbaric little celebration,’ Arab.”

“Yes, I know.”

It was early afternoon.

Temple and Sharif were alone in the tent’s main room. She was seated on one end of the long divan, he on the other.

The visiting Sheik Hishman Zahrah Rahman and his large entourage had arrived shortly before noon. Sharif had greeted them personally, and Temple had watched, fascinated, from just inside the tent’s entrance as each of the men in Sheik Rahman’s entourage had come forward and kissed Sharif’s right shoulder in the traditional bedouin sign of respect. After the greetings were concluded, the visitors had been shown to their quarters to rest before the day’s activities began and Sharif had returned to his own tent to relax.

If he was relaxed, Temple was anything but.

Her steadily growing attraction to the indifferent Sheik made her want to lash out at him. To hurt him. To make him angry. To prove to him and herself that she could get his attention if she wanted it.

“Did you hear what I said?” she asked, disappointed by his reply.

Thinking she must have misunderstood him—that he surely meant for her to attend, would
insist
she attend—Temple laid aside her book, rose, and repeated herself, making her statement a bit stronger.

“I refuse to take part in a ridiculous celebration with a bunch of pagans who know nothing of manners or morals.” She looked at him contemptuously. “You cannot force me to associate with men who believe violence, brutality, and the swaggering display of raw power is acceptable behavior.”

“As you wish,” said Sharif, rising from the long sofa, stretching, rippling his muscles like a large jungle cat.

He stood facing her, casually loosening the neck of his linen shirt. His strong hands, brown against the whiteness of the shirt, flipped the buttons from their loops, one by one, each one undone exposing a wider portion of his dark, broad chest.

“You concur?” Temple asked, distracted, wishing he would stop unbuttoning his shirt.

He did.

The linen shirt was half open down his chest. Sharif yanked it free of his trousers, peeled it up past his corded ribs, and pulled it over his head and off. Idly blotting away the drops of perspiration dotting the dense black chest hair, he said, “No, I don’t mind.”

Temple’s perfectly arched eyebrows lifted in surprise and confusion.

“You don’t?” She forced her captured gaze to lift from a slow-moving trickle of sweat slipping down his tanned throat. “Honestly?”

“Honestly,” he said, raised the wadded shirt, and wiped away the trickle that so fascinated her. Then the curve of his full mouth was brutal when he added, “I forbid you to join in my ‘barbaric little celebration.”’

Temple’s mouth fell open and she blinked at him. “You forbid me to …?” She was immediately indignant. “But why?”

The Sheik shrugged his bare bronzed shoulders. “What does it matter? You do not wish to attend.”

“Well, no. No, but I thought … I naturally assumed …” Feeling foolish, Temple stopped speaking.

She was annoyed with him, agitated by the sight of his naked chest glistening with sweat, the unbandaged bullet wound on his left shoulder vicious looking. She turned away and strolled across the room to the tall ebony bookcase, where she took a leather-bound book of poetry from the shelf and flipped through the pages impatiently. With her back to him, she said sarcastically, “I do hope your little all-male gathering won’t turn into a drunken brawl and keep me awake half the night.”

“It isn’t an all-male gathering.”

Temple whirled around. “It isn’t? I thought that’s why you … you …”

“Didn’t request your attendance,” he finished for her. “That has nothing to do with it. Females will most definitely be present.”

Stung, Temple turned back quickly to face the bookcase. She replaced the book of poetry on the shelf and gritted her teeth, and her well-shaped jaw jutted forward an nth of an inch. Sharif tossed his soiled linen shirt to the low ebony table and languidly crossed the room. His booted feet made no sound on the lush Persian carpet, but when he reached her, Temple knew he was there.

Heat emanated from his tall, lean body, assaulting her, enveloping her. And his subtle yet powerful scent—a captivating mixture of sun-warmed flesh and aromatic Cartier cigarettes and supple leather and potent masculinity—told her he was standing directly behind her.

“You arrogant, ignorant Americans,” Sharif said coldly. “You know nothing of my people and our customs. Alcoholic drinks are forbidden by the Koran.”

“I knew that,” said Temple, turning about so quickly that she bumped into his naked chest. She made a face, recoiled, and, her eyes snapping with displeasure, demanded, “Why am I not invited to the festivities?”

He said, “Sheik Rahman has brought his young daughter with him on this visit.”

“So?” Frowning, Temple folded her arms and glared at him. “What does this sheik’s little girl have to do with my not being invited? I know how to behave around children, for heaven’s sake. I like them and they like me. Is she pretty and sweet?”

