Nan Ryan (29 page)

Telling it now, Chauncey slapped his knee and laughed. Amused, but smiling somewhat warily, Temple looked from Chauncey to Sharif and back again. “So? Did the two of you fight?” she asked.

“Honey, we like to killed each other,” said Chauncey, still chuckling, tears of laughter filling his sparkling blue eyes. “When that long, bloody fight finally ended, all the furniture in our shared digs was smashed and we were hanging on to each other, each refusing to be the first one to go down. And then all at once the whole thing seemed so ridiculous that it was funny. We started laughing. And once we got started, we couldn’t stop. We fell on the floor and rolled around, laughing like a couple of wild hyenas.”

Temple glanced at Sharif. He was smiling easily now, as if fondly remembering. While Chauncey laughed heartily, Sharif took up the story.

“We were very nearly expelled from the university,” he told Temple. “The horrified porter immediately turned us over to the Head of College. He was ready to kick us both out. The Vice Chancellor intervened or we’d have been sent down.”

“We’ve been good friends ever since, haven’t we, Sheik?” Chauncey said proudly, looking at Sharif with genuine affection.

“The best,” confirmed Sharif.

Chauncey continued to regale Temple with colorful tales of the days he and Sharif spent together at Oxford. As he spoke she pictured, in her mind’s eye, two lost lads at a staid British college, both lonely and out of place, struggling to adjust to a totally different way of life. Learning a new language. A new culture. Missing their respective faraway desert homes.

She could have listened forever.

But as soon as lunch was finished, the Sheik, to her disappointment, promptly excused Temple.

Rising, the two men silently watched her walk away. When she disappeared inside the tent, Chauncey dropped heavily back down onto his chair, shaking his blond head.

When Sharif was again seated, Chauncey looked at him and said, “Lord God almighty, Christian, how in the hell do you do it? Where did you meet her? In London? Women still can’t resist you, can they? She follow you into the desert once you’d made love to her?”

“She followed me nowhere,” said Sharif. He looked Chauncey straight in the eye. “I did not meet her in London. I saw her in London. I knew she was coming to Arabia. I waited until she rode into the desert and I took her.”

“Took her?” Chauncey frowned, not fully understanding. “What do you mean, ‘you took her’?”

“I abducted her,” Sharif confessed.

Chauncey’s blue eyes widened in horror and shock. “You kidnapped her? Jesus, Christian, don’t you know who she is? Temple Longworth, the daredevil daughter of the richest family in America!”

“Her mother was a DuPlessis,” Sharif said calmly, reaching for the long-beaked coffeepot.

“Yes, and her father is a Longworth! President McKinley likely has the American fleet steaming off Tripoli even as we speak. What in God’s name are you thinking of, my friend?”

Sharif expelled a slow breath, raised his demitasse cup, and drank a large swallow of the thick black coffee. He said, “The abduction was necessary.”

“To what end? I don’t see how—”

“I have—and you know it is true—exhausted every avenue open to me in a years-long attempt to force the powerful DuPlessis Munitions to
stop
supplying arms and ammunition to the Turks. Nothing has worked.” His tone remained level, but his black eyes flashed with hatred when he said, “My people have endured four centuries of cruel subjection by the Turks. That is enough. It must be stopped. And to that end—”

“I know how you feel about the Turks, but to kidnap an innocent young woman … the heiress to …” Chauncey shook his head again, sincerely worried.

“Christian, you’re like a brother to me, but this is wrong and it won’t stand—”

Sharif interrupted, “Whatever it takes to force DuPlessis to cease supplying the Agha Hussain and that fat, depraved son of his with arms and ammunition with which to slaughter my people, I will do.” His tanned jaw ridged, he added, “Need I remind you of what the Agha Hussain did to my natural parents? Do I have to tell you again of all the vile and corrupt and oppressive things Mustafa has done to my people?”

