Nan Ryan (10 page)

“What’s all this?” Temple asked, startled by the servant’s silent entrance and therefore irritated. Rhikia smiled shyly and held out the yellow dress to Temple. Temple refused to take it. “Whose dress is it? I don’t want it. I won’t take it.” Rhikia shook her head in puzzlement and moved closer. Her dark eyes held an almost pleading look when she again attempted to press the garment on Temple.

“No, Rhikia,” Temple said, supposing the dress belonged to one of the Sheik’s lovers. “Take it away. I don’t want another woman’s dress! I won’t wear it! Get out of here and leave me alone.”

Stung by the reprimand that Temple’s tone clearly conveyed, Rhikia bowed her head, nodded meekly, and began to back away.

From the corner of her eye Temple saw the curtains part again, saw the Sheik step inside. Tightening the hold on her sheet, she looked at him, lifted her chin, and said, “Tell her to take these things away. I refuse to wear them. Give them back to the harem slave they belong to!”

The Sheik approached, his bearing imperial, his dark eyes cold and emotionless. Temple felt her confidence waning, as it did whenever he was in sight. He placed a gentle hand on Rhikia’s shoulder and said something to her in a kind voice. She quickly handed him the yellow dress, the lacy underclothes, and the blue velvet slippers. Then she disappeared through the curtains.

For a moment Sharif said nothing. Did nothing. He waited until he was sure Rhikia had left the tent entirely.

Then the Sheik approached with a lithe quickness, his coal black hair and coppery complexion creating a menacing presence. His night black eyes and the small white dueling scar above his lip only heightened this aura.

When he stood directly before her, Temple had to tip her head back to look up at him. He was well over six feet tall and splendidly built, with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and long muscular legs. All that power, all that strength, all that forceful masculinity, made her feel small and weak and inferior.

That uncomfortable feeling, that terrible imbalance of power, was intensified by the fact that he was fully dressed while she was naked beneath the sheet. She swallowed with difficulty.

He spoke finally and Temple flinched.

“Never,” he said in that same low, infuriatingly calm voice he always used, “treat Rhikia like that again.”

It was the last thing she had expected him to say. Her eyebrows shot up. “I have no idea what you’re—”

“Never,” he interrupted, and although his tone didn’t change, a warning light blazed in the depths of his dark eyes. “Rhikia is more than a servant, she’s a friend. She does not understand the rudeness of a spoiled, ill-tempered American. I will not tolerate you hurting her feelings.” Temple opened her mouth, started to speak, but the expression in his eyes stopped her.

He moved disturbingly closer. Temple started to step back but wasn’t quite quick enough. His hand flashed out and his fingers curled around the sheet’s top edge where it was pulled taut across her breasts.

“Let go!” she said, incredulous, her own hand clutching the sheet.

As if she hadn’t spoken, he drew her to him by tightening his grip on the sheet and reeling her in. He pulled her up onto her bare toes and said, “Let your hands fall to your sides.”

“Never,” she said, wishing there was more command in her tone, wishing she could make herself look away from those scary, mesmerizing dark eyes.

“Now,” he said, the chilling inflection of his voice mirrored by the icy authority in his eyes.

Hating him, hating herself for being afraid of him, Temple reluctantly released her hold on the sheet, allowed her weak arms to fall to her sides. Her heart tried to beat its way out of her chest as he eased her down off her tiptoes.

If he released his hold on the sheet, it would fall to the carpet and she would be left standing there naked before him.

Continuing to grip the sheet firmly, the Sheik held the yellow dress, underwear, and velvet slippers before her face. “These things are new, they were purchased especially for you,” he said. “No other has ever worn them. They are yours.”

Temple said nothing, just stared at him, afraid to trust to her voice to speak. Afraid he would release the sheet.

“The choice is yours, Temple,” he said, tossing the clothing onto his bed. “Either you wear the things I bought for you or you will go naked. It makes no difference to me.” His hand began to relax its hold on the sheet as he said, “Which is it to be?”

