Chapter One
In the back of his limo Zayne Saladar pricked his finger,
checked his blood sugar and administered the proper dose of insulin as his
driver pulled up to the curve of the Oasis Moroccan Grill, the best Middle Eastern
restaurant in the state of South Carolina.
“Thank you,” he said to the woman who opened his door, her
uniform crisp and her manner pleasantly professional. “You will pick me up at 9:00
p.m.”
“Yes sir,” she answered.
Zayne noted she was lovely, her hair plaited into a simple
red braid, her eyes a subtle shade of amber, her body toned beneath her suit.
But he had no interest in her as a woman. Oh no. Tonight he had more exotic
tastes in mind.
His cock rose to attention as he thought of the beautiful
dancer who had claimed too much of his time and energy of late. Not that she
knew the extent of his interest…at least not yet. She would by the time the
night was over.
He patted the invitation in his pocket as the owner of the
restaurant met him with a smile. “Welcome, Mr. Saladar. So very nice to see you
again. I have saved you the best table in the house.” With a bow he led Zayne
to a small table just at the edge of the dance floor, where he could enjoy the
show up close.
“And what have you prepared for me tonight?” Zayne asked as
a steaming cup of coffee was set before him.
The owner looked up at the ceiling as if Zayne’s question
had taken him off guard. “I am thinking a spiced chicken soup, followed by
couscous with mussels and shrimp. And for dessert I have made fresh pomegranate
sorbet, most excellent.”
Satisfied, Zayne sat back in his chair. He had given the man
his dietary requirements several weeks ago and so far every meal had been
perfectly proportioned. Tonight’s was just the same. He ate slowly and with
relish. He had just finished the last of the sorbet when the lights in the
dining room grew dim and the band began to play, the rhythmic beat of drums
accompanying the first dancer as she whirled her way onto the stage.
She was lovely, with overly large breasts and a shock of
black hair that curled around her shoulders, her stomach an expanse of creamy
flesh bared so far down it looked as if the flimsy skirt she was wearing would
tumble to the ground at any moment. Although she was not the one he was waiting
for Zayne held a one-hundred-dollar bill above his head, tucking it into the
top of her skirt when she moved close and spun around his table, her easy smile
showing she was thankful for the money.
The second dancer was a near copy of the first, save for her
beachy-blonde hair and slightly smaller breasts. Again he held up a bill as she
circled the room, pleased to see the look of desire on her face when he slipped
it into her scrap of a top.
Anticipating who was to come, Zayne ordered a round of
drinks for the house and was rewarded with the cheers and gratitude of his
fellow patrons.
Someone said thank you in his native tongue. “ Shukran .”
“ Bisihhatik ,” called another.
“Cheers,” added a voice for the Americans present.
It gave Zayne a great satisfaction to see both cultures
mingling together in an environment free of suspicion and mistrust, and made
him feel more at home in his new city than he had in all the weeks before. Then
the crowd around him grew silent and spellbound and Zayne turned his gaze to
the stage—and could not tear it away again.
Just as every other time she danced, the woman’s face was
fully covered except for the luminous brown eyes that glowed above the veil.
Rimmed with black liner and sparkling-gold shadow, they were mesmerizing
beneath thick, dark lashes tipped with more of the golden glitter. Her hair was
the color of fine, aged brandy and tumbled to her waist, streaks of gold and
bronze weaving in and out of the light as she moved. Her body was lush with
curves and valleys like the moon goddesses of ancient times, shadowed by
scarves of silk that flowed around her as she danced.
He wanted
In the back of his limo Zayne Saladar pricked his finger,
checked his blood sugar and administered the proper dose of insulin as his
driver pulled up to the curve of the Oasis Moroccan Grill, the best Middle Eastern
restaurant in the state of South Carolina.
“Thank you,” he said to the woman who opened his door, her
uniform crisp and her manner pleasantly professional. “You will pick me up at 9:00
p.m.”
“Yes sir,” she answered.
Zayne noted she was lovely, her hair plaited into a simple
red braid, her eyes a subtle shade of amber, her body toned beneath her suit.
But he had no interest in her as a woman. Oh no. Tonight he had more exotic
tastes in mind.
His cock rose to attention as he thought of the beautiful
dancer who had claimed too much of his time and energy of late. Not that she
knew the extent of his interest…at least not yet. She would by the time the
night was over.
He patted the invitation in his pocket as the owner of the
restaurant met him with a smile. “Welcome, Mr. Saladar. So very nice to see you
again. I have saved you the best table in the house.” With a bow he led Zayne
to a small table just at the edge of the dance floor, where he could enjoy the
show up close.
“And what have you prepared for me tonight?” Zayne asked as
a steaming cup of coffee was set before him.
The owner looked up at the ceiling as if Zayne’s question
had taken him off guard. “I am thinking a spiced chicken soup, followed by
couscous with mussels and shrimp. And for dessert I have made fresh pomegranate
sorbet, most excellent.”
Satisfied, Zayne sat back in his chair. He had given the man
his dietary requirements several weeks ago and so far every meal had been
perfectly proportioned. Tonight’s was just the same. He ate slowly and with
relish. He had just finished the last of the sorbet when the lights in the
dining room grew dim and the band began to play, the rhythmic beat of drums
accompanying the first dancer as she whirled her way onto the stage.
She was lovely, with overly large breasts and a shock of
black hair that curled around her shoulders, her stomach an expanse of creamy
flesh bared so far down it looked as if the flimsy skirt she was wearing would
tumble to the ground at any moment. Although she was not the one he was waiting
for Zayne held a one-hundred-dollar bill above his head, tucking it into the
top of her skirt when she moved close and spun around his table, her easy smile
showing she was thankful for the money.
The second dancer was a near copy of the first, save for her
beachy-blonde hair and slightly smaller breasts. Again he held up a bill as she
circled the room, pleased to see the look of desire on her face when he slipped
it into her scrap of a top.
Anticipating who was to come, Zayne ordered a round of
drinks for the house and was rewarded with the cheers and gratitude of his
fellow patrons.
Someone said thank you in his native tongue. “ Shukran .”
“ Bisihhatik ,” called another.
“Cheers,” added a voice for the Americans present.
It gave Zayne a great satisfaction to see both cultures
mingling together in an environment free of suspicion and mistrust, and made
him feel more at home in his new city than he had in all the weeks before. Then
the crowd around him grew silent and spellbound and Zayne turned his gaze to
the stage—and could not tear it away again.
Just as every other time she danced, the woman’s face was
fully covered except for the luminous brown eyes that glowed above the veil.
Rimmed with black liner and sparkling-gold shadow, they were mesmerizing
beneath thick, dark lashes tipped with more of the golden glitter. Her hair was
the color of fine, aged brandy and tumbled to her waist, streaks of gold and
bronze weaving in and out of the light as she moved. Her body was lush with
curves and valleys like the moon goddesses of ancient times, shadowed by
scarves of silk that flowed around her as she danced.
He wanted
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