Nan Ryan (24 page)

Jamal continued, reading the entire article aloud while the sultan’s lips moved along with him on the parts he had memorized. The reading of the newspaper article completed, Jamal then read the communication that Mustafa’s men had taken from the Sheik’s slain courier. The message was to have been cabled to the American heiress’s family.

Mustafa knew every word of the missive. And when the interpreter concluded, the sultan, looking furious now, grabbed the message back and motioned Mahdi forward. Cringing inwardly, Mahdi stepped closer to the gem-encrusted golden bed and the spoiled, half-naked despot who lay upon it.

“You didn’t see the blond American on that night?” Mustafa asked Mahdi.

“No, Excellency,” said Mahdi. “I did not.”

“Fool!” Mustafa thundered. “Fools, all of you!” He waved the crumpled piece of paper and said, “This clearly states that the woman is being held by the Sheik!”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Fools and cowards, the lot of you. I should kill you!” He reached for the riding crop he’d used on the girl, slapped it cruelly across Mahdi’s startled face. “I send you to get her and you come back alone, spouting idle threats from that arrogant desert bastard.” His beady dark eyes narrowed to slits in his dark fleshy face, and he added, “You think I fear that son of a camel? I fear no man, least of all the impostor who calls himself Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid.”

“No, Excellency.”

Exhaustion finally defanging the raging sultan, he began to yawn and his eyelids grew heavy. He reached for one of the satin-cased pillows, groaned, and turned over onto his left side. “Leave me,” he said softly.

But his voice boomed and reverberated throughout the vast bedchamber when he lifted his head and shouted, “That blond woman will be mine or heads will roll!”

Temple awakened slowly
from a delightfully pleasant dream.

Only half conscious, her eyes remaining closed, she lay still on the soft, silk-sheeted bed, suspended trance-like in that foggy state between deep slumber and full wakefulness. Not wanting to wake up, willing herself to drift back off so that the beautiful dream would continue, Temple lay there contentedly reliving every thrilling second of the wonderfully erotic dream.

Warm, masterful hands moved over her bare tingling body, touching, caressing, exploring. Burning lips followed closely in their wake, spreading fire and pleasure to all the sensitive areas of her flesh.

Sighing, squirming, Temple slowly opened her emerald eyes, and a foolish little smile tugged at her kiss-swollen lips. Happily she realized the dream had been real.

She turned her head slowly, expecting to see the dark, handsome head of the Sheik lying on the pillow beside her. He was not there. She sighed in mild disappointment and turned onto her side, sweeping a hand over the cool silken sheets where he had so recently lain. She recalled with a rush of excitement how incredibly dark his long, lean body had looked against the snowy whiteness of the bed.

Her cheeks reddened as she remembered how they had both been so aroused that when—sometime around midnight—they’d finally come into the bedroom, they hadn’t bothered turning out the lamp. Its mellow light had washed over them as they’d made wild, uninhibited love.

A delicious little tremble raced through Temple’s slender body at the vivid recollection of Sharif’s dark face looming above her own, the lamplight striking the high planes of his cheekbones and reflecting in the fathomless depths of those burning black eyes.

Again she could hear him murmuring in Arabic, and although she understood not a word, his tone made every utterance sound like a caress. And when her eyes had slipped closed in pleasure, he had switched to English, saying softly, commandingly, “Do not close your eyes,
chérie
. Look at me while I love you.”

Temple sat up in the bed. Allowing the sheet to fall forgotten to her waist, she yawned and stretched lazily like a contented feline. Looking languidly around the luxurious room, she was delighted to see that a tub of hot steaming water awaited. She was further pleased to see that her riding clothes had been laid out.

A shiver of anticipation shot up her spine.

She had forgotten. She was to ride with the Sheik this morning! He was probably waiting for her right now, eager to be off, their horses saddled and whinnying restlessly just outside the tent.

