Nan Ryan (30 page)

She had asked him—on more than one occasion—why an Arab sheik’s son would be sent away to England for his education. Why not France? Each time she’d asked, Chauncey had shrugged it off with a “Why not England?” After all, he told her, Sharif already spoke fluent French; he’d wanted to learn the English language and customs. Wanted to get a well-rounded education.

When she pleaded with him to tell her why Sharif had kidnapped her, why he had brought her to his desert village, Chauncey would look at her with big blue eyes that conveyed a deep desire to be totally honest with her. But he would say only, “Temple, honey, all I can tell you is I know Sharif better than anybody, so I can promise you that he would
never
harm you. You need not be afraid of him.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’m sure,” he would reply, and then add almost as an afterthought, “Physically, I mean.” And his face would redden.

Temple understood completely. Left unsaid was that she might be hurt in far more profound and lasting ways. She knew it was true. Emotionally she would suffer from her strange love-hate relationship with the handsome Arab Sheik.

There were, though, many things Chauncey could tell her, and Temple never tired of hearing about the man she knew only as Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid.

When Sharif was present, Temple had a great deal of trouble keeping her eyes off him. Chauncey noticed that she worked very hard not to look at Sharif. But she couldn’t keep from it.

At first he had supposed it was because Sharif made her extremely nervous. That was it. She was—with good reason—tense around him and therefore was constantly on guard, glancing at Sharif often to ascertain his shifting moods.

He had been mistaken. She was not afraid of Sharif. She was in love with him. How foolish he had been to suppose otherwise. Women didn’t stay around Sharif very long without falling in love. Sharif had been holding Temple prisoner in his desert village for more than a month. It was naive to suppose that she stayed—slept—in any tent other than Sharif’s.

In any bed other than Sharif’s.

Chauncey hoped he was wrong, for Temple’s sake.

He knew his good friend too well. To the handsome Englishman who lived as an Arab, women came too easily and therefore had no value. Christian Telford had been lover to some of Europe’s most desirable women. All of them—many of whom were titled noblewomen—had fallen deeply in love with him. None of the affairs had lasted. A restless, easily bored man, Christian’s hot passion quickly turned cold upon possession. With easy acquisition came quick disenchantment. The excitement of the chase faded swiftly with ownership.

Did Christian already own the beautiful Temple as he owned any woman he touched? Would she, like all the others, soon be discarded and forgotten? Was it already too late for her?

One afternoon two weeks into his planned month-long visit, Chauncey found himself studying Temple carefully. Sharif was gone from the village, and Chauncey and Temple were down at the water’s edge, seated on a thick, colorful rug, playing two-handed poker.

Temple looked like a carefree young girl as she sat there cross-legged, her bare feet peeking out from under the skirts of her cool summer dress. Her glorious golden hair was pinned haphazardly atop her head, and a few rebellious strands had fallen down around her cheeks and the nape of her neck.

Her bottom lip was sucked behind her top teeth as she fanned her cards carefully, holding them close to her chest, taking great care to keep him from seeing what she held. She had mastered the poker face but could not keep her brilliant emerald eyes from lighting when she drew a good hand.

Looking at her now, Chauncey found it almost impossible to believe that she was the celebrated heiress, Temple DuPlessis Longworth, one of the world’s most beautiful women and one of the richest as well. It didn’t seem possible. She was so down-to-earth, so lovable, although just as spirited and intelligent and daring as the penny press made her out to be. But she was much more. She was sweet and creative and sensitive. And she had a wicked sense of humor and a dislike of pretense that matched his own.

Chauncey stared at her, enchanted. It was all too easy to picture the beautiful Temple at home in the big adobe hacienda on his southwest Texas ranch. He could see her out on the range, astride one of his tough mustangs, her blond hair flying around her laughing face. He could see her, elegantly gowned and sparkling with diamonds, seated at the head of his long dining table, graciously entertaining moneyed cattlemen and bankers and politicians.

And if he did not check himself carefully, he could picture her upstairs in the hacienda’s master suite, wearing a satin negligee with her long golden hair brushed out around her slender shoulders.

Chauncey mentally shook his head to clear it.

It was, he realized, time for him to leave Sharif’s desert village. He could not stay on for another two weeks and not fall in love with the beautiful Temple Longworth. And he knew, regretfully, that there was absolutely no chance she might ever care for him. How could she when she was probably head over heels in love with Sharif?

He had to know.

“Know what I think, Temple, my girl?” he said casually, tossing in his losing cards and stretching lazily.

“Tell me, O wise one.”

Chauncey waited until her eyes lifted to meet his. “I believe you’ve fallen in love with old Cold Eyes.”

Caught off guard, Temple stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed nervously and said, “That is the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and added, “Have you forgotten this … this … desert pirate kidnapped me?”

“Have you?”

An extended pause.

“No. Loser deals. Shuffle,” she said finally with an impatient toss of her head. “And stop looking at me like that. For your information, I am of sound mind and have never had any difficulty keeping my wits about me. I am here totally against my will, and there’s nothing I want more than to leave this horrible place and Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid. Furthermore, let me assure you that if ever I were to fall in love—which I have no intention of doing—it most certainly would
not
be with the lawless Arab chieftain who kidnapped me and brought me here to this desolate back-of-beyond hellhole! And if it’s all the same with you, I’d like to change the subject. Deal!”

Chauncey simply nodded. He had his answer.

Temple was in love with Sharif.

“It’s getting awfully warm out here,” Temple said, folding her cards and tossing them on the rug. “Could we finish this game some other time?”

“Sure, honey. Sure.”