Temple’s hands flew up automatically to grab his. “I’ll wear the clothes!”

“A wise decision,” he said, released the sheet to her clutching hands, turned, and walked away. At the entrance to the main room he turned back and said, “Cleanliness is
not
a matter of choice here. You will bathe or”—he paused and allowed his dark gaze to move slowly down her body—”I will give you a bath myself.”

Noontime approached
.

Temple was more at a loss than ever.

The elegant yellow dress, the satin-and-lace underwear, the gold-embroidered blue velvet slippers. Not only were they quite obviously brand new, all were a perfect fit. As if they had been commissioned especially for her by someone who knew her exact measurements.

How could that possibly be? In the first place, how could a desert sheik know anything about women’s fashionable European clothes? And how could he possibly know what size she wore?

Then again, how was it that this enigmatic Arab chieftain spoke fluent, flawless English? Where had he learned it? From his personal servant, Tariz, perhaps? But if that were the case, where had Tariz learned English?

Frowning, trying to sort it out and discover the missing pieces of this bewildering puzzle, Temple smoothed her hands over the fine fabric of the dress. Whoever had chosen it had excellent, expensive taste. Save for the comfortable velvet slippers, she might have been ready to make an afternoon call on one of New York City’s wealthy Fifth Avenue hostesses with her mother. Or to go for a ride in London’s Hyde Park with a titled gentleman.

Admittedly feeling better—physically, at least—after the morning’s long, soaking bath, Temple, wearing the scoop-necked, short-sleeved summer dress, ventured out into the tent’s main room.

No one was there.

Thank heaven.

Wondering where the Sheik had gone, wishing he would
never
return, Temple hoped he might at least stay away until bedtime. If there was one thing she didn’t need in her agitated state, it was to be trapped inside this luxurious prison with him all day. Temple shuddered involuntarily as she relived those tense, terrible moments of the morning when the Sheik’s hand had gripped the sheet covering her nakedness. She felt again—as if they were touching her now—those lean, tanned fingers thrusting intimately between the tightly pulled fabric and her bare, tingling breasts.

At the vivid recollection, a curious mixture of fear and heat rushed through her slender body, and Temple felt her face flush with disturbing warmth. Telling herself the harsh desert heat was responsible for the sudden rise in her body temperature, she took a bit of comfort in the Sheik’s probable discomfort.

Imagining him bareheaded under the white hot sun of noon brought the beginnings of a smile to her compressed lips.

But that hinted-at smile died before it could be fully realized.

As if her errant thoughts had summoned him to the tent, the Sheik abruptly appeared. Just as she’d imagined, he was bareheaded. And he looked uncomfortably hot. His dark face shiny with sweat, his black hair glistening with diamond drop beads of perspiration. The white cotton shirt was damp and sticking to his skin. His sculpted bronzed shoulders and the thick dark hair of his chest showed through the sodden fabric.

The Sheik looked directly at her, but it was impossible to read the expression in his eyes. His manner, his face, his pantherlike grace, everything about him bred uneasy feelings in Temple. Those feelings were intensified when, nodding almost imperceptibly to her, he moved across the room and began unbuttoning his sweat-soaked shirt. When all but a couple of buttons were undone, he pulled the tails of the shirt free of his tan riding breeches, then drew the shirt up over his head and off in one fluid masculine movement.

Temple finally found her tongue. “What are you doing?”

“Preparing to take a bath,” the Sheik said matter-of-factly, and stood holding the soiled shirt in his right hand.

“Here?” she asked, horrified.

“Where else?” he said, shrugging gleaming brown shoulders.

Temple purposely made a face to let him know she found him offensive. But she stared helplessly, unable to take her eyes off him. She couldn’t help but marvel at the smooth olive skin, the hard muscle, the curves and flat planes of his magnificent body.

