Nan Ryan (32 page)

When the winded Bandit lowered his head and began to drink of the cool, clear water, Temple and Sharif sagged tiredly against each other, fighting for breath, willing their hearts to stop beating so rapidly.

Finally Temple raised her head from Sharif’s shoulder, swept her tangled hair back off her face, and told him truthfully, “I haven’t the energy left for swimming. I’m not sure I can even get off this horse.”

The Sheik said, “Do not worry,
chérie
. You just took good care of me, and now I will take care of you.”

He eased her up off him, scooted back out of the saddle, and gently deposited her in it. He slid off the horse’s behind, quickly took off his breeches, tossed them aside, then came around. While she looked at him, puzzled, Sharif unbuckled his saddlebags and took out a fresh bar of soap. He handed the soap to her, then took his white shirt from the saddle horn and tied it loosely around his neck. He easily plucked Temple out of the saddle and carried her to the water’s edge.

He jumped in, cradling her in his arms, and when they’d cooled off and played for a while, he untied the now soaked white shirt, took the soap from her, and gave Temple a nice long relaxing bath.

It was heavenly.

She lay in his arms in the cool clear water while he patiently, thoroughly bathed every inch of her body, lathering her sensuously with the soap, then washing her gently with the soaking shirt.

When they came out of the water, they lay down on Sharif’s breeches and let the hot desert air dry their bodies. They made love again on the soft green grass in the dappled moonlight filtering through the tall thick palms.

It was a slow, languid loving, and Temple purposely kept her eyes open throughout. She wanted to remember everything about this magical night with the Sheik. She wanted to recall—for the rest of her life—exactly how Sharif’s handsome face above her own looked as he thrust repeatedly into her. She wanted to remember how his night black hair shimmered and his beautiful black eyes gleamed and his sensual mouth hardened with passion and his sculpted brown shoulders were silvered by the moonlight.

She felt as if she were in the midst of a beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime experience, half physical and half mystical. As though she were making love to a god.

And maybe she was.

Before sunrise, at that prescribed
moment when a black thread can be distinguished from a white thread laid on the back of a hand and the faithful line up to say the morning prayer, Temple emerged from the Sheik’s tent. She was dressed for a ride in the desert. She wore a white blouse, riding breeches, and tall leather boots. Her hair was pinned neatly atop her head, and tucked in her waistband was a pair of leather gloves.

A few yards away from the tent, two tall men—one dark, one blond—stood talking quietly. A large leather valise sat at the blond man’s feet. Several yards beyond the two men, robed servants waited with saddled mounts.

Temple took a long breath, put a pleasant smile on her face, and walked directly toward Chauncey and Sharif.

“Well, there she is now,” said Chauncey, and both men turned as she approached. When she reached them the blond Texan said, smiling broadly, “I was about to decide you’d slept in and I’d have to leave without—”

“You know better than that,” Temple interrupted. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you get away without saying good-bye.” Chauncey laughed, then, looking at her closely, teased, “I don’t know, honey. Maybe you should have stayed in bed. You look a little peaked this morning.”

Flushing, Temple glanced automatically at Sharif. To her utter surprise and amazement, she saw the hint of a conspiratorial smile touch his full lips. Her already aching heart squeezed painfully in her chest.

“Chauncey’s right,” Sharif said. “Why don’t you skip your ride with Tariz this morning. Go back to the tent and get some rest.”

“I’m not tired. Really,” she said, her eyes holding his for a moment. “And you know how I love to ride.”

Again that hint of a smile at her choice of words as he, like she, recalled the wild moonlight ride they’d taken together only hours ago, a ride like no other.

“Yes, I do,” he said, his voice low, even, his black eyes burning through her.

“Well, why don’t you just ride along with us,” Chauncey suggested helpfully. “That way we could put off saying good-bye until—”

“No,” Temple again interrupted. “I … I’d only slow you down.” She looked at the travel stickers pasted to the sides of his valise—Red Star Line; Holland-America Line; Hotel Colón, Barcelona; Pension Isabella, Munich—and quickly changed the subject. “You’re quite the globe-trotter, aren’t you?”

“I get around,” Chauncey confirmed. “From here it’s up the Red Sea to Egypt, then on across the Mediterranean to Greece. Rome, Milan, and last, but not least, Monte Carlo.” He winked at her. “Give the old roulette wheel a spin or two.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said.

“Yeah … I guess we can’t put it off any longer. Time to say good-bye.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Temple agreed, smiling warmly at him. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your company.”

“Same here, honey,” Chauncey said, then reached out and swept her into his muscular arms. “God, I’m going to miss you,” he said, hugging her tightly. He held her for a long moment, her face buried against his massive chest, one of his big hands patting her back affectionately. Then, abruptly, he released her, stepped back, and said, “Don’t forget me now, you hear?”

“Never,” Temple replied, and her gaze shifted from him to Sharif when she added softly, “I will
never
forget you.”

Sharif’s black eyes flickered, then he cautioned, “Make sure you get back this morning before it gets too hot.” Temple nodded, said nothing.

The horses were brought forward, and Temple stepped back. Chauncey climbed into the saddle while a servant loaded his valise atop one of the packhorses. Sharif looped the reins over Prince’s head, turned, and glanced about.

Everyone was busy, preparing to get under way. He motioned Temple closer. When she stood directly before him, he reached out, curled his fingers inside the tight waistband of her riding breeches, drew her to him, bent his dark head, and whispered, “Quick,
chérie
. Kiss me.”

