Free Nan Ryan by Burning Love Page B

asleep and relaxed a little.
    Then out of the darkness came that low, calm voice. “Now you cannot escape.” His head turned slowly on the pillow. He looked directly at her, his eyes flashing in the darkness. “Surely even in America a lady can go nowhere naked.”
    “You’ll pay for this, you barbaric bastard,” she threatened with a strangled sob.
    “Good night,” said he, unfazed by the threat. “Sleep well, Temple DuPlessis Longworth.”

The Sheik rose before the desert sun.
    In the gray murky light of early dawn, he slipped silently from his bed. His glance immediately went to the pale blond woman on the divan.
    She was asleep. Finally. He was glad. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he had heard her weeping softly in the night. He hated hearing a woman weep.
    His dark gaze riveted to Temple’s sleeping face, Sharif stood naked above her, studying her carefully. She lay on her side, facing him, her knees drawn up in a fetal position. Tangled golden hair spilled across the pillow, and one long silky strand swirled appealingly across her cheek, its wispy end curled around her slender throat. The covering sheet had slipped minutely as she slept, revealing a bare shoulder and a portion of her ivory back.
    Sharif’s lean body tensed when she abruptly moaned, squirmed, and turned over onto her back, flinging a slender arm up above her head.
    She didn’t awaken.
    She sighed softly and slept on, the long dusky lashes remaining closed over those extraordinary emerald eyes. Her lips, having lost their habitual tightness in slumber, were soft and full and perfectly shaped. She might have been a child, she looked so young and innocent. Like a sweet, beautiful little girl.
    Sharif’s dark gaze lowered from her sleeping face to the swell of her breasts exposed by the sliding sheet.
    This was no child. She was a woman. All woman. A beautiful, golden-haired temptress with more spirit than was good for a woman. Which made her nothing but trouble for a man. The muscles in his lower abdomen tightened, and his dark eyes narrowed.
    One flick of his wrist and the covering sheet could be swept away. Then she would be stretched out naked and vulnerable before him, a lovely sacrifice on the altar of his innate lust.
    Sharif turned away, a muscle spasming in his tanned cheek. He moved to the other side of the room and dressed quickly in the gray dawn light. In minutes he left the room, never so much as glancing at the sleeping Temple again.
    In the tent’s main room, he lifted the fragile cup of steaming hot, thick black coffee that was waiting for him. He lighted one of his favored French cigarettes and exited the tent. Just outside he saw the burly Arab sentinel who was supposed to be standing guard. He was not even standing, much less guarding the tent. Seated cross-legged on the canopied carpet, his rifle across his knees, he was dozing.
    Sharif’s face instantly darkened with anger. But he didn’t awaken the sleeping sentinel. The harsh reprimand could wait. It was growing light now. The danger of attack from enemy tribes had passed with the night. The woman asleep in his tent was safe.
    For now.
    Sharif drained the last of his hot black coffee and set the cup on a nearby table. He walked away from the lance-propped awning and the dozing guard. Moving quickly beneath the huge palms through the lush tropical growth that partially concealed his tent from the rest of the camp, he went to keep an early morning appointment.
    In a designated grove of date palms just north of the sleeping encampment, Naguib awaited his master. One of the Sheik’s most trusted lieutenants, Naguib was a fearless, loyal friend who could be unfailingly counted on to complete any duty assigned to him, no matter how difficult or dangerous.
    For that reason, the sheik had chosen Naguib to ride alone across the desert all the way to the city of Baghdad. He was to leave today at sunup. Naguib did not yet know what his master wanted with him. It mattered not.