Temple threw back the sheet and leapt out of bed. She climbed into the tub and groaned softly from the welcome comfort of its soothing heat, but she did not linger to enjoy it. Ignoring the soreness between her legs and the slight aching of her limbs from being stretched and pressed into unusual positions, Temple bathed speedily.

Out of the tub after only a few short minutes, she dressed in a fresh pair of tan gabardine riding breeches, a pale blue cotton blouse, and knee-high boots of smooth oxblood leather. She pulled a brush through her tangled hair, wound the loose locks into a thick rope, and pinned them atop her head.

Her heart was beating erratically when, clutching a cork sun helmet in nervous fingers, she paused before the curtains separating the two rooms.

How would the Sheik behave this morning? Would he be as anxious to see her as she was to see him? Would he smile and open his arms to her? Would he eagerly kiss her and hold her close as he had done throughout the night?

Temple inhaled deeply, fighting the dizziness of excitement. She swept through the curtains with a glowing smile on her face.

The room was empty.

Her smile fading only a little, she hurried to the tent’s entrance and stepped into the bright morning sunlight. The saddled salmon-hued stallion, Toz, was waiting for her.

The Sheik was not.

Smiling broadly, little Tariz stepped forward to greet her. “Ah, you are feeling well this morning, Temple?”

“I … yes, yes, I feel … fine.” She looked about, then blurted out, “Where is Sharif?”

“The master is not here at the moment,” said Tariz.

“Oh? We are to ride together this morning. Will he be back soon or …”

“I think not,” said the servant, noticing the quick flash of disappointment that came into her expressive green eyes. “I am to ride with you this morning, mistress.”

Temple longed to ask why, to make Tariz tell her just where the Sheik was and why he had changed his mind about their morning ride. She wanted to shout at the grinning little man that last night the Sheik had told her—as she’d lain naked in his arms—that the two of them would ride out of camp early this morning. He knew of a secret uninhabited oasis. They would spend the day there together, bathing in the cool clear waters, making love on the grassy banks.

But she remained outwardly composed.

Her smile back in place, she said, “Good. I’d much rather ride with you.”

Alone at that secret desert oasis, miles away from camp, Sharif swam in the cool, cleansing waters of the palm-shaded pool. Slicing through the water with long, fluid strokes, he swam gracefully, determinedly. His muscular arms, moving in perfect precision, effortlessly pulled him along while his kicking feet propelled him forward.

His dark face ducking beneath, then emerging from the water’s smooth surface, he found little pleasure or relaxation in the strenuous exercise. He swam as swiftly as could, as if he were in a life-or-death race that he was desperate to win.

And in a way, he was.

Sharif had awakened at dawn to find Temple naked in his bed. His first impulse had been to draw her into his arms and make love to her.

His second had been to get as far away from her as possible.

He had risen quickly, taking care not to disturb her. Dressing hurriedly in the dim half-light, he’d forced himself to keep his eyes and his thoughts off the beautiful woman asleep in his bed. His back to her, he drew a pair of soft suede riding breeches up over his hips and buttoned them swiftly with sure, deft fingers. He sank onto the divan, pulled on a pair of supple leather boots, and immediately shot back to his feet. In his haste to be gone, he thrust his long arms into a freshly laundered linen shirt but did not button it up his dark chest.

Not daring to look back, he swept through the heavy curtains. Emerging into the tent’s main room, he exhaled, feeling as if he had successfully escaped a dungeon—an irresistibly erotic dungeon wherein lay a seductive golden-haired dragon far more dangerous than any fire-breathing monster.

Stuffing the long tails of his shirt into the waistband of his suede trousers, Sharif paused only long enough to take a cigarette from the silver Tiffany box on the table. He stuck it between his lips, unlighted, and crossed to the tent’s entrance, where he yanked back the flap and stepped out into the breaking dawn.

His mouth opened in surprise on seeing Tariz. The unlighted cigarette fell from his lips; he caught it as it hit his chest.

