Nan Ryan (8 page)

When he was again facing her, he lowered his arms to his sides and asked, “What are you waiting for?”

She gave no reply, stared at him unblinkingly, wondering if she had the nerve. Could she actually bury the blade in his abdomen and twist until his lifeblood flowed from him? Could she kill this dark, dangerous Arab who very likely meant to rape and kill her?

Acting on the survival instinct so strong in all living beings, Temple abruptly lunged at the Sheik, intent on killing him before he could kill her. She brought the dagger’s flashing curved blade up in a swift, underhand arc that would rip open his stomach if she succeeded in hitting her target.

She was quick.

But the Sheik was quicker.

His reaction was so incredibly swift, Temple never knew exactly what happened. She knew only that one second she had the dagger in her hand and was lunging at him and the next she was in his forced embrace, her arm twisted behind her back, the dagger now in his hand, its tip stuck beneath a pearl button at the center front of her soiled white blouse.

Poised, his dark eyes holding hers, he made her wait and wonder.

Temple’s breath came in strangled gasps, and her heart throbbed painfully.

One quick flick of his wrist and the button flew off, the blouse parted over her breasts. She tensed and held her breath, bracing for what was to come.

But it never came.

A hint of a cruel smile touched his lips as he lowered the dagger and said, “You jump to conclusions, Temple. When I want you, you will know it.” He set her back from him and added, “And when I want you, I’ll take you without a struggle. You will gladly give yourself to me.”

*     *     *    

A long, perplexing stay in the lush desert oasis of Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid had begun for a frightened and totally baffled Temple Longworth.

After his utterly arrogant pronouncement, the Sheik had turned his back on her and walked away. At the far side of the room he had stepped through some curtains and disappeared.

In seconds he’d returned to the main room, shoving his long, bronzed arms into the sleeves of a clean white shirt. He’d never looked at her. He hadn’t said a word. Unhurriedly he’d buttoned the shirt, shoved the long tails inside his trousers, crossed the spacious tent to the entrance, bent his head, and ducked outside, leaving her alone.

For a long time after he’d gone, Temple continued to stand there, in limbo. Confused and frightened and angry. She had felt sure, when he had kissed her, that he’d meant to take her against her will. Had he stopped only because she’d tried to stab him with his dagger? Would he try again later?

She shuddered.

Why had he brought her to his oasis? How long would he keep her? And why did a wandering desert Sheik speak fluent, flawless English? And why did he … did he … Temple suddenly remembered.

He had called her by her name! He had called her Temple. She hadn’t told him her name. He hadn’t asked.

He already knew.

But how?

Temple forced herself to
take several slow, deep breaths. She had to be clear-headed. She had to think. To figure a way out of this terrible predicament.

She looked appraisingly around the spacious room. A tall center pole supported the tent’s high ceiling. The floor was covered with rich Persian carpets. A long divan and colorful hassocks were arranged around a low ebony lacquered table. On the table was an ebony-and-silver chess board with carved ivory pieces. Leather-bound books filled a tall ebony bookcase.

It was a well-appointed room, but the furnishings were not what commanded Temple’s attention. Only the tent’s walls interested her. She moved along them quickly, looking for an opening other than the main entrance. Her hands glided along, searching for a break in the creamy white fabric, but she soon ground her teeth in frustration.

There was no other entrance.

She glanced at the curtains through which the Sheik had gone for a clean shirt. She hurried across the tent, slapped at the heavy hangings until she found the separation, yanked them apart, rushed inside—

And stopped short.

The Sheik’s bedroom.

It was like the man himself, she thought, shivering inwardly. Dark and exotic and intimidating. An oversize bed dominated the aggressively masculine room. Neatly made, it was covered with an inky black counterpane. A profusion of pillows—half of them black, half white—rested against the massive bed’s tall ebony headboard. To the left of the bed was a tall, heavy wardrobe, beside it a many-drawered bureau. A discarded white shirt, stained with blood, was tossed atop the chest. To the right of the bed and not three feet from it was a long, comfortable-looking black divan with many cushions and a high back.

A lone globed lamp rested on an ebony night table by the enormous bed, the room’s only light. Her eyes made a slow, assessing sweep of the Sheik’s shadowy bedroom. Temple saw no entrance. No way to get outside without going through the tent’s main room.

She hurried back through the curtains and into the large room. It had been several minutes since the Sheik had left the tent. Maybe, she thought hopefully, he had ridden away and left her here alone. Perhaps he had to tend to business at some other desert location and would be gone for hours. If so, she could slip out and get away before he returned.

A glimmer of hope putting a new spring into her step, Temple hurried to the tent’s canopied entrance, lifted the flap, turned it back, and peered out cautiously.

And her heart sank.

“Damn him!” she muttered, her face falling like that of a thwarted child.

His back to her, the Sheik stood not twenty yards away, towering over a group of robed brigands gathered around him. His was the only uncovered head, and his black hair glittered in the strong sunlight as he leaned down to listen to a short little man standing directly next to him. The fabric of his fresh white shirt pulled taut across his back as he laid a long arm affectionately around his comrade’s narrow, robed shoulders.

It was more than apparent that the Sheik was the camp’s revered chieftain, the able leader they greatly respected, the beloved master they all gladly served.

Temple gritted her teeth and let the tent flap fall back in place.

Well,
they
could worship him for all she cared! But he was not
her
chieftain or leader or master. And she was not his liege or follower or slave. She wasn’t about to bow down to him or to serve him in any way whatsoever.

Pacing, hugging herself with her arms, Temple soon passed from anger and frustration to a growing anxiety as she contemplated what might be in store for her. Although ignorant of most of their customs, she had heard that if an Arab Sheik saw a woman he wanted, he simply bought her or stole her and added her to his harem.

