ignorant of most of their customs, she had heard that if an Arab Sheik saw a woman he wanted, he simply bought her or stole her and added her to his harem.
Dear God, was that to be her fate? It seemed likely that it was what the Sheik had in mind. Why else would he capture a white woman and bring her to this remote oasis? What use could the Sheik possibly have for her except …
A tiny gurgle of panic escaped her lips as Temple considered the horror of becoming the unwilling slave of this dark prince of the desert.
It was approaching sundown when the tent flap suddenly opened. Temple, seated on the long divan, sprang defensively to her feet.
The Sheik stepped inside. He was followed by a short, wiry little Arab man with a deeply lined face and a ready grin, and an Arab woman of medium height and stocky build who appeared ill at ease.
Gently taking the woman’s arm, the Sheik said, “Temple, this is Rhikia. She will tend you while you are inside the tent.” The woman bobbed her head. Her dark eyes met Temple’s for only an instant, before she lowered them shyly. “Rhikia speaks no English,” the Sheik continued, “but she is well trained and highly proficient at taking care of a lady’s needs.”
He waited for Temple to speak. She said nothing, just glared at him. He ignored her rudeness.
“And this,” he said, pulling the short little man in front of him, “is my dearest and oldest friend, Tariz.”
“Ahlan . Welcome!” Tariz said warmly, his white teeth flashing in a wide smile. “Rhikia and I will do everything in our power to make your stay a pleasant one.” He salaamed to her then, his fingers touching first his forehead, then his chest.
He was so friendly, so eager to please, it was hard for Temple to keep from smiling back at him. But she managed.
Over Tariz’s head, the Sheik said, “Outside the tent, Tariz will be at your side anytime I am not.” He then looked down at the woman, Rhikia, and said something to her in Arabic. She nodded, and both she and Tariz promptly left.
As soon as they were alone Temple said, “So I’m to stay here in your tent?”
“You are.”
“Oh? And where will you stay?”
That cruel smile, then: “Here, of course,” he said, turned, and was gone.
Sunset in the Arabian desert.
Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid stood alone on the crest of a great dune overlooking his sprawling camp below. His desert-bred stallion, Bandit, was at his side, nudging his master’s shoulder with a velvet muzzle.
The dying sun had turned the golden sand to varying shades of pink and purple, and already guttered torches were flickering with light down in camp. A cooling breeze stirred locks of Sharif’s black hair, billowed his shirt out in back, and blew orange sparks from the cigarette in his hand.
This desert was his favorite place on the entire earth.
And sunset was his favorite time of day in this desert.
The Sheik didn’t fall to his knees and face Mecca as his Muslim followers did. But he experienced a great measure of inner peace whenever he was in his beloved desert at sundown.
A peace no other time or place afforded.
It was not so tonight.
He found no serenity in the desert sunset. No tranquility in his hour of sacred solitude.
The Sheik lowered his gaze to the large white tent in the distance. He pictured the blond American inside who was his source of unrest. He flicked away his smoked-down cigarette and reached into his trouser pocket. He withdrew the shiny brass shell casing he carried with him always. Rolling the small metal casing back and forth in his fingers, he lifted it, focused on it with cold dark eyes.
In the fading light he could barely make out the unique manufacturer’s stamp on the casing’s flat bottom. But he knew it was there. He ran his thumb over the imprint that had been rubbed so many times over the years, it was almost worn smooth.
But not quite.
Sharif could still trace the damning telltale stamp, still feel it as he had on that long-ago
Dear God, was that to be her fate? It seemed likely that it was what the Sheik had in mind. Why else would he capture a white woman and bring her to this remote oasis? What use could the Sheik possibly have for her except …
A tiny gurgle of panic escaped her lips as Temple considered the horror of becoming the unwilling slave of this dark prince of the desert.
It was approaching sundown when the tent flap suddenly opened. Temple, seated on the long divan, sprang defensively to her feet.
The Sheik stepped inside. He was followed by a short, wiry little Arab man with a deeply lined face and a ready grin, and an Arab woman of medium height and stocky build who appeared ill at ease.
Gently taking the woman’s arm, the Sheik said, “Temple, this is Rhikia. She will tend you while you are inside the tent.” The woman bobbed her head. Her dark eyes met Temple’s for only an instant, before she lowered them shyly. “Rhikia speaks no English,” the Sheik continued, “but she is well trained and highly proficient at taking care of a lady’s needs.”
He waited for Temple to speak. She said nothing, just glared at him. He ignored her rudeness.
“And this,” he said, pulling the short little man in front of him, “is my dearest and oldest friend, Tariz.”
“Ahlan . Welcome!” Tariz said warmly, his white teeth flashing in a wide smile. “Rhikia and I will do everything in our power to make your stay a pleasant one.” He salaamed to her then, his fingers touching first his forehead, then his chest.
He was so friendly, so eager to please, it was hard for Temple to keep from smiling back at him. But she managed.
Over Tariz’s head, the Sheik said, “Outside the tent, Tariz will be at your side anytime I am not.” He then looked down at the woman, Rhikia, and said something to her in Arabic. She nodded, and both she and Tariz promptly left.
As soon as they were alone Temple said, “So I’m to stay here in your tent?”
“You are.”
“Oh? And where will you stay?”
That cruel smile, then: “Here, of course,” he said, turned, and was gone.
Sunset in the Arabian desert.
Sheik Sharif Aziz Hamid stood alone on the crest of a great dune overlooking his sprawling camp below. His desert-bred stallion, Bandit, was at his side, nudging his master’s shoulder with a velvet muzzle.
The dying sun had turned the golden sand to varying shades of pink and purple, and already guttered torches were flickering with light down in camp. A cooling breeze stirred locks of Sharif’s black hair, billowed his shirt out in back, and blew orange sparks from the cigarette in his hand.
This desert was his favorite place on the entire earth.
And sunset was his favorite time of day in this desert.
The Sheik didn’t fall to his knees and face Mecca as his Muslim followers did. But he experienced a great measure of inner peace whenever he was in his beloved desert at sundown.
A peace no other time or place afforded.
It was not so tonight.
He found no serenity in the desert sunset. No tranquility in his hour of sacred solitude.
The Sheik lowered his gaze to the large white tent in the distance. He pictured the blond American inside who was his source of unrest. He flicked away his smoked-down cigarette and reached into his trouser pocket. He withdrew the shiny brass shell casing he carried with him always. Rolling the small metal casing back and forth in his fingers, he lifted it, focused on it with cold dark eyes.
In the fading light he could barely make out the unique manufacturer’s stamp on the casing’s flat bottom. But he knew it was there. He ran his thumb over the imprint that had been rubbed so many times over the years, it was almost worn smooth.
But not quite.
Sharif could still trace the damning telltale stamp, still feel it as he had on that long-ago
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