Nan Ryan (14 page)

No man had ever had the upper hand with her. She had never allowed it. Now this debonair savage dominated her with nothing more than his intimidating presence and cold good looks.

Temple caught herself vacillating constantly, which was totally unlike her.

One moment she’d decide her best strategy was to keep as quiet as a mouse, to stay out of his way as much as possible, to avoid attracting undue attention to herself. She would, she resolved, make herself so still and insignificant, he would take no notice of her. Then he would leave her alone.

The very next minute she would change her mind completely and vow to fight back. She would bring him down a peg, let him know he couldn’t bully her. No man could. She would show this dark devil of the desert that she had no fear of him.

When she was in such a reckless mood, Temple attempted—time and time again—to goad him, to effectively defuse that silent but ever-present sexual threat. She insulted him. She ridiculed him. She derided him.

Her innate temperament governing her rash actions, Temple purposely broke the uncomfortable silence between them one morning as they rode. She abruptly pulled up on her lathered mount. The Sheik swiftly halted his black stallion, rode back to her.

She looked at him angrily and said, “Who are you, really?”

“I have told you many times.”

“Tell me again.”

“I am Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid.
El Siif
. The Sword. Lord of the desert, defender of the faithful.”

“Is this your custom, then? To kidnap helpless women and hold them against their will?”

“You are the first,” he said calmly, resting a tanned hand on the saddle horn, sparks of red fire leaping from the enormous ruby on his finger.

“I don’t believe you!”

“That is your prerogative.”

“Yes, it certainly is, and don’t you forget it.” Her emerald eyes narrowed when she added, “Now hear this, O great lord of the desert, I don’t know who you really are or what you want with me, but you’ve picked the wrong woman. I am no coward! I am not afraid of you!”

“You have pointed this out many times.” A faint, derisive smile lifted the corners of his full lips as he asked, “What is it, Temple? Can’t you convince yourself?”

“Don’t you dare make fun of me!” she yelled at him. “I warn you, if you ever try to lay a hand on me, I’ll kill you. I will, so help me. I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do on this earth!”

“Stop shouting, please,” he said softly. “It’s most unladylike.”

“I’ll shout as often and as loudly as I please!” she screamed at him. “It’s not like you’re some fine gentlemen! You’re not. You’re an animal. That’s what you are, that’s
all
you are.” She made a sour face and her eyes blazed. “No dirty, backward, illiterate Arab can tell me—”

In an arrow-swift movement his hand shot out and grabbed her startled stallion’s reins. He dismounted and hauled her out of the saddle. Fierce as a hawk pouncing, he was on her, pressing her back against her horse with his tall, lean body.

His eyes as black and as cold as chips of basalt, he said, “Be careful you do not overstep your bounds and anger me. I am not one of your adoring British fools, that you may speak to me any way you choose. Your beauty has no power here, Miss Longworth. None.
I
am the only force.
I
am the one who gives the orders, not you.” He moved aggressively closer, so close she could feel the saddle’s stirrup cutting into her back, and she winced. Yet far more disturbing was the fierce heat and hardness of the lean, muscular body crushed suffocatingly close to hers.
“Never
forget that it is I who holds your fate in my hands. You are impotent against me; I can and will do with you as I choose. Do you understand me?”

Trapped, trying desperately not to tremble against him, Temple remained mute. Her jaw locked, she refused to reply. He lifted his hands, cupped her cheeks roughly, turned her face up to his, and said again, “Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes,” she finally muttered grudgingly, hating herself for knuckling under to him.

“Say it. Say you understand me.”

“I understand you,” she replied, frantic for him to release her.

His hands stayed on her face, his icy hot gaze lowered lazily to her lips. For a few anxious heartbeats she thought he was going to kiss her. She was certain of his intent when his dark head lowered slowly and his cruel mouth opened slightly to reveal his perfect gleaming white teeth.

His lips hovering a scant inch above her own, the Sheik said, “Do not test me too often. One day even I might run out of patience.”

Abruptly he lifted his head, his hands dropped from her face, and he stepped away so fast that Temple blinked and sagged back against her horse.

The Sheik remounted and rode away without a backward glance. Temple swallowed hard. She had no idea where they were or how to get back to camp. She suspected the Sheik had planned it that way. She had no choice but to climb into the saddle and follow him. He didn’t look at her or say a word for the remainder of the ride.

Temple was more than a little relieved when finally they reached the relative safety of the busy camp.

The long hot afternoons belonged to Temple. The Sheik was otherwise engaged. Mildly curious, she had asked Tariz what kept the Sheik occupied in the afternoons. Half expecting to hear that the inherently sensual Arab leader whiled away the hottest hours of the day in the arms of some adoring, dark-eyed female, she was oddly relieved to learn that he spent the time schooling his magnificent horses, training his hunting falcons, and presiding over tribal meetings.

And who knew what else.

All she knew was that the afternoons were hers and she was able to relax somewhat. She read and rested, grateful to be alone and confident that the dark man she feared and hated would stay away from the tent until sunset.

Evenings she donned one of the elegant new gowns Rhikia laid out for her to choose from. Then, after selecting the appropriate jewelry to complement the gown’s cut and color, she would clasp a necklace of emeralds or diamonds around her neck or slip a sapphire-and-diamond bracelet on her wrist along with matching ear screws.

Thus dressed appropriately for dinner, she dined with the silent, immaculately groomed Sheik.

After learning of his Oxford education, Temple, seated across a candlelighted table from him in the tent’s main room, broke the silence one evening by saying impulsively, “I’ve found you out, Sharif.”

For a split second his dark eyes flickered as if she had said something startling. But his voice maintained that low, even tone when he replied, “Have you? And just what have you learned about me?”

