MasterofSilk by Gia Dawn Page A

her.
    Wanted her with a need he had not felt in a very long time—and
he vowed to have her in his bed, no matter the effort, no matter the cost.
    When he held up two hundred-dollar bills she started toward
him, gliding sensuously across the floor, only to flutter to a stop as their
eyes met and he let her have a glimpse of his overpowering need.
    She trembled as she stood before him, her body quivering as
if she would dart away at any second, forcing him to run her down as she fled
across the desert. He could hear every panicked pound of her heart, see her
nipples harden beneath her satin top…smell the heady scent of an arousal she
could not control as he reached out and traced a finger down her stomach.
    She flinched, causing him to frown in displeasure as he
slipped the first bill into the beaded belt around her hips. “Oh no, beautiful
one,” he whispered with a shake of his head, holding the second bill close to
his chest. “You must work for this one.”
    For an instant there was uncertainty in her gaze, but she
hid it quickly as she undulated before him, her torso rolling up and down as
she dropped nearly to her knees before rolling up again effortlessly as if she
were spun from the world of magic, not made from ordinary human flesh.
    When she stood beside him once more he tucked the bill into
her belt, then reached into his pocket and retrieved a small ruby-colored card,
sliding it next to the money, watching in interest as her eyes widened in
surprise.
    “Until we meet again.” He sent her off with a wave of his
hand.
    Soon. Very soon.
    Zayne paid his bill and rose from the table. He had already
waited long enough for Madame Brisson of the Red Mask Society to learn the
dancer’s true identity and approve her invitation, and he had every detail of
their coming night planned out—down to the delicate clamps of gold he intended
to fasten upon her body.
    Then she would scream.
    Then she would beg…and they would both reach the heights of
pleasure together.
    * * * * *
    The dancer called Silk sat at the bar long after the other
patrons had left, staring at the invitation Zayne Saladar had placed in her
belt.
    She swore she’d never been so attracted to a man in her
entire life. Up close his eyes were the color of the sky at midnight, a black
so dark they seemed to go on forever, drowning her in their endless depths, a
bottomless sea sucking her down. His skin was the color of café au lait, his
hair as black as his eyes, curling slightly around his neck.
    And his voice…his voice was as exotic as the land he came
from, lilting as a desert wind, hot as sand baking in the sun.
    She knew far too much about the man to even consider his
invitation.
    She had his medical file open on her desk, ready for his
appointment first thing Monday morning. He was diabetic due to a traumatic
injury to his pancreas. The so-called heretic son of an Iraqi sheik because of
his outspoken views against Islamic ultraconservatism and violence, he was
American-educated and had in fact attended college with Charleston’s very own
billionaire developer Ryan Marquis. She knew he had been married and that his
wife had been killed several years ago in their native country. And she knew he
was building a women’s health center in her name on the outskirts of town.
    It would be unwise—if not downright unethical—to meet
someone in an intimate situation who was about to become a new patient
…especially an intimate situation where identities were deliberately hidden.
    But she wanted the man with a hunger she had not felt in
years. They had a connection, some indefinable bond—and she could not imagine
giving up the one chance she might ever have to spend a night with such an
exotic and foreign stranger.
    Still, she had another thing to consider. Running a hand
across the scars that ravaged one cheek as she unwound the veil that concealed
them, Dr. Isabella Seda made her way to her car. When she danced she could hide
her disfigurement