Nan Ryan (13 page)

Wiping his plump fingers on his white robes, Mustafa smiled with pleasure when a phalanx of beautifully built black eunuchs appeared. He licked his lips lustily when the tall, lithe Nubians disrobed in preparation of the daily bathing rituals.

The women did not bathe themselves. They were not allowed. They could frolic together in the water, they could giggle and tease each other and indulge in mock fights, but only this team of handpicked Nubian eunuchs bathed them.

And while the eunuchs sensuously scrubbed the lovely young nymphets, Mustafa paid close attention, carefully appraising, studying, and finally singling out from the bevy of bare beauties not one, but three. Two of those chosen would accompany him directly to his private chambers for a morning sexual romp. The third would be sent to his eighty-one-year-old father.

A greedy, selfish man, Mustafa purposely chose for the ailing Agha Hussain a woman he wouldn’t particularly want for himself. The old sultan’s eyesight had been failing for years; he never knew the difference. When the conniving son swore to his father that only the fairest of the harem were sent to his bed, the sultan believed him and warmly welcomed the woman.

Popping another candied date into his loose-lipped mouth, then sucking on his short, bejeweled fingers, Mustafa made the morning’s choice. He picked for himself a pair of tall, slender, dark-eyed beauties with full, high breasts and long, shapely legs. For his father he chose a short, full-figured girl who, though fair, did not appeal to him.

His choices made, he struggled to get up from the divan. Far too jealous to allow his muscular bodyguards inside the bathing chamber, he puffed and labored and finally managed to lift his heavy body off the couch.

Looking forward to a full morning of delightful libidinous diversion, he exited the blue-tiled bathing room. Then, flanked by his two able bodyguards, he headed directly for his spacious suite, which lay just beyond the bathing room.

The choice location and the suite’s unique design had been commissioned by Agha Hussain and had originally been the old sultan’s own personal suite. Behind weighted, gold-threaded brocade curtains that ran the length of the room, a latticed wall separated the blue-tiled bathing room from the plush chamber.

The curtains could be drawn so that the suite’s occupant or occupants could—if choosing not to go to the bathing chamber—nonetheless observe the bathers. From the first time he’d slipped into his father’s suite at age fourteen to spy on the unsuspecting women, Mustafa had vowed to make the chamber his own. He had carried out the plan a decade ago when he turned twenty-five.

His father had been moved to a lesser suite within the palace, and Mustafa had threatened the servants with their lives if they failed to convince the half-blind sultan that he was merely confused, that he had not been moved at all but was in the same chamber where he’d always been.

Now, as the rotund young ruler lumbered down the hallway toward the master suite, he was well pleased with himself and his lot in life. His father, he mused joyfully, could not live much longer. With Agha Hussain’s death, Mustafa would be a very powerful man. He would finally hold the exalted position he relished.

Ah, life was good indeed.

The Ottoman empire controlled much of the Middle East. His powerful Turkish dynasty not only ruled Palestine and all her neighboring lands, it dominated the eastern and western coastlines of Arabia. He foresaw more expansion in the future, and why not? The British, having no wish to involve themselves in ancient rivalries, hadn’t raised a hand to interfere. So why not expand the growing base until nothing was left for the hated Arabs but the worthless Rub al Khali?

Mustafa chuckled at the notion.

Waddling into his cool, sea-fronting suite, he gleefully envisioned all the troublesome Arabs being banished to the waterless wastelands of the useless Empty Quarter until they were brought to heel and would bow down before him.

Particularly pleasing was the idea of the damnable, imperious Arab sheik he’d hated since boyhood kneeling before him, begging for mercy, swearing allegiance. There was no one on earth he’d rather break than the despised Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid.

“Excellency.” The soft feminine voice snapped him out of his pleasant reverie.

Mustafa turned to see the two tall female slaves, dressed now in seductive clothing. Harem pants of gauzy transparent silk revealed long legs and flaring hips. Short colorful vests, provocatively open, revealed teasing glimpses of their full, high breasts. Bracelets of gleaming gold decorated their slender arms, and tiny gold bells encircling their shapely ankles tinkled as they walked toward him.

“Ah, yes,” Mustafa said in his native tongue, holding his arms open wide in invitation, “come. Pleasure me, my pretty pomegranates.”

The beautiful slaves promptly obeyed.

If either of the young women found the portly sultan with his soiled robes and smelly, unwashed body repugnant, they knew better than to show it. Every slave in the evil emir’s empire knew of his penchant for cruelty. As distasteful as it was to make love with a soft, overweight man who, after watching the others bathe, always forgot to wash himself, they never complained lest they be tortured and beaten.

“My master has chosen well this morning,” said the woman garbed in sky blue as she took his hand and led him to the satin-covered couch that had been specially built for the purpose of copulating.

“This is true, Excellency,” said the girl swathed in pale pink. “We are so honored that you picked us. We wish to make you happy.”

“You had better make me happy,” said Mustafa, and standing beside the unique divan, he ordered them to undress him.

When he was naked, the slave girls—one on either side holding his arms—helped ease him down upon the divan that was really an upholstered slant board. The board had come about when his father had heard stories of a fat maharajah who had had great difficulty in having sexual intercourse until, employing the method used to aid elephants mate, he’d had such a board built for himself. After that, it was said, the maharajah had been able to perform admirably.

Agha Hussain had immediately commissioned such a divan/board built for his seventeen-year-old son. With the aid of the board and the help of a beautiful slave twice his age, young Mustafa had—for the first time in his life—been able to achieve the sex act and attain satisfaction.

He had used the board ever since.