Then his lips were on hers, smooth and warm and possessive—but only for a moment. Then he raised his head, plucked at a button at the center of her blouse, and said, “I’ll be back by sundown. Perhaps another moonlight ride tonight?”

Before she could reply he turned and swung agilely up into the saddle. Looking down at her, he saw the sadness she could not conceal in her expressive eyes, and he frowned. “What is it?”

Temple shook her head, fought back the threatening tears, forced herself to smile up at him. “Nothing,” she said, impulsively laid a hand on his trousered thigh, and felt the muscles bunch and pull beneath her palm. Her throat so tight she could barely speak, she said, “I’m fine.”

He nodded. “You’re tired from last—”

“You coming, Sharif?” Chauncey shouted.

“On my way,” Sharif called over his shoulder, laid his spread hand on Temple’s, squeezed gently, then released it.

She stepped back. He neck-reined the big black about in a tight semicircle and cantered off to join Chauncey. At the head of the small caravan, they left the village as the sun began to rise. Temple watched them ride away. Chauncey turned in the saddle to wave.

Temple raised an arm high in the air and waved madly. She hoped the Sheik would turn and wave too so she could look one last time at his handsome face.

Sharif, look at me. Please! Oh, darling, please look at me. If you care even a little, then look at me, wave to me. I love you, Sharif, I love you. All I ask is that you look back and wave to me. My love, my love, look at me!

His dark head never turned. His hand never lifted. Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid rode out of his desert camp that summer dawn without once looking back.

Temple stood there unmoving even after the caravan had ridden completely out of sight. Her hand pressed to her throbbing heart, her brimming eyes focused on the spot where last she’d seen Sharif, she was still there when Tariz came for her.

“Temple?” He spoke her name softly.

Startled out of her reverie, she blinked, spun about, and saw the smiling little servant leading their saddled mounts toward her. She forced herself to smile.

“Good morning, Tariz,” she said as sunnily as possible. “I was waiting for you.”

He nodded and grinned. “It is early,” he said, his dark eyes twinkling. “You were up in time to see Mr. Wellshanse off, then?”

“Yes. Yes, I wanted to say good-bye to Chauncey.” She patted Toz’s sleek saffron-colored neck and said, “Give me a minute, Tariz. Let me dash back inside the tent and grab the robe Rhikia laid out for me.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, gesturing toward the tent. “Get the robe. The sun will be hot in a few minutes.”

Temple went back into the tent. In the bedroom she pulled on the white robe in which she had hidden a canteen of water and some nonperishable foods. She picked up the kaffiyeh for her head but did not put it on.

There was no need to search for a weapon. The Sheik never kept anything other than his scimitar in the tent, and he had taken that with him. She had seen its jeweled hilt sticking from the waistband of his riding breeches.

She would just have to hope that she encountered no danger.

The cloth headdress over her arm, she crossed to the curtains, pulled back one side, and paused. Slowly she turned and looked at the big ebony bed in which she had spent some of the happiest moments of her life.

A violent shudder ran through her slender frame, and her eyes closed in agony. She swallowed with great difficulty, bit her lip, and swayed dizzily on her feet. She considered backing out of her plans.

She sighed heavily, and her eyes opened. She took a deep breath and shook her head. No, she wouldn’t back out. Wouldn’t change her plans. She had to go. She had to go now. She would
not
wait until the passion in the Sheik’s black eyes turned to pity.

Temple rushed outside, purposely keeping her tear-filled eyes averted from Tariz. She climbed atop Toz, wheeled him about, and called over her shoulder, “Let’s ride.”

The sun was clearing the horizon when the pair rode out of the village. Temple kicked Toz into a gallop and forced herself not to look back.

Knowing it was important to behave as if everything were normal, Temple made herself carry on an amiable conversation with the ever-talkative Tariz.

When they were only a few miles from camp, Temple pulled up on Toz, dismounted, and told Tariz she felt like walking for a while. The smiling servant climbed down and fell into step beside her.

“Owwww!” Temple soon cried out and, pretending she had turned her ankle, yelped with pain. “My ankle! Oh, nooo,” she moaned.

Frowning, the concerned Tariz immediately fell to his knees to examine her ankle. “We must take your boot off at once,” he said.

Temple gave no reply. Silently asking his forgiveness, she reached inside her flowing robes, withdrew the water-filled canteen, and struck him on the head.

Tariz crumpled to the ground, out cold.

“I’m sorry, dear Tariz,” she murmured, then bent and carefully spread the ends of his headdress over his face to shade it from the sun.

Then she whirled about, remounted hastily, and fled.

The sun, high and hot
, poured down from a cloudless blue white sky. The dry air was filled with scalding heat. It was not yet noon, but already the heat was brutal, unbearable. A scorching wind came from out of the south, blowing from the vast arid wastelands of the Empty Quarter all across the Arabian peninsula.

Temple knew she must soon stop. She had listened well to the wise Tariz’s warnings. It was suicide to travel the pitiless desert in the hottest part of the day. She wouldn’t dare risk it. She had, on the many morning rides with Tariz, asked pertinent questions, learned the location of as many desert wells as possible, acquainted herself with the scarce shelters and various landmarks scattered along old trade routes.

If her calculations were correct, she should reach a small oasis containing a deep water well within the hour. She prayed she was right. Her eyes were burning from the lack of sleep and from the searing winds. Her head throbbed from the blistering heat, her back ached from being too long in the saddle, and her mouth was dust dry with thirst.