The bloated Turkish sultan
reclined on a great couch of silver satin shantung as the late afternoon sun spilled in through the tall sea-facing windows. On his round head was a fez of maroon silk, its black tassel hanging over his left ear. His robes were of matching maroon silk, heavily gilded with gold trim.

Mustafa dipped his short fat fingers into a silver bowl of scented water. But the sticky residue of the candied dates he’d greedily consumed still clung to his fingertips.

“You …” He pointed to Samira, a beautiful young slave who had been brought into the large chamber a half hour ago.

A mere child of fifteen, Samira had been stolen from her family’s small home place four miles outside the village of Hofuf. Bands of the sultan’s men combed the countryside constantly, searching for the fairest in the land, looking for new blood. Hunting for the very special female who could make their jaded master forget the blond American whom he had never seen but wanted desperately.

Because she was Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid’s woman.

This young lovely Arab girl now standing before the emir had been spotted filling earthen jugs at a desert well with her two brothers. A natural beauty, she was a sweet, shy, modest virgin. The Turkish abductors had watched the girl from a safe distance for more than a week before they’d moved in on her. An untouched jewel, she was destined to become one of the sultan’s favorites. Surely she could divert him, please him, sate him for a few tempestuous weeks.

On a day when Samira’s father and mother had gone into the village, leaving the girl alone with her two muscular but unarmed brothers, the Turkish raiders had swooped down on the unsuspecting trio. The boys had been shot dead and the girl snatched up and spirited away.

Once at the palace, Samira had been taken straight to the Nubian eunuchs, who had bathed her, washed her long dark hair, removed all the hair from her slender body, outfitted her in see-through harem pants of vivid magenta and a matching satin vest, draped her wrists and ankles with gold bracelets, and then taken her to meet her new master.

Left alone in the room with the obese sultan, the terrified young girl had stood there for at least half an hour while he’d lain sprawled on the silver satin sofa, gobbling his candied dates and leering at her lasciviously without saying a word.

Then, plucking the last date from the silver platter and stuffing it into his mouth, he’d pointed to her and called out, “You …”

Samira flinched at the sound of his voice.

“Come here,” he ordered, and the frightened child obeyed.

Trembling, trying very hard not to cry, she crossed the marble-floored room to him. When she stood directly beside the silver couch, the fat ruler looked up at her and, grinning wickedly, said, “What is your name, my pretty child?”

“Samira,” she said softly, avoiding his beady black eyes.

“Samira,” he ordered promptly, “kneel down here beside the couch so I may see you better.” The girl sank to her knees, keeping her eyes downcast. “What is it?” he asked, needling her. “Don’t you like your new home? Don’t you like your new master?” Samira said nothing. He laughed at her obvious discomfort, then commanded her to raise her head and look at him.

When her fear-filled eyes met his, he told her, “Do not fret so. You and I are going to spend many a long afternoon together, Samira. There is nothing I enjoy more than training a new love slave.” He chuckled heartily then and confided, “There are those who find my sexual tastes unconventional, even perverted. But you needn’t worry about any of that. Since you are an innocent, everything I teach you will seem entirely normal to you because you know no better. Isn’t that wonderful? I can make of you anything I want.”

Tears swam in Samira’s large dark eyes, spilled over, and splashed down her cheeks.

“Ah, now, do not cry,” soothed the sultan. “I am very good to my favorites, and I’m sure you will become one of my most favorites.”

Abruptly he thrust his fat right hand up before her face and said, “My fingers are sticky from the dates. Lick them clean.”

Repulsed, Samira, thinking fast, looked about, saw the silver bowl of scented water, and said, “Allow me to wash your fingers in the—”

“No!” he said petulantly. “You heard me. I want you to suck my fingers.”

Samira had no choice. While the wicked ruler moaned and sighed and squirmed about on his silver satin sofa, the young girl held his plump, beringed hand in both of her own and licked the sticky brown date residue from each stubby finger.

Mustafa’s head tossed. The maroon fez’s black tassel whipped about his fleshy face. His small black eyes gleamed with pleasure as the beautiful young girl licked his fingers. He watched, transfixed, as her pink tongue slipped between her parted lips, again and again, touched his tingling fingers, and swept upward in a licking motion that effectively cleaned away the sticky date particles.

That wet pink tongue on his short sausage fingers did the trick.

“Oooooh,” he praised, “you’re like a little kitty cat.
My
own little kitty cat, curling up close beside me, licking me clean.”

Finally finished with the distasteful task, Samira raised her head and was about to move away. But Mustafa reached out swiftly, wrapped his licked-clean fingers around the back of her neck, and began to fumble inside the folds of soiled maroon robes.

“Wait, my little kitty cat,” he said, and his black eyes became demonic. “I have something else for you to lick clean.”

At that moment there was a loud rap on the door.

Samira seized the opportunity and jerked away as Mustafa looked up angrily. Alwan, his personal servant, flanked by his two bodyguards, entered the chamber.

“What is the meaning of this interruption!” Mustafa thundered.

“Excellency, forgive us,” Alwan said apologetically, bowing in supplication. “It is your father, the Agha Hussain.”

“My father? What about him? Can’t you see I’m busy? I have no time for the old fool now.”

“He is gone, Excellency. Your father is dead.”

Mustafa’s scowl of annoyance turned immediately to a smile of pure joy. “Dead? The Agha Hussain is dead?”

“Yes, master. His servant found him a few minutes ago. He tried to wake him but couldn’t. The palace physician was quickly summoned, but it was no use. The old sultan was dead.”

“Allah kareen!”
said Mustafa, and fell back on the silver satin sofa, immersing himself in the pleasure of knowing he was, at long last, the most powerful Turk in all Arabia.
“Allah kareen!
God is generous.”