“Yes,” he said, “she is.” He turned away. “It’s time I get dressed.”

“It’s only two in the afternoon,” Temple said, incredulous.

He crossed to the tent’s entrance, threw back the flap, and called for Tariz. In moments a platoon of strong-backed Arabs were carrying great vats of hot water through to the bedchamber for the Sheik’s bath.

“The opening ceremonies begin at three,” said Sharif.

“Oh?” Temple attempted to sound disinterested. “And how long will they last?”

“Until three in the morning.”

Tariz and the servants departed. Sharif crossed to the bedroom, drew aside the curtains. Temple glanced toward the shadowy bedchamber, saw the tub at the foot of the bed. It was brimful of hot, steaming water. Sharif disappeared inside, drawing the curtains behind him.

Then, for what seemed an eternity to her, Temple sat on the divan and attempted to concentrate on her book. It was impossible. She couldn’t forget for a moment that Sharif was just on the other side of the curtains, naked in his bath.

The village was well into the afternoon lull, a daily period of inactivity and silence. There was no noise from outside the tent to cover the unsettling cacophony coming from inside the bedroom. The vigorous splashing of water. The gliding of a soapy washcloth over slippery male flesh. The sound of a low, smooth baritone singing a ballad in English.

Temple finally gave up on the book.

With a grimace, she laid it aside, leaned her head against the divan’s high back, focused fixedly on the tent’s entrance, and put her hands over her ears.

“Temple? Are you ill?”

She jumped, startled. She had no idea how long he’d been standing there. The Sheik, fully dressed, had walked noiselessly into the room.

“An earache?” he asked. “Rhikia will heat a bit of oil and—”

“My ears are perfect, thank you very much,” she snapped, lowering her hands and reaching for her book.

But she didn’t open it.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the tall, striking Arab chieftain. He was dressed all in white, the jeweled dagger at his waist. His bronzed face was smoothly shaven and glowing with good health. A lock of raven hair fell from one side of his snowy white turban. He raised a hand to sweep it aside. The ruby on his finger flashed red fire.

In his jet black eyes was that compelling icy hot expression that had the power to chill and burn her at the same time. Temple was instantly cold, shivering on the inside so that she felt as if she couldn’t sit still.

She was also feverish, suddenly so hot and uncomfortable that it was all she could do not to reach up and loosen the collar of her choking dress to let the air cool her scorching skin.

“You look pale,” said the Sheik, unsmiling, and advanced on her.

“Do I?” she managed, hardly daring to breathe when he went down on one knee before her and placed a hand on her brow.

“You feel a little warm,” he said. He took his hand away but stayed on his knee. His inky eyes holding hers in an unblinking stare, he said, “This desert heat can be hard on you.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s it. The desert heat,” she replied, knowing it was the hotness of his gaze that had undone her. Hoping he didn’t know, but knowing that he did by the faint cruel smile on his lips and the flame in his dark eyes.

He rose gracefully to his feet, turned, and crossed the tent. At the entrance he paused and said over his shoulder, “You are not to come outside the tent.”

Then he was gone.

Temple stayed where she was as long as she could make herself. Which wasn’t very long. Only a few seconds passed before she hurried to the tent’s flap, parted it back a couple of inches, peeked out, and watched him walk away.

The Sheik with his sleek saturnine good looks and his immaculate white robes was every inch the imperial Arab chieftain. He stood six feet three inches tall, with glossy coal black hair and a dark, noble face that gave no hint of emotion, that hid everything.

His bearing regal, he moved unhurriedly toward the crowds amassing on the far side of the palm-fringed lagoon. At his side padded the sleek black-and-gold cheetah, as docile as a house tabby.

Temple shuddered involuntarily. If he chose to do so, could the Sheik tame her as easily he had tamed the ferocious cheetah?

She quickly dropped the tent flap back in place and turned away.

Temple forced herself to pay no attention to the bustle of activity going on outside the tent throughout the long summer day. The shouting and the laughter and the noise soon became a constant that she hardly noticed.

Until late in the afternoon, when she heard the muffled throbbing of drums. She was curious. She had to see what was going on. Sharif had told her to stay inside. To hell with him.

She sprang to her feet and hurriedly crossed the tent. At the entrance she hesitated, then took a deep breath, squared her slender shoulders, swept back the flap, stepped out under the shade canopy—and stared.