“No. No, you don’t,” Chauncey replied, sympathetic, “but this is unconscionable. Temple Longworth is guilty only of being a rich, headstrong young beauty who loves adventure and excitement. She doesn’t deserve this, Christian. She’s had nothing to do with the shipment of arms or the deaths of your people.”

Sharif abruptly pushed back his chair and rose. “Shall we walk out to the stables? I’ve a number of fine new stallions to show you.”

“Sure,” said Chauncey, getting to his feet. “Lead the way.”

The two friends continued to debate the issue as they walked unhurriedly to the stables, each arguing his point passionately. Chauncey begged Sharif to let Temple go at once. He pointed out that if she were released immediately, unharmed, there was the outside chance she might even keep quiet about the kidnapping, since it would surely be a terrible embarrassment to her and her prominent family.

Sharif refused to consider letting her go. He held his position stubbornly, assuring Chauncey that Temple would be freed just as soon as her uncle James DuPlessis agreed to cease supplying Mustafa’s bloodthirsty Turks with guns, cannons, and grenades.

“She will,” Sharif said in conclusion, “arrive in Baghdad right on schedule—according to her family’s expectations—and go on about her hedonistic search for pleasure as if none of this ever happened.”

Unconvinced, Chauncey said, “You’ll hang for this, Christian.”

“If Allah wills,” said the Sheik.

Temple and Chauncey became fast friends. Far more open and talkative than the taciturn Sheik, Chauncey was full of amusing stories about the days the two had spent together at Oxford. And he told of how, when they left the university upon graduation, they promised always to keep in touch.

“We don’t see each other as often as we’d like,” Chauncey said one afternoon a week after his arrival. Sharif was gone from the village that day, and he and Temple sat alone beneath the shade canopy. “But at least once every two or three years we manage to get together.” He smiled then and told her, “Sharif wasn’t expecting me for another couple of months, but I changed my mind and sent word I’d be arriving early.”

“I see,” she replied, thinking back to how Sharif had acted on the morning he’d told her they were to have a visitor. She realized now that Sharif had been displeased that his old friend had chosen this particular time to visit the desert village. Apparently he hadn’t wanted Chauncey to know about her—to know what he had done. She decided to say nothing about it … for the moment. “Sharif has been to America to visit you?” she asked.

“Sure he has. He’ll come to America and spend a few weeks at the Wellshanse ranch in southwest Texas, and the next time I’ll come over and visit with him. Either here in the desert or at the Emerald City.”

“The Emerald City?” Temple’s brows knitted questioningly.

“Sharif hasn’t told you about the Emerald City?”

“No. I’ve never heard him mention such a place.”

“Well, he’s always been a man of few words,” said Chauncey.

“Please, Chauncey. You tell me about it.”

“You won’t tell him I spilled the beans, will you?” He winked at her.

“Never,” she assured him. “I swear it.”

Chauncey grinned, nodded, then ran a big hand through his tousled blond hair. “Sharif dwells part of the time at a magnificent white marble palace. Right on the Mediterranean coast.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“No. It’s a small coastal village, fully walled and guarded. It’s called the Emerald City. It’s
his
Emerald City. And Sharif rules supreme from his white palace on the jutting cliffs high above the blue green sea. It’s a breathtakingly beautiful place. Perhaps he should have whisked you off to the palace instead of … of …” His words trailed away and he looked sheepish, knowing he had already said too much.

Temple reached out and touched his arm, fixing him with her wide green eyes. “You know, don’t you? You know Sharif has kidnapped me. You must know. I’m sure he has told you.” Chauncey said nothing, remained totally silent, though an expression of kindness and concern quickly altered his features. “Why, Chauncey? Why is he holding me here? What does he want of me? When will he … he …”

Temple looked up, saw the Sheik walking toward them, and whispered anxiously, “He wouldn’t like it if he thought I’d been questioning you. You won’t say anything to him about this, will you?”

“Not a word.”

And to the best of Temple’s knowledge, he didn’t.

