Free Nan Ryan by Burning Love

day when the wise old Sheik he’d called Father had first given it to him.
    Du-P
    Sharif s firm jaw clenched reflexively and his eyes narrowed with the hatred that never left him. His hand closed so tightly around the brass shell casing, it cut into his palm.
    In the Sheik’s lamplit tent, a rebellious Temple stalked back and forth as day turned to night. A meal, served on a tray by the shy, dutiful Rhikia, sat untouched on the low lacquered table before the divan. A warm bath, provided by the smiling little Tariz and a muscular helper, was cooling and unused in the bedroom.
    Temple had hotly refused to strip and get into the tub. Neither Tariz nor Rhikia knew what to do about it, so they’d left her alone.
    Now, as the hour approached midnight, Temple walked back and forth, back and forth, before the tent’s entrance. She felt hungry, dirty, and uneasy. She wondered miserably if the Sheik had actually meant what he’d said when he’d told her he would be staying in the tent with her. Afraid that he had, she didn’t dare go to bed, tired though she was. She wasn’t about to undress and lie down and drift off to sleep when he could walk in any minute.
    Muttering to herself, working up her courage for when he did return, Temple felt ready to face him. Or so she thought.
    A few minutes past midnight she heard his low, distinctive voice just outside. She stopped her pacing, hurried to the tent flap, and peeked out. The Sheik stood gripping one of the poles supporting the shade canopy, speaking in low tones to the burly Arab guard.
    He radiated an unquestionable power and presence, and with the flickering torchlight casting shadows beneath his high, slanted cheekbones, he looked sinister, dangerous.
    He moved and Temple jumped back. She commanded her heart to slow its fierce beating and rehearsed, one last time, exactly what she was going to say to him.
    Her resolve slipped slightly when he came inside. He glanced at her, and he looked even meaner than when he’d stood outdoors in the torchlight. It was as if the sight of her evoked some powerful hatred or passion.
    Approaching her, he said, “Why aren’t you asleep?”
    “I have a better question.” She squared her shoulders, determined to stick to her guns and not shrink before him. “Why am I here? Answer me that!”
    “In time you will know.”
    “That’s no answer! How do you know my name? We’ve never met, and I didn’t tell you. What’s this all about? I demand to know why you brought me here and what you plan to do with me! Answer me, damn you!” she shouted in rising frustration, and stomped her booted foot.
    “Be quiet,” he said, and his tone, though low and soft, was masterful.
    “I won’t be quiet, and I won’t stay here,” she announced haughtily. “You can’t keep me here. I’ll get away from you. I’ll escape. So help me, I’ll escape you. You’ll see! I’ll run away, I will, I swear I will!”
    Glaring at him, her green eyes snapping with scorn, Temple experienced a fleeting moment of triumph. She’d said what she had to say. Stood up to him. Hadn’t flinched or backed away. Hadn’t recoiled or lowered her eyes from his. Had met his intimidating gaze.
    But she wished to high heaven she’d kept her mouth shut when the Sheik, now coolly impersonal again, said, “You force me to implement methods to keep that from happening.”
    He turned away and started toward the tent’s entrance. Nervously she called after him, “Wh … what methods?”
    He left without answering. He returned five minutes later with the sleepy Rhikia at his side. Temple looked from him to the servant, her perfectly arched eyebrows lifted questioningly.
    He said, pointing with a long forefinger, “You will go into the bedroom with Rhikia. She will make up a nice bed for you on the divan. While she is doing that, you will undress. You will hand all your clothes—including your underthings—to Rhikia. You will get into the bed she’s fixed for you, and