Nan Ryan (39 page)

Her huge emerald eyes shining with tears, she’d said, “It could be my home as well.”

Sharif had shaken his dark head. “There is,” he’d said, “an old Arab saying: ‘Trees transplanted seldom prosper.’”

Now, as he stood here in the rising sun staring out at the desert, Sharif felt all the breath leave his body.

Though not a sound had been made, he knew Temple had exited the tent, was standing close by. He was acutely conscious of her nearness. He could feel her presence as if she had lain a soft hand on his shoulder. He flicked away his cigarette and turned slowly.

Temple, dressed much the same as the day he had first brought her here, was not looking at him. Rhikia had followed her out of the tent, and Temple had turned to say good-bye to the stoic woman who rarely showed any emotion.

To Sharif’s surprise, Rhikia’s dark eyes were swimming in tears and her arms went around Temple’s slender waist to hug her tightly.

“Good-bye, Rhikia,” Temple said softly. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.” Affectionately she squeezed the Arab woman’s shoulders and said, “I know you can’t understand my words, but I hope the tone conveys my meaning.” She pulled back and smiled at the teary-eyed Rhikia.

Embarrassed by her inability to hide her feelings, Rhikia released Temple and hurried back inside the tent.

Then it was Tariz’s turn to say good-bye. The wiry little man who was always grinning was grim faced this morning. He approached the white tent with his turbaned head bowed, his eyes far from merry.

Temple smiled warmly when she spotted him and stepped forward with her hand outstretched. He took it, then impulsively swept her into his arms and hugged her so tightly that her ribs hurt. Temple pressed her cheek to his and said, “I will miss you terribly, Tariz.”

He replied, “My heart is like Arabia’s dead southern waste.” Choking then, he quickly released her, and Temple saw the bright tears before he could turn away.

She patted his shoulder and watched as he hurried away, wiping his eyes with the end of his turban.

She glanced at the mounted men amassing at the palm-fringed lagoon fifty yards below the tent. She saw a groom lead the saddled stallion Toz into view.

Temple squared her slender shoulders, drew a shallow breath, and crossed the carpeted shade canopy. She moved to the solemn Sheik, looked up at him as tears filled her emerald eyes, and said, “DuPlessis arms and ammunition will stop flowing to the Turks. This I promise you.” She lowered her eyes. “I promise as well that you are going to miss me until your last day on earth.”

She started to step away.

“Wait—” The Sheik spoke at last, reaching out to take her arm.

“No,” Temple said, slipping free of his grasp. “Don’t touch me.” Keeping her eyes lowered, she said, “Don’t look at me.” She drew a shallow breath. “Don’t watch me walk away.”

Her parting words caused a painful wrench in his already aching heart. Sharif jammed his thumbs into his belt and watched, unblinking, as the beautiful golden-haired girl of his dreams walked away from him forever.

A deep, brooding sadness swamping him, he bit the inside of his jaw with sharp, punishing teeth. But he did not cry.

The Sheik never cried, was unfailingly cautious about revealing weakness or tenderness or sorrow. He had been well trained by the old sheik.

Temple held her head high and her back straight as she walked down the gentle incline to her waiting horse.

She knew he was watching her. She could feel his eyes—those beautiful brooding night black eyes—following her every step of the way.

It was the longest walk of her life.

At last Temple reached the saddled Toz. The big saffron-colored stallion danced in place and whinnied his welcome. Shaking her head no to the offer of help from the groom, Temple took the reins from his hand and swiftly swung up into the saddle.

She immediately wheeled the big beast about and laid her boot heels to his shimmering flanks. Toz cantered away. Sharif’s handpicked escort followed her.

The Sheik stayed where he was.

As he was.

He stood there beneath the shade canopy with his thumbs in his belt and watched her ride away. He watched as the others caught up with her. He watched as they put their mounts into comfortable loping gaits. He watched until the contingent was no more than small black dots on the horizon.

Than all at once he couldn’t stand it.

His chest felt as if it might explode. A loud wail issued from his lips and he shouted for his stallion to be brought around. The smiling Tariz was beside him in a minute, leading the saddled black stallion Prince.

“Hurry,” Tariz said, grinning broadly. “You must hurry!”

Then the little servant stood in the bright sun, clapping his hands happily as his master leapt astride the big prancing beast and raced across the burning sands.

His mount superior, his purpose momentous, the hard-riding Sheik overtook the detachment within minutes. Temple, hearing the approach of thundering hoofbeats, glanced over her shoulder, saw Sharif bearing down on them, and began to laugh with sheer delight.

She took off her cork sun helmet, tossed it to the ground, and shook out her long blond hair. Then she kicked Toz into a faster gait, shooting away from her mounted escort, ready to enjoy the chase that she knew the Sheik would win.

Galloping at breakneck speed, the determined Sheik quickly caught up with his mounted men. When he ranged alongside them, he lifted his right hand in the air. The ruby on his finger blazing blood red in the morning sunlight, he signaled them to stop and turn back.

Cheering the chieftain of whom they were so fond, the mounted men laughed and whistled and obediently turned back for camp.

