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
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
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