Nan Ryan (9 page)

“Be quiet,” he said, and his tone, though low and soft, was masterful.

“I won’t be quiet, and I won’t stay here,” she announced haughtily. “You can’t keep me here. I’ll get away from you. I’ll escape. So help me, I’ll escape you. You’ll see! I’ll run away, I will, I swear I will!”

Glaring at him, her green eyes snapping with scorn, Temple experienced a fleeting moment of triumph. She’d said what she had to say. Stood up to him. Hadn’t flinched or backed away. Hadn’t recoiled or lowered her eyes from his. Had met his intimidating gaze.

But she wished to high heaven she’d kept her mouth shut when the Sheik, now coolly impersonal again, said, “You force me to implement methods to keep that from happening.”

He turned away and started toward the tent’s entrance. Nervously she called after him, “Wh … what methods?”

He left without answering. He returned five minutes later with the sleepy Rhikia at his side. Temple looked from him to the servant, her perfectly arched eyebrows lifted questioningly.

He said, pointing with a long forefinger, “You will go into the bedroom with Rhikia. She will make up a nice bed for you on the divan. While she is doing that, you will undress. You will hand all your clothes—including your underthings—to Rhikia. You will get into the bed she’s fixed for you, and there you will sleep.” He paused for a couple of heartbeats. “Naked.”

Temple wanted to shout at him that she wouldn’t do it, he couldn’t make her.

But she didn’t dare.

There was about him—as he calmly issued orders—an aura of barely leashed brutality. A quiet but impressive display of raw, absolute power and total disregard for her dignity or even her life. He was a cold, savagely beautiful madman, and the threat of impending violence clung to him like the tightly tailored trousers he wore.

Meek as a child, Temple followed Rhikia into the tent’s shadowy bedroom. Hands trembling, she unbuttoned her soiled blouse, shaking her head no when Rhikia reached out in an offer to help. The polite servant nodded, turned away, and began spreading clean white sheets on the long divan.

By the time Temple had stripped to the skin, her divan bed was ready. Face flaming, she hurriedly slipped between the sheets and watched as Rhikia carried away all her clothes, including her underwear and boots. As soon as the Arab woman had gone, Temple tossed off the covering sheet, leapt up, and blew out the lamp beside the bed.

She heard the Sheik speaking softly to Rhikia in Arabic. Then she heard nothing at all. Back in bed, the sheet pulled up to her chin, Temple waited in the darkness. Tense, trembling with shame and fear, she was sure that at any moment the Sheik would walk in, rip off the covering sheet, snatch her up, toss her into his bed, and force her to submit in the hot darkness of the night.

Long minutes passed.

Her teeth clamped together so tightly that her jaws ached, Temple lay rigid as a poker beneath the cool silky sheet, her arms crossed protectively over her bare breasts, her long slender legs pressed tightly together, bare feet crossed at the ankles.

Her eyes beginning to adjust to the room’s darkness, she saw the curtains part and trembled involuntarily. The Sheik walked noiselessly into the room. Biting back the moan of terror threatening to erupt from her aching throat, Temple watched as he crossed the room.

Her racing heart stopped beating entirely when, unbuttoning his shirt, he came directly toward the long divan where she lay, naked and defenseless. She couldn’t stand to look. She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut and waited—not daring to breathe—expecting to feel his hot breath on her face, his cruel hands on her flesh.

Seconds passed.

The rustle of clothing.

Her held breath escaped in a rush. Her heart started beating again. Temple cracked one eye open. Then two.

The Sheik stood between the divan and the bed—so close she could have reached out and touched him—undressing casually. His shirt was already off. In the shadowy light he stood there leisurely unbuttoning his dark riding breeches.

When the breeches were open down his naked belly, he paused and raised both arms above his head. Temple watched the pull and play of muscles in his smooth olive back as he ran his hands through his midnight hair. He yawned sleepily then and lowered his hands, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his opened trousers. With one swift shove he sent the pants to the carpeted floor and stepped out of them.

