Nan Ryan (11 page)

He had made her spend the long, frightening night totally naked, and she had cursed him for his cruelty. Had seethed at such inhumane treatment, hating the strange dark-skinned savage with all the passion of her being.

Now here he was offering her beautiful clothes and expensive jewels as if she were his adored mistress. And she hated him all the more. His intent, his plan for her, was becoming increasingly clear. While his command of the English language and his fastidious cleanliness made him seem a bit more civilized than his counterparts, he was, after all, only an amoral Arab.

“You arrogant Arab fool,” she murmured, the affront and its meaning giving her courage. “You offer me a few showy dresses and a couple of gaudy baubles and expect me to do anything and everything you want?” Her eyes flashed with green fire that matched the exquisite emeralds in the velvet-lined tray.

“No. I expect you to do anything and everything I want, with or without the clothes and jewels.” His sensual lips curled into a cruel smile. “And so you will.”

Then without another word he turned, like a masterful matador turning his back on a raging bull, and walked away.

“The devil I will!” Temple said at last.

But she wisely waited until the Sheik had stepped outside to call for his manservant and could not hear her.

Naguib was pleased
.

Four days and nights had passed since he had left Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid’s desert city. Naguib had encountered only a couple of small friendly caravans snaking across the endless sands.

His mount was one of the Sheik’s desert-bred, blooded Arabians, a big, fast, well-trained stallion with stamina to match his incredible speed.

Loping across the endless dunes, Naguib patted his robed chest, as he had done dozens of times on this long, solitary ride. He smiled, satisfied. The sealed envelope entrusted to him by his revered leader rested safely next to his heart.

Before another twenty-four hours had passed, he would reach bustling Baghdad, go straight to the establishment where he could send a cable to the addressee on the envelope.

When it was confirmed that the wire had indeed been sent—and that it contained the exact words of the message personally written by the Sheik—he, Naguib, would go back outdoors, slip into one of the many dark, narrow alleys of the city, and burn the envelope and message.

When both were nothing more than ash, he would return to the sun-filled streets and begin a weeks-long quest for any scrap of pertinent information on the evil empire whose high-handed rule reached all the way to Baghdad. He would learn all that he could of the spreading migration of the greedy, hated Turks.

Duty first, then diversion.

Naguib began to smile. He was looking forward to a bit of selfish, satisfying pleasure that was to be his just reward for a job well done.

Envisioning a pleasing scene filled with beautiful dark-eyed women and exotic foods and cool hotel rooms, Naguib smiled broadly as the day drew to a close. He loped over yet another towering sand dune as the blood red sun disappeared completely, leaving only a bright orange gloaming of light above the horizon.

He topped the sandy rise and saw them.

An armed brigade of black-robed men was riding straight toward him. He hoped they were a friendly tribe. He didn’t think they were. Soon enough he would know.

Nervously touching the envelope hidden inside his robes, Naguib pulled up on the stallion, then raised a hand in friendly salute. When it was not returned, he knew his thirty-eight years on this earth were about to come to an end. He looked wistfully at the dying summer sun and understood instinctively that he would never see it rise.

Naguib wheeled the big stallion about in a tight semicircle, then urged the tired, foam-flecked beast into a fast gallop back across the burning sands. Behind him he could hear the thunder of horses’ hooves, the shouts of the bloodthirsty bandits, as they pursued him.

Naguib called on Allah for help. Not to spare his life; that was not important. But to keep hidden from these desert pirates the secret message he carried for his master. Racing headlong across the pinkened dunes, Naguib anxiously stuck a hand inside his robes. His intent: to retrieve the important envelope, put it into his mouth, and chew it up before he could be caught by his pursuers.

It never happened.

The lathered stallion gave it all he had, but the black-robed band caught up with Naguib, pulled him off his horse, and wrenched the envelope from his fist before he could dispose of it.

He lost all hope when, laughing and brandishing their rifles, they spoke to each other in Turkish. He understood only a few words of their language, but he recognized the name they bandied about to frighten him.

The hated old Turkish sultan’s son, the evil Mustafa Ibn Agha Hussain.

“Daheelek,”
Naguib murmured as they threw him roughly to the sand and aimed their rifles at his turbaned head.
For the mercy of God
.

A measure of mercy was granted by his God.

Naguib died instantly from a half dozen shots to the head.

Within seconds the Turks had stripped him bare and left him there, where his bones would soon be bleached by the fierce desert sun.

Empty brass shell casings were scattered around his body.

The spent casings carried a distinctive manufacturer’s stamp:

Du-P

Temple attempted, again and again, to find out why the Sheik was holding her. Was it for the ransom? Her family was extremely wealthy, they would gladly pay his price. Just name a sum and it was his.

But the Sheik showed no interest in money.

The first few days and nights of her captivity were particularly terrifying. She never knew what to expect. She didn’t know what the uncommunicative Sheik meant to do with her. To her.

When he was inside the tent she was constantly on edge, unnerved by his cold, unsmiling aloofness, wondering what was going through his mind. Often she would look up to find him staring at her, cold and emotionless. She would meet his gaze and purposely glare at him with eyes in which stormy resentment burned bright.