Everything was now ready. He was stripped and resting comfortably on his cushioned slant board. A golden goblet filled with his favorite liqueur awaited him. Chocolate bon-bons from Belgium rested on a golden tray at his elbow. Exotic oils were heating in tiny vials over a brazier’s small flame. A lute played softly just beyond the tall front windows that were thrown open to catch the sea breezes.

His white belly shaking with laughter as one of the girls teasingly tickled him under his double chins, Mustafa folded his fleshy arms beneath his head.

“First you will dance for me,” he said, and it was an order.

The words had hardly passed his slack lips before the two women were swaying seductively to the haunting melody from the hidden lute. Their tall, near naked bodies moving slowly, sensuously, as if in invitation and yearning, they willingly performed, just as they would soon willingly do any and all of the outrageous things this depraved man might require.

Licking his slack lips, Mustafa lowered a hand, ran his fingers through the damp, wispy hair at the middle of his chest, and was about to call one or both of the girls to him when a loud rap on the chamber door made him cut his beady dark eyes to the closed portal.

“Enter,” he called out, not bothering to cover himself.

The girls continued to dance. The door opened and Mustafa’s loyal manservant, Alwan, entered, carrying a small silver tray upon which lay a crumpled envelope.

“Forgive me, Excellency,” he said. “I was told you would want to see this immediately.”

Frowning, Mustafa motioned the servant forward. “What is it? What have you brought me?”

“See for yourself, master.” The servant handed over the envelope.

Mustafa’s scowl deepened when he took the message out of the envelope and looked at it. “You know I read neither Arabic nor English,” he said irritably. “Get Jamal in here!”

“Right here, Excellency,” said the bowing interpreter, stepping inside. Jamal, who had been waiting just beyond the open door, hurried across the richly carpeted room to where his leader lay naked and frowning on his pillowed playground.

“What does this say?” Mustafa asked, thrusting the message at Jamal.

Interpreting, Jamal read it aloud, and Mustafa’s annoyance vanished. He began to smile, and his beady black eyes lighted with pleasure. “Where did you get this, Alwan?”

“Your men took it from a lone Arab rider in the northern deserts three days ago.”

His smile growing broader, Mustafa fell to pleasantly pondering what he might do with this newly gleaned knowledge. Forgetting the others were present, he stopped smiling and his round face took on an almost somber look as he considered and discarded several options before hitting on an idea that pleased him.

Several tense moments passed for those in dutiful attendance before finally Mustafa’s beady eyes began to shine anew and he gave a great shout of laughter that caused his bare belly to shake and roll like the waves on the sea below his cliffside kingdom. All immediately laughed with their merry master.

When the laughter died down a bit, Mustafa tried but failed to snap his short, beringed fingers. Pointing, he commanded, “Summon my top lieutenants! I have an important assignment for them.”

And fell once more into fits of gleeful laughter.

Days
.

A week. Two.

Three weeks went by and Temple was, admittedly, treated well in the lush desert oasis of Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid. She wanted for nothing in the way of creature comforts. She was pampered and cared for by Rhikia and watched over solicitously by Tariz.

Early each morning she was allowed to take a long ride on the saffron-colored stallion, Toz. The rides were exhilarating and enjoyable, but more important, they afforded her the perfect opportunity to better acquaint herself with the dangerous deserts that she planned to soon cross alone.

If the friendly little Tariz did not escort her on the daily morning rides, his handsome, hard-faced master rode with her on one of his two favorite Arabian mounts. Bandit, the magnificent milk white stallion on which she’d first seen him, was alternated with Prince, a fleet-footed black whose shimmering coat was the exact hue of the Sheik’s luxuriant locks.

Those early morning rides were as different as the men who accompanied her.

If Tariz was with her, she questioned him, in a casual manner, about the many trade routes crisscrossing these inhospitable lands he knew like the back of his hand. Pretending nonchalance, she listened closely and hung on to every word he said. Then, fearing she might arouse his suspicions, she would abruptly change the subject.

The two of them laughed and chattered like children, and Temple was amazed at how much he knew of the civilized world. He swore he’d never been farther away than Cairo but told her proudly that he had read all the leather-bound books in the Sheik’s tent not once, but twice.

“You know, Tariz,” she said early one morning when they had dashed across the sand dunes and then pulled up on their stallions to rest, “you are highly intelligent and better educated than many Europeans and Americans. You could be much more than a servant. You could hold an important, responsible position in the business world. You would be a great asset to an international company. You could travel extensively, meet many interesting people, and command respect. Best of all, you could make a great deal of money.”

“A heart free from care is better than a full purse,” was his quick reply, followed by an ear-to-ear grin.

Tariz was, Temple realized, a happy, content man.

She had no idea if the enigmatic master he served was happy or content. Furthermore, she didn’t care.

When the Sheik rode with her, he said little, never laughed, revealed nothing of his mood or his feelings. The only real communication she had with him on those rides was the camaraderie that existed between two people who had a great passion for fast, beautiful horses.

Riding knee to knee on spirited, equally powerful mounts generated—if only for a few fleeting moments at a time—a curious unspoken bond. When their steeds raced stride for stride and she felt the warm desert wind on her face and the mighty stallion’s heart beating between her trousered legs, Temple would turn her head quickly. And she’d catch an unguarded expression on the Sheik’s dark face that told her he shared the same nameless joy she experienced.

Those rare moments were the only times she was remotely at ease with him. Otherwise she was constantly on guard, anxious and distrustful of this strange man who could be brutal and insensitive. When she stole covert glances at his face, she saw the potency there, the cold intensity. It was frightening.

All that savage vitality and dark sexuality were a constant threat to Temple. And she hated him for it. She despised him for possessing the power to make her feel uncomfortable and awkward and afraid.