Temple quickly closed her eyes again, but not before she’d caught a fleeting glance of him naked in the shadows. He looked big and sleek and dangerous. Temple waited in agony, knowing she was totally defenseless against him.

She breathed a shallow sigh of relief when she heard him getting into his large bed. Not daring to move a muscle, she peeked at him through lowered lashes.

He lay in the bed, the sheet riding his waist. Stretched out on his back, his arms folded beneath his head. Even in the unlighted, shadowy room, the darkness of the Sheik’s bare shoulders and chest contrasted starkly with the whiteness of the sheets.

He exhaled heavily.

Temple remained as quiet as possible, hoping he’d think she was fast asleep.

When several minutes passed in silence, she supposed he was asleep and relaxed a little.

Then out of the darkness came that low, calm voice. “Now you cannot escape.” His head turned slowly on the pillow. He looked directly at her, his eyes flashing in the darkness. “Surely even in America a lady can go nowhere naked.”

“You’ll pay for this, you barbaric bastard,” she threatened with a strangled sob.

“Good night,” said he, unfazed by the threat. “Sleep well, Temple DuPlessis Longworth.”

The Sheik rose before the
desert sun.

In the gray murky light of early dawn, he slipped silently from his bed. His glance immediately went to the pale blond woman on the divan.

She was asleep. Finally. He was glad. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he had heard her weeping softly in the night. He hated hearing a woman weep.

His dark gaze riveted to Temple’s sleeping face, Sharif stood naked above her, studying her carefully. She lay on her side, facing him, her knees drawn up in a fetal position. Tangled golden hair spilled across the pillow, and one long silky strand swirled appealingly across her cheek, its wispy end curled around her slender throat. The covering sheet had slipped minutely as she slept, revealing a bare shoulder and a portion of her ivory back.

Sharif’s lean body tensed when she abruptly moaned, squirmed, and turned over onto her back, flinging a slender arm up above her head.

She didn’t awaken.

She sighed softly and slept on, the long dusky lashes remaining closed over those extraordinary emerald eyes. Her lips, having lost their habitual tightness in slumber, were soft and full and perfectly shaped. She might have been a child, she looked so young and innocent. Like a sweet, beautiful little girl.

Sharif’s dark gaze lowered from her sleeping face to the swell of her breasts exposed by the sliding sheet.

This was no child. She was a woman. All woman. A beautiful, golden-haired temptress with more spirit than was good for a woman. Which made her nothing but trouble for a man. The muscles in his lower abdomen tightened, and his dark eyes narrowed.

One flick of his wrist and the covering sheet could be swept away. Then she would be stretched out naked and vulnerable before him, a lovely sacrifice on the altar of his innate lust.

Sharif turned away, a muscle spasming in his tanned cheek. He moved to the other side of the room and dressed quickly in the gray dawn light. In minutes he left the room, never so much as glancing at the sleeping Temple again.

In the tent’s main room, he lifted the fragile cup of steaming hot, thick black coffee that was waiting for him. He lighted one of his favored French cigarettes and exited the tent. Just outside he saw the burly Arab sentinel who was supposed to be standing guard. He was not even standing, much less guarding the tent. Seated cross-legged on the canopied carpet, his rifle across his knees, he was dozing.

Sharif’s face instantly darkened with anger. But he didn’t awaken the sleeping sentinel. The harsh reprimand could wait. It was growing light now. The danger of attack from enemy tribes had passed with the night. The woman asleep in his tent was safe.

For now.

Sharif drained the last of his hot black coffee and set the cup on a nearby table. He walked away from the lance-propped awning and the dozing guard. Moving quickly beneath the huge palms through the lush tropical growth that partially concealed his tent from the rest of the camp, he went to keep an early morning appointment.

In a designated grove of date palms just north of the sleeping encampment, Naguib awaited his master. One of the Sheik’s most trusted lieutenants, Naguib was a fearless, loyal friend who could be unfailingly counted on to complete any duty assigned to him, no matter how difficult or dangerous.