He was unbothered. His expression never changed.

Even more unsettling was when he glanced at her and the curve of his mouth was brutal and his dark eyes appeared angry.

As if he hated her.

When he was outside the tent, she still couldn’t relax. She never knew when he might return. She couldn’t enjoy her morning bath for fear he would walk in on her. She couldn’t take a nap knowing he might slip quietly into the shadowy bedroom and catch her unawares.

She spent most of the time pacing the carpeted floor, glancing anxiously every few minutes at the tent’s entrance, expecting to see his dark head duck inside.

The long hot nights were even worse than the dreadful days.

Much worse.

Lying quietly in the pitch black darkness with the Sheik only a few feet from her was an agony of a kind she’d never imagined. His nearness was a very real and growing danger that robbed her of sleep and rest. Listening anxiously for the slightest sound, watching blindly for any movement that might signal his approach, Temple was so tense that her slender body ached from the stress.

Hour after miserable hour she lay there, wet with perspiration from the oppressive desert heat, her nerves raw, fearful of what her dark abductor might do to her in the still of the night.

Never for a moment could she forget that she was naked and he was naked and they were alone in this secluded tent. The knowledge excited her even as it terrified her.

And that really terrified her.

But she couldn’t get out of bed and flee from his disturbing presence. He had seen to that. She had nothing to wear. The beautiful nightgowns and negligees and underthings he’d shown her from the large trunk had been promptly taken away. She was not allowed to wear them.

Just as on the very first night, she was forced to hand over her clothes to Rhikia each evening at bedtime. The servant took everything away and left Temple with no clothing of any kind. Nothing. Until Rhikia returned the next morning with a new ensemble for the day.

So she lay awake in the darkness, listening for the sound of the Sheik’s slow, heavy breathing, which would signal he was asleep.

And even then, when her eyes grew adjusted to the darkness, Temple warily watched him as he slept.

Even in sleep he appeared dangerous. She stared at him and felt her stomach muscles contract, involuntary chills skipping up her spine. He looked for all the world like a sleek, untamed animal who was only catnapping. As if, even in sleep, all that masculine power was still tightly coiled and he might instantly spring up and pounce on his prey in the blink of an eye.

Temple kept cautious vigil for as long as she could hold her eyes open. And as she watched him, she confronted her worst nightmare. Her deepest fear was that she was to be kept here at this remote desert outpost forever.

Her abduction, she realized with numbing despair, had been carefully planned. Every detail had been worked out well in advance.

The Sheik seemed to know everything about her. He knew what kinds of clothes she liked to wear. He knew the shades and styles she most preferred. He knew her exact measurements. The beautiful gowns and dresses, perfectly sized, were unquestionably made especially for her. He even knew her shoe size and her underwear sizes. He knew which perfume she presently favored: an expensive Lalique flagon of Coty’s new scent, La Rose Jacqueminot, was among the many personal items intended for her.

The glittering jewels had clearly been chosen to adorn her throat and wrists. The leather-bound books—all in English—were meant to be read by her. The sedate, pampering servant, Rhikia, who seemed to anticipate her every need. The sunny, brown-faced Tariz, who happily catered to her. All had been in readiness, awaiting her arrival.

In the deep lonely silence of the night, Temple was forced to face the frightening facts.

If Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid wanted to keep her here, he could. For months or years, if he chose to do so. When she failed to show up in Baghdad on the appointed date, no one would know what had happened to her.

Search teams would be sent out immediately. But they would not find her. She would never be found. The Arabian deserts were vast and merciless. Thousands of square miles of harsh, hot emptiness. In time all hope would be lost and the search would cease.

She would be given up for dead.

But Temple had plans
.

Come morning, Rhikia awakened her very early. The quiet servant had laid out her own clothes instead of one of the many new dresses. Her well-worn riding breeches and white blouse were now spotlessly clean and meticulously pressed. Her boots were polished to a high gleam.

Temple dressed in the familiar things, feeling somehow safer and more like herself wearing her own comfortable clothes. A degree of her natural confidence returning, she sauntered out into the main room—and immediately noticed that the tent flap was open wide. Drawn to it, hoping it meant she was to be allowed outdoors for a breath of fresh air, she crossed the tent eagerly.

But she jumped when she heard the Sheik’s low voice—just beyond the tent’s billowing white walls—order her outside. Tempted to neither answer nor obey, but so tired of being cooped up that she thought she’d go mad if she didn’t get out for a while, Temple waited a couple of heartbeats, then regally exited the tent.

The Sheik—with little Tariz close on his heels—had brought around a beautiful stallion whose shimmering coat was a pale saffron hue. Temple’s emerald eyes lighted with pleasure when she saw the big, exotic, incredibly handsome creature. Pointedly ignoring the big, exotic, incredibly handsome man holding the horse, she reached up to touch the stallion’s velvet muzzle. “He’s absolutely exquisite. What is he called?”

“His name is Toz,” said Sharif, looking not at the stallion, but at the pale, slender woman whose loose golden hair was afire in the rising sun.

“Toz,” Temple repeated, affectionately running a hand over the stallion’s gleaming neck. “A strange name for a horse. What does it mean?”

The Sheik made no comment.