Free Nan Ryan by Burning Love Page A

there you will sleep.” He paused for a couple of heartbeats. “Naked.”
    Temple wanted to shout at him that she wouldn’t do it, he couldn’t make her.
    But she didn’t dare.
    There was about him—as he calmly issued orders—an aura of barely leashed brutality. A quiet but impressive display of raw, absolute power and total disregard for her dignity or even her life. He was a cold, savagely beautiful madman, and the threat of impending violence clung to him like the tightly tailored trousers he wore.
    Meek as a child, Temple followed Rhikia into the tent’s shadowy bedroom. Hands trembling, she unbuttoned her soiled blouse, shaking her head no when Rhikia reached out in an offer to help. The polite servant nodded, turned away, and began spreading clean white sheets on the long divan.
    By the time Temple had stripped to the skin, her divan bed was ready. Face flaming, she hurriedly slipped between the sheets and watched as Rhikia carried away all her clothes, including her underwear and boots. As soon as the Arab woman had gone, Temple tossed off the covering sheet, leapt up, and blew out the lamp beside the bed.
    She heard the Sheik speaking softly to Rhikia in Arabic. Then she heard nothing at all. Back in bed, the sheet pulled up to her chin, Temple waited in the darkness. Tense, trembling with shame and fear, she was sure that at any moment the Sheik would walk in, rip off the covering sheet, snatch her up, toss her into his bed, and force her to submit in the hot darkness of the night.
    Long minutes passed.
    Her teeth clamped together so tightly that her jaws ached, Temple lay rigid as a poker beneath the cool silky sheet, her arms crossed protectively over her bare breasts, her long slender legs pressed tightly together, bare feet crossed at the ankles.
    Her eyes beginning to adjust to the room’s darkness, she saw the curtains part and trembled involuntarily. The Sheik walked noiselessly into the room. Biting back the moan of terror threatening to erupt from her aching throat, Temple watched as he crossed the room.
    Her racing heart stopped beating entirely when, unbuttoning his shirt, he came directly toward the long divan where she lay, naked and defenseless. She couldn’t stand to look. She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut and waited—not daring to breathe—expecting to feel his hot breath on her face, his cruel hands on her flesh.
    Seconds passed.
    The rustle of clothing.
    Her held breath escaped in a rush. Her heart started beating again. Temple cracked one eye open. Then two.
    The Sheik stood between the divan and the bed—so close she could have reached out and touched him—undressing casually. His shirt was already off. In the shadowy light he stood there leisurely unbuttoning his dark riding breeches.
    When the breeches were open down his naked belly, he paused and raised both arms above his head. Temple watched the pull and play of muscles in his smooth olive back as he ran his hands through his midnight hair. He yawned sleepily then and lowered his hands, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his opened trousers. With one swift shove he sent the pants to the carpeted floor and stepped out of them.
    Temple quickly closed her eyes again, but not before she’d caught a fleeting glance of him naked in the shadows. He looked big and sleek and dangerous. Temple waited in agony, knowing she was totally defenseless against him.
    She breathed a shallow sigh of relief when she heard him getting into his large bed. Not daring to move a muscle, she peeked at him through lowered lashes.
    He lay in the bed, the sheet riding his waist. Stretched out on his back, his arms folded beneath his head. Even in the unlighted, shadowy room, the darkness of the Sheik’s bare shoulders and chest contrasted starkly with the whiteness of the sheets.
    He exhaled heavily.
    Temple remained as quiet as possible, hoping he’d think she was fast asleep.
    When several minutes passed in silence, she supposed he was