“Is everything all right?” Sharif asked.

“That is what I would like to know,” Tariz replied, his usual sunny smile absent.

Sharif shrugged. “Everything is fine.”

He put the cigarette back into his mouth and leaned down to the tiny flame of the match Tariz struck. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs, held it there, and said, “Why wouldn’t it be?” He slowly released the smoke.

“My stallion and yours are saddled and waiting,” Tariz said. “I will ride with you and we will talk.”

The cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke drifting up into his narrowed black eyes, Sharif shook his head. “No. I wish to ride alone this morning.” He moved toward the waiting stallion, took the cigarette from his mouth, and flicked an ash. “You will ride with Temple when she awakens.”

Then, purposely ignoring Tariz’s inquisitive fatherly look, he mounted hastily and rode the black stallion, Prince, at breakneck speed to get to this remote oasis. Both man and horse were hot and winded and sweating profusely by the time they reached the first sparse stand of tall date palms. Sharif jumped to the ground before Prince came to a complete stop. While the lathered stallion blew and whinnied appreciatively, Sharif reached up, unbuckled his jaw strap, and unbited him, tossing the bridle to the grassy ground.

Sharif then impatiently shrugged out of his sweat-soaked white shirt and went directly to the water’s edge. He dropped onto his stomach and braced his weight on bent arms. He leaned out, lowered his hot face, and began to drink of the cold, clear water.

The lathered Prince moved down beside his supine master, lowered his velvet muzzle into the pool, and swilled noisily, lifting his regal head between long pulls of the refreshing water to whinny his gratitude and pleasure.

The man lying beside him didn’t raise his head. Sharif drank like a cat, lapping at the cold water, pacing himself, drinking slowly until he’d finally quenched his thirst. At last his face came up out of the water, and he levered himself to his knees and rose to his feet.

While Prince continued to swill and blow and carry on, Sharif stripped. He was completely naked by the time Prince finished drinking. The stallion lifted his head and began nudging Sharif’s bare shoulder.

“All right,” Sharif said, and worked swiftly to unsaddle the stallion.

He hauled the Moorish leather saddle off Prince’s back, tossed it to the ground, and told the big beast, “You do what you want, I’m taking a swim.”

He gave the stallion an affectionate slap on the withers, then turned and dove into the clear, deep pool. The shimmering black neighed and trembled and plunged in beside him. As soon as they were in the invigorating water, Prince wanted to play. He bumped his master’s back in an invitation to frolic.

But Sharif was not in the mood.

He plunged under the surface and shot away, swimming underwater, putting distance between himself and the stallion. So Prince stayed in only long enough to cool off. Then he clopped back up onto the bank, shimmering wet, and began to crop the grass contentedly.

Contentment was not so easily obtained for Prince’s troubled master.

Sharif remained in the water for a long time, swimming with vigor and purpose, single-mindedly determined to wash away Temple’s lingering scent—and her lingering hold on him.

He continued to swim until the blood in his veins cooled and his head cleared. When finally he was so tired he could hardly move his weak arms and legs and his breath was so rapid and labored that it burned in his chest, Sharif pulled himself up onto the bank. His rubbery knees folding beneath him, he sank to the ground and stretched out on his back atop the soft, cushioning grass.

A gentle breeze blew from out of the south, swaying the tall palm fronds and stroking Sharif’s gleaming wet body. Exhausted from the long sleepless night of savage lovemaking and dead tired from the taxing exercise of swimming, Sharif was ready for a nice long nap.

He shifted his shoulders a little to get more comfortable, folded an arm beneath his wet head, closed his eyes, and exhaled. But sleep didn’t come.

A vivid vision did.

The indelible vision of a lovely, naked Temple seated astride him, her luminous skin washed in the mellow lamplight, her golden hair dancing about her pale shoulders, and her ivory breasts swaying provocatively as she rode him.