Her attention was immediately drawn to the rivulets of sweat trickling down his tanned throat into the dense growth of black hair that grew in an appealing fanlike pattern on his naked torso. He raised the soiled shirt to blot away drops of moisture from the crisp chest hair, and Temple felt her cheeks burn.

And she hated him for it.

She forced herself to meet his eyes. She looked at the Sheik contemptuously, wrinkled her nose, then turned away.

“If you’re to clean up here,” she said, trying for a degree of calm in her voice she didn’t feel, “then I shall go outside until you have finished.”

She waited, holding her breath, hoping he would allow it. He might, since numerous men were wandering about just outside the tent and she’d have no chance to escape.

“You’ll go nowhere,” he said in a flat, low voice. She sensed that he had quietly moved closer, was now standing directly behind her.

The scent of his sun-warmed flesh assailed her senses, as did the fierce heat emanating from his lean, perspiration-drenched body. She felt suddenly weak, half dizzy. She swayed slightly on her feet, fighting to keep her equilibrium. If she turned about, she’d bump into him. If he moved one step closer, she’d be touching him.

“Should you try to leave,” he continued softly, “you will be brought back inside and made to sit quietly beside the tub while I bathe.”

At the arrogant threat, Temple’s innate pride reasserted itself. Angered by his proposal of such an indecent alternative and momentarily forgetting that he stood so close, she whirled about. And slammed into his naked chest. A sharp shriek of pain and surprise escaped her lips. In danger of losing her balance, she grabbed at him automatically. Quickly his hands lifted, clasped her upper arms to steady her.

“Damn you!” she said, one of her hands caught between them and splayed on his bare torso, the spread fingers threaded through damp curly chest hair. “Now see what you’ve done!”

“I’ve done nothing,” he said, and calmly set her back, his hands remaining on her upper arms.

“You have,” she argued, badly flustered and therefore furious. Her fingertips wet with his perspiration, her heart pounding, she said witlessly, “You … you’ve gotten my dress dirty!” Frowning, she ran her moist fingertips over the tight-fitting bodice where telltale stains of dirt and perspiration had been left from the brief but close contact with his body. “Now what shall I do? What shall I wear?”

His hands dropping away from her, he said, “You will simply put on another dress.”

“Another dress?” Her voice had risen with her ire. “I have no other dresses!”

“Yes,” he said, “you have.”

He turned away, crossed to the tent’s entrance, called for Tariz. In minutes Tariz came inside, followed by a pair of muscular Arab men toting a huge, heavy steamer trunk. The trunk was lowered to the carpeted floor, and the bearers departed. Tariz, smiling and bowing, was the last to leave.

“Just what is this?” Temple asked, eyeing the chest suspiciously.

Sharif opened the lid. “Clothes,” he said. “Dresses and things for you.”

When she made no move to see for herself, Sharif rubbed his hands clean on his trousers, reached inside the opened trunk, withdrew a shimmering white silk evening gown, and draped it over the chest’s open lid. He reached for another, an afternoon dress of crisp lilac cotton trimmed with delicate Irish lace. He tossed it atop the white silk and reached into chest again. And lifted a gorgeous gown of lush emerald chiffon, held it up for her brief appraisal, then released it. The frothy green garment fluttered back down to the chest.

“They’re all yours,” he said, taking out a large velvet-lined tray filled with jewels.

Necklaces and bracelets and ear screws of diamonds and rubies and emeralds were heaped in a glittering colorful mound in the velvet-lined tray. The Sheik placed the gem-filled tray on the low table before the divan.

He turned back to the trunk, dipped both hands inside, and brought forth an array of lace-trimmed negligees and nightgowns and chemises and underwear and silken hose.

“I believe,” he said, tossing the wispy underthings back into the trunk, “you’ll find everything you need.”

He waited for her to speak.

Temple said nothing.

She barely looked at the lacy underwear or the beautiful dresses or even the tray of sparkling priceless jewels.

Instead she stared at the tall, shirtless Sheik.