For that reason, the sheik had chosen Naguib to ride alone across the desert all the way to the city of Baghdad. He was to leave today at sunup. Naguib did not yet know what his master wanted with him. It mattered not. He would obey without question.

Sharif reached the grove of date palms as the first pink rays of the rising sun colored the eastern horizon. The two men greeted each other, made small talk briefly, then Sharif reached into his shirt pocket.

He withdrew a small sealed envelope containing a message written both in English and in Arabic. He handed the envelope to Naguib. Naguib took it without question and carefully concealed the envelope inside his flowing robes, patting the spot just under his heart to show the Sheik it was well hidden and safe.

Sharif put a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder and said in their native tongue, “You’re to ride to Baghdad. As soon as you reach the city, you will send a cable to the address on the envelope.” Naguib nodded his turbaned head in understanding. The Sheik continued, “Once you have sent the telegram—when you are absolutely positive that the message you carry has gone to the addressee—you stay on in Baghdad, cultivate sources, make friends, glean what you can from Mustafa’s minions.” He smiled then and added, “Try not to enjoy yourself too much.”

Naguib was smiling, too, his thoughts leaping ahead to the many delights to be found in the sinful, seductive city. Eager to be on his way, he assured the Sheik that his trust had not been misplaced. He, Naguib, would see to it the cable was sent.

He then salaamed to his respected leader and started to step around Sharif.

The Sheik stopped him. “Be very careful, Naguib,” he said softly. “Mustafa’s raiders have been roaming the desert again, terrorizing some of our neighboring tribes.”

The other man nodded. He knew. He had heard the sickening story of how the hated Turks, heavily armed and showing no mercy, had only last week surprised a small family caravan resting at a desert well. The robed horsemen had swooped down on a couple of young children who’d wandered away from their mother. When the poor mother had screamed and run after them, the Turks had shot her squarely between the eyes, then carried the children away.

It was no mystery what had happened to the helpless little children.

All Arabia and North Africa knew about the ruthless old Turk, Sultan Agha Hussain, and his fat son, Mustafa Ibn Agha Hussain. Sharif’s hereditary enemies, the despised pair were unspeakably evil.

Especially the son.

Those whom Mustafa’s men killed were said to be the fortunate ones. To be captured and taken to the sultan’s seaside palace was a fate far worse than death. It was whispered that Mustafa’s sexual hungers were voracious and depraved and that no young boy or beautiful woman was safe once the poor unfortunate had caught his jaundiced eye.

“Do not worry, master,” said Naguib, “I will take great care. No fat Turk’s lawless horde can catch the elusive Naguib.”

The Sheik smiled and nodded as Naguib again salaamed.

Sharif raised his hand. His fingers lightly touched his forehead, then his chest.
“Salaam aleikum,”
he said softly, “Peace be with you.”

Temple opened her eyes slowly, saw the shimmering white tented ceiling above her, and was momentarily confused. Still half asleep, she didn’t know where she was. What was this strange place? And what was she doing here? And why in the world was she naked?

Then it all came back in a rush.

Her eyes widening with remembrance and alarm, she grabbed the sheet more closely to her breasts, sat up, and looked at the Sheik’s bed. On seeing that it was empty, she exhaled with relief.

Keeping the sheet wrapped securely around her, Temple rose from the divan. Pushing her sleep-tangled hair from her eyes, she looked across the room at the tall ebony wardrobe. It was, she assumed, filled with the Sheik’s clothes. She had to have something to wear, and she had no qualms about taking one of his shirts and a pair of trousers. If his plan was to hold her prisoner here by keeping her naked, he had the wrong girl! He might be used to timid, spineless women who would never consider wearing men’s clothing, but it didn’t bother her one bit to dress like a man.

Temple started toward the wardrobe, but before she had gone just a few steps, the curtains parted and Rhikia, bowing and averting her eyes, entered the bedroom. In her hand was a pair of embroidered blue velvet slippers, and over her arm was a pale yellow garment and lace trimmed underthings.