Dear God, was that to be her fate? It seemed likely that it was what the Sheik had in mind. Why else would he capture a white woman and bring her to this remote oasis? What use could the Sheik possibly have for her except …

A tiny gurgle of panic escaped her lips as Temple considered the horror of becoming the unwilling slave of this dark prince of the desert.

It was approaching sundown when the tent flap suddenly opened. Temple, seated on the long divan, sprang defensively to her feet.

The Sheik stepped inside. He was followed by a short, wiry little Arab man with a deeply lined face and a ready grin, and an Arab woman of medium height and stocky build who appeared ill at ease.

Gently taking the woman’s arm, the Sheik said, “Temple, this is Rhikia. She will tend you while you are inside the tent.” The woman bobbed her head. Her dark eyes met Temple’s for only an instant, before she lowered them shyly. “Rhikia speaks no English,” the Sheik continued, “but she is well trained and highly proficient at taking care of a lady’s needs.”

He waited for Temple to speak. She said nothing, just glared at him. He ignored her rudeness.

“And this,” he said, pulling the short little man in front of him, “is my dearest and oldest friend, Tariz.”

“Ahlan
. Welcome!” Tariz said warmly, his white teeth flashing in a wide smile. “Rhikia and I will do everything in our power to make your stay a pleasant one.” He salaamed to her then, his fingers touching first his forehead, then his chest.

He was so friendly, so eager to please, it was hard for Temple to keep from smiling back at him. But she managed.

Over Tariz’s head, the Sheik said, “Outside the tent, Tariz will be at your side anytime I am not.” He then looked down at the woman, Rhikia, and said something to her in Arabic. She nodded, and both she and Tariz promptly left.

As soon as they were alone Temple said, “So I’m to stay here in your tent?”

“You are.”

“Oh? And where will you stay?”

That cruel smile, then: “Here, of course,” he said, turned, and was gone.

Sunset in the Arabian desert.

Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid stood alone on the crest of a great dune overlooking his sprawling camp below. His desert-bred stallion, Bandit, was at his side, nudging his master’s shoulder with a velvet muzzle.

The dying sun had turned the golden sand to varying shades of pink and purple, and already guttered torches were flickering with light down in camp. A cooling breeze stirred locks of Sharif’s black hair, billowed his shirt out in back, and blew orange sparks from the cigarette in his hand.

This desert was his favorite place on the entire earth.

And sunset was his favorite time of day in this desert.

The Sheik didn’t fall to his knees and face Mecca as his Muslim followers did. But he experienced a great measure of inner peace whenever he was in his beloved desert at sundown.

A peace no other time or place afforded.

It was not so tonight.

He found no serenity in the desert sunset. No tranquility in his hour of sacred solitude.

The Sheik lowered his gaze to the large white tent in the distance. He pictured the blond American inside who was his source of unrest. He flicked away his smoked-down cigarette and reached into his trouser pocket. He withdrew the shiny brass shell casing he carried with him always. Rolling the small metal casing back and forth in his fingers, he lifted it, focused on it with cold dark eyes.

In the fading light he could barely make out the unique manufacturer’s stamp on the casing’s flat bottom. But he knew it was there. He ran his thumb over the imprint that had been rubbed so many times over the years, it was almost worn smooth.

But not quite.

Sharif could still trace the damning telltale stamp, still feel it as he had on that long-ago day when the wise old Sheik he’d called Father had first given it to him.

Du-P

Sharif s firm jaw clenched reflexively and his eyes narrowed with the hatred that never left him. His hand closed so tightly around the brass shell casing, it cut into his palm.

In the Sheik’s lamplit tent, a rebellious Temple stalked back and forth as day turned to night. A meal, served on a tray by the shy, dutiful Rhikia, sat untouched on the low lacquered table before the divan. A warm bath, provided by the smiling little Tariz and a muscular helper, was cooling and unused in the bedroom.

Temple had hotly refused to strip and get into the tub. Neither Tariz nor Rhikia knew what to do about it, so they’d left her alone.

Now, as the hour approached midnight, Temple walked back and forth, back and forth, before the tent’s entrance. She felt hungry, dirty, and uneasy. She wondered miserably if the Sheik had actually meant what he’d said when he’d told her he would be staying in the tent with her. Afraid that he had, she didn’t dare go to bed, tired though she was. She wasn’t about to undress and lie down and drift off to sleep when he could walk in any minute.

Muttering to herself, working up her courage for when he did return, Temple felt ready to face him. Or so she thought.

A few minutes past midnight she heard his low, distinctive voice just outside. She stopped her pacing, hurried to the tent flap, and peeked out. The Sheik stood gripping one of the poles supporting the shade canopy, speaking in low tones to the burly Arab guard.

He radiated an unquestionable power and presence, and with the flickering torchlight casting shadows beneath his high, slanted cheekbones, he looked sinister, dangerous.

He moved and Temple jumped back. She commanded her heart to slow its fierce beating and rehearsed, one last time, exactly what she was going to say to him.

Her resolve slipped slightly when he came inside. He glanced at her, and he looked even meaner than when he’d stood outdoors in the torchlight. It was as if the sight of her evoked some powerful hatred or passion.

Approaching her, he said, “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I have a better question.” She squared her shoulders, determined to stick to her guns and not shrink before him. “Why am I here? Answer me that!”

“In time you will know.”

“That’s no answer! How do you know my name? We’ve never met, and I didn’t tell you. What’s this all about? I demand to know why you brought me here and what you plan to do with me! Answer me, damn you!” she shouted in rising frustration, and stomped her booted foot.