The Sheik raced on with a wide grin on his face.

Her blond hair flying wildly about her head, a smile as big as Arabia on her glowing face, Temple urged the responsive Toz to go faster, faster, to outdistance the big black now in hot pursuit.

The chase continued for more than a mile. The valiant Toz gave it all he had. But he was no match for the big powerful demon black Prince.

Thank heaven!

Temple glanced over as Prince drew alongside the winded Toz. For a few yards more the stallions raced together stride for stride. Then the Sheik wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and controlled the speeding stallion with the pressure of his knees.

His strong brown hands reached for Temple. She eagerly threw her arms around Sharif’s neck as he pulled her from Toz’s back and sat her across the saddle before him.

Laughing and weeping simultaneously, Temple pressed kisses to Sharif’s handsome brown face and teased, “What kept you, my lord?”

“Don’t call me that, Temple,” he said, drawing her close. “In my heart I am Sharif Aziz Hamid, the Arab.”

“Well, kiss me, then, my desert Sheik, and tell me you’ll make me your first and only wife.”

“I will,” he said, turning Prince back toward the oasis. “But you may be a widow when your family learns of the marriage.”

The Emerald City Palace above the Blue Mediterranean

A Balmy Late Autumn Afternoon in 1898

A ruby was caught in the
sun’s golden light.

Tiny spangles inside the red stone reflected the six-rayed glow that gave the gem its name.

Starfire.

This Starfire had come from the fabled mines of Mogok, Burma, home of the world’s finest rubies. The ruby was one of those prized gemstones so intensely red in color, it merited the descriptive term “pigeon blood.”

Magical properties were attributed to the ruby, a coveted stone which was believed to bring peace and well-being to its wearer.

It was said that the ruby held magical powers and talismanic significance to its wearer. Legend had it that the rare pigeon blood ruby could warn its owner of imminent peril by turning dark or black.

And not returning to its normal color until the danger had passed.

The ruby captured in the glow of the warm Mediterranean sun was a bright brilliant red.

All rubies were valuable. But the rubies of the dark pigeon blood hue were among the rarest of all the world’s finest gemstones. Especially those which were in excess of three carats. This Starfire ruby was in excess of six carats.

And it was but one of a rope of the brilliant Burma rubies.

The wearer of the magnificent rope of Burma rubies sat upon a huge white bed scattered with blood red rose petals. She was seated squarely at the bed’s center, her back resting against the tall, bolstered headboard, which was stacked high with downy, satin-cased pillows.

The smiling woman didn’t shift or fidget or twist about. She didn’t so much as turn her head to the left or the right. She sat entirely motionless in the bed yet managed to look completely comfortable and relaxed.

A woman of incredible pale blond beauty, she was graceful, sophisticated, and totally sure of herself. Possessed of a body that was as splendid as her face, the tall, slender woman had smooth, porcelain skin and lustrous golden hair.

Her attire was the rope of rubies—a wedding present from her adoring bridegroom—encircling her throat.

Save for the rubies, she was gloriously naked.

So was the tall, dark man coming toward her.

Sharif had cast off the black silk robe he’d donned hastily a moment ago when the intrusive knock had come on the bedroom door.

The Starfire ruby on his finger flashing brightly in the shafts of late afternoon sunlight, the naked Sheik returned to the bed and to his bride.

Sharif handed the telegram to Temple, put a bare brown knee on the satin-sheeted mattress, and got into bed with her while she eagerly ripped open the yellow envelope. He laid a bronzed hand on the arch of her hip and listened as she read the message aloud, her emerald eyes shining with happiness.

Her mother and father sent best wishes for the couple’s happiness. Her uncle vowed that no more arms would be shipped to the Turks. Both uncle and parents requested an audience with the newlyweds either in America or Arabia, whichever suited.

“Darling, could we just go for one short visit?” Temple asked, lowering the telegram.

She looked hopefully into her husband’s night black eyes as a strong autumn breeze swept in suddenly off the wide marble terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, charging the salt air with the fragrance of frangipani from an unseen garden, rustling the gauzy curtains of the enormous bedroom, and gently stroking bare, tingling flesh.

Sharif took the telegram from Temple and laid it aside. He put his arms around her, drew her close against him, and said, “I could never leave the desert for good, sweetheart, you know that.” Temple laid a hand on his chest and nodded. He continued, “But to please you, I will agree to spending half our time in London and America.”

Temple allowed her caressing hand to slide slowly down Sharif’s chest to his drum-tight belly. She tilted her head back, looked into his burning black eyes, smiled, and said, “I’m not sure I’d be completely happy in America again.” She gave his tanned jaw a quick kiss. “You’ve spoiled me, Arab.”

The Sheik liked her answer.

He smiled with pleasure.

Then his strong arms tightened around her, he lowered his lips to hers, and murmured,
“Naksedil
—my beautiful one—I have not yet begun to spoil you.”

The Sheik kissed his bride, gently pressed her onto her back amid the strewn rose petals, and agilely moved atop her.

And began to spoil her properly.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1996 by Nan Ryan

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

This edition published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media

180 Varick Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com