“That you were educated at Oxford. That’s why you speak fluent English.”

He shrugged and wrapped his long tanned fingers around a silver goblet. The ruby on his hand caught the candle’s glow. She noticed that a perfect six-faceted star appeared in the stone’s face.

“Many people are educated at Oxford,” he said, picked up the goblet, and drank.

“Not piratical savages.”

He swallowed slowly, set the goblet down on the white cloth. “Piratical savages, yes—and a noble heritage it is, too,” he said, but his dark eyes narrowed minutely and the tiny white scar above his lip seemed to stiffen as he added, “While your Anglo ancestors were painting their faces blue and worshiping at tree roots, these piratical savages had charted the stars and timed the tides.”

“Painted their faces blue … that’s utterly absurd!”

“Then tell that to Walter Scott and your Mark Twain.” He leaned forward and declared softly,
“We
are the lineal heirs of a very ancient civilization.”

“I’ve no doubt you are,” she said, leaning forward as he had done. “But why would an Arab Sheik’s only son choose to be educated in England?”

“Why would an American aristocrat’s only daughter choose to cross the Arabian deserts?” was his reply.

Temple was taken aback. Her brows knitted together. “How do you know I’m an American aristocrat’s only daughter?”

The Sheik laid his white napkin on the table, pushed back his chair, and rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll have a walk before bedtime.”

And he was gone, leaving her to worry and wonder how he knew so much about her while she knew so little about him. She still had not learned the reason for her strange abduction. Obviously it had to do with her being an American heiress, yet money didn’t seem to be the object.

It was a mystery.

He
was a mystery. He had revealed nothing of himself in all the time they had been together. She knew him no better after three weeks than she’d known him that first hour of her captivity.

She lived in his tent. She wore his clothes. She ate at his table. She slept in his bedroom. But she did not know the man.

The Sheik was a paradox beyond comprehension. As was her questionable reaction—and growing attraction—to him. It troubled Temple that her hot hatred for him was already beginning to cool. She didn’t understand him. She had never known anyone like him. He was the coldest, cruelest man she’d ever seen one minute, then uncommonly kind, almost tender, the next.

He frustrated her. He frightened her. He fascinated her.

She was not herself anymore. She didn’t feel like Temple DuPlessis Longworth.

The Sheik was not the only one she didn’t know. She no longer knew herself.

The warmth and beauty
of the seductive desert nights and the constant nearness of the coldly handsome Sheik had begun to take their toll on Temple. When he was with her, she wished he would go away. But when he was away, she lay awake, tense and restless on her pillowed divan, dreading—at the same time awaiting—his return.

On those occasions when midnight came and went and still he had not returned to the tent, Temple couldn’t help but wonder where he was. And what he was doing. She had caught glimpses of other women—Arab women—in camp. Was he with one of them? Was he lover to some exotic dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty? While she lay naked and alone in the hot darkness, was he lying naked in the arms of a favored lover?

When finally, in the deep of the night, he returned to the tent, Temple lay silent and tense in the darkness, listening to the brush of fabric as he stripped. And when he stretched out on his bed and was so close she could almost reach out and touch him, she was sometimes tempted to do just that.

She never did.

And she was horrified that she was even imagining touching him. But she was. The Sheik was an arrogant and dangerous savage, but a beautiful one. His presence was overwhelming. He was a menacing, masterful, magnificent specimen of manhood.

Dark, intense, and erotically handsome. That strong masculine face. Those cold yet compelling jet black eyes. His flawless olive complexion. And the lean, muscular body.

The mere sight of him had the power to stir her shamefully. Quick, scary surges of primal passion—to the degree that long after he had gone to sleep, she continued to lie awake.

There had been nights when, blinking to see better in the inky darkness, she had gazed helplessly at the splendid bare body of the mysterious man she no longer hated as violently as she should. Mesmerized, she watched the gentle rhythm of his breathing and the rise and fall of his rib cage beneath his smooth, tanned skin. And it seemed as if the walls of the tent pulsed and throbbed, moving in slowly around her, smothering her, the potent sexual milieu sucking the very air out of her lungs.

It was then, as she lay breathless and tense, watching the slumbering Sheik, that crazy thoughts ran through her mind—like getting into bed with him while he slept peacefully on, unaware of her presence. Lying close beside him in the stifling sensual darkness. Pressing her bare taut body intimately against the heat and hardness of his. Sweeping her hand familiarly over the muscled contours of his naked chest. Raking her nails through the thick growth of crisp raven chest hair. Experiencing the tingling sensation of feeling the steady cadence of his heart beating through her sensitive fingertips.

Temple was distressed and ashamed of having such indecent thoughts, but she couldn’t keep them from recurring.

In the harsh light of day she was far less vulnerable to the dark, mysterious man whose nightly nearness disturbed her rest. Seeing the Sheik in the hot desert sun in his native dress made it easier to remember exactly who he was.

He was an Arab, a lawless Arab chieftain who had taken her against her will. She was revolted by the heinous act of this uncivilized Barbary pirate. He knew no shame or remorse. Had less regard for her than his blooded horses stabled just beyond the village or his hunting falcons perched atop their blocks.

She was just grateful that the dark devil hadn’t harmed her. Yet.

Still she sensed, instinctively, fearfully, that if she didn’t get away from Sharif Aziz Hamid very soon, his egotistical prediction made on her first day in camp would come true.

And if I want you, I’ll take you without a struggle. You will give yourself to me gladly
.

She could wait no longer to escape!

Temple’s carefully made plans to get away were almost complete. Not trusting her memory to recall all that Tariz had told her of the land and the wells and routes leading out of the desert, she had requested a pad and a pencil, explaining that she enjoyed sketching. She had drawn a crude map and then concealed it beneath the cushions of her divan.