The big blond Texan with his sunny personality and eagerness to laugh and the dark, lean Sheik with his impenetrable demeanor and his icy air of command were as different as two men could possibly be. Yet it was obvious they were genuinely fond of each other. So Temple was puzzled when, as Chauncey’s stay in the desert lengthened, Sharif’s initial good humor at seeing his old friend left him.

The Sheik became more and more withdrawn.

“Well, thunderation, Temple!”
Chauncey exclaimed late one evening as she again beat him at chess.

It was nearing midnight.

Chauncey was seated on the long divan, leaning his elbows on his spread knees while he pondered his next play. Temple sat on the floor opposite him, one slender arm propped on the low ebony table before the black-and-ivory chess set. Sharif, smoking another of his Cartier cigarettes, stood alone outside the tent.

But only for a moment.

Since dinner less than two hours before, he had been outside, then back inside, several times. No sooner would he get outdoors than he was impatient to get back indoors. Inside, he would become fitful and edgy and go back outside to gaze at the starry brilliance of the desert sky.

Now inside again, he prowled restlessly for a while, then dropped onto one end of the divan, where Chauncey was seated. Hooking a long leg over the sofa’s padded arm, Sharif stared, unblinking, at Temple as she eagerly busied herself setting up the chess pieces for another game.

She and Chauncey were laughing companionably as they debated who was the better player. Her heavily lashed emerald eyes were shining with pleasure, and her pale cheeks were flushed with color. She wore a vivid green chiffon evening gown that was a favorite of Sharif’s. The color was extraordinarily becoming to her green eyes and fair skin and golden hair. He had once—in a weak moment of fiery lovemaking—made the foolish comment that she looked so beautiful in this particular dress, she should never wear anything else.

Now, staring at her as she sat there squirming about and clapping her hands whenever she made a clever move and smiling radiantly at his best friend, Sharif wished he had told her he disliked the dress. Wished he had forbidden her ever to wear it again.

A muscle bunched in Sharif’s tanned jaw when Temple crossed her arms over her waist, clasped her elbows with her hands, and leaned forward to study the chess board. The innocent gesture caused her low-cut bodice to fall away and further reveal the already generously exposed swell of her pale, full breasts.

Sharif hated the damned dress.

He hated
her
.

He was up off the sofa again and going back outside.

“What’s the matter with old Cold Eyes?” Chauncey said when he’d gone.

“I have no earthly idea,” Temple replied. She advanced her knight, then pulled it back. “Furthermore, I don’t particularly care.”

Both laughed.

They were laughing again when Sharif came back into the tent moments later and announced in a flat, low voice, “It’s after midnight. I’m rather tired.”

“Well, don’t let us keep you up,” said Chauncey, smiling wickedly and winking at Temple. “Off to bed with you.”

Neither Temple nor Chauncey saw the quick flash of jealousy that leapt into the Sheik’s dark eyes as he turned away.

Temple didn’t realize that it angered Sharif every time he caught her laughing and talking with Chauncey. She didn’t suspect that her growing friendship with the big outgoing Texan bothered the dark, inscrutable man who revealed no feelings other than the white hot passion that blazed between them in the darkness of the night.

And Temple loved having Chauncey around. Not only was he great fun, but he had all kinds of interesting news and gossip from Europe and the States. She was totally at ease with the amiable Texan, felt as if she had known him always. She laughed uproariously at his jokes, of which he had an endless supply, giggled girlishly when he teased her, and spontaneously threw her arms around his neck in greeting when he’d been away from camp all day.

She truly enjoyed his company. And he was a veritable wellspring of information about the paradoxical Sharif. Chauncey delighted in entertaining her with stories of their wild days together at Oxford and wilder nights in London’s poshest clubs.

Still, Chauncey told her just so much and no more. Temple strongly suspected that he knew a great deal more about Sharif than he revealed. Many of her questions drew answers that were ambiguous or vague, and then Chauncey would pointedly change the subject.