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  Master of Silk

  Gia Dawn

  Red Masks, Book Two

  For the ladies of the Red Masks, pleasure waits behind every door…and no one is ever who they seem to be.

  Physician by day, belly dancer by night, sensual beauty Isabella Seda keeps her two worlds strictly divided—until the arrival of Zayne Saladar, her exotically handsome, widowed new patient.

  Unbeknownst to the good doctor, Zayne is also an avid fan of her dancing persona Silk, and he invites her to a night of anonymous pleasure at the BDSM-heavy Red Mask Society, no questions asked. What he doesn’t reveal? That he’s secretly hoping for happily ever after.

  After a night of thrilling sex Dr. Seda is faced with an ethical dilemma. Should she keep her relationship with her new patient strictly professional—or give in to the passion sparking between them?

  A Romantica® contemporary erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Master of Silk

  Gia Dawn

  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 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 a
ttended 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 behind the veil. Could she manage to keep it hidden when they were alone, body pressed to body?

  But he wasn’t officially her patient until Monday morning, a naughty part of her argued—not that it should ease her ethical conscience. He would never know her real identity. They’d never met outside the restaurant and she’d find a way to make certain he never saw her entire face.

  Masks and deception, she thought with sudden clarity, and pleasure and secrets and decadent delights, her wicked side added in rebellion.

  ¡Mierda! In a flash of impulsiveness, she made her decision. Taking out her cell phone, Isabella dialed the number provided on the invitation and confirmed she would be arriving at 8:00 p.m. on Saturday. Then she would have all of Sunday to curse herself for a fool and try to find some way to maintain a professional relationship with the man.

  After that she swore she would never meet him at the Red Mask Society again.

  Two days later she sat across from Madame Manette Brisson at the Gaston Plantation, where the Red Mask Society was located. One of Isabella’s hands idly threaded through the fur of a magnificent black cat while the other clutched the invitation so tightly she thought she would surely rip nail marks in the elegant paper.

  “He gave the invitation to Silk, the dancer,” she tried to explain, hoping the other woman understood. She raised her face to look Manette straight in the eye, showing every mark upon her ravaged cheek. “He doesn’t have a clue who I really am…or that I look like this,” she added lamely, fluttering the invitation over her cheek.

  Manette frowned, snapping her fingers at the cat, who gave her a bored and haughty look before jumping from the couch to groom himself on the beautifully polished floor. “Beauty comes in many forms, Dr. Seda.”

  She moved to sit by Isabella in the spot vacated by the cat. “And the dancer is a part of you, is she not? She is the sensual side you keep buried, the woman who longs for pleasure and dreams at night of desires she has hidden away too long.”

  Isabella snorted, knowing the sound would be doubly ugly in the elegance of the room. “I dance masked, do you know that? He hasn’t seen anything of me except my body, and even that doesn’t quite make the grade.” She spread her hands helplessly, giving Manette a view of her overly rounded hips and stomach. “And he’s so tall, so sophisticated, so utterly refined. He makes me nervous.”

  Manette’s laugh echoed around the room. “But that is a good thing, ma cherie. It adds to the excitement, makes the longing all the more intense.” She stood and moved to the huge bank of cabinets along one wall. “Come. I have something for you.”

  Isabella stood and followed, feeling short and awkward next to the other woman’s stiletto-heeled, sleek perfection. But her years of dance training served her well and she kept her back straight and her head held high as she watched Manette open one of the cabinet doors and pull out a deep-red mask that made her gasp in delight.

  “It is perfect,” she admired, reaching out to trace the rope of golden coins shimmering atop a length of ruby silk. The material would drape perfectly to cover her face with enough left over to wrap around her neck. The top of the mask was stitched with golden sequins and beads and it tilted up at the corners, giving the entire design a mysterious and exotic look.

  But Isabella stepped back as Manette made to put the mask in place, suspicion winning out over her earlier delight. “How did you know?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing in distrust. “The invitation was sent to me as the dancer, remember? This place is supposed to be utterly anonymous. How did you know who I really was?”

  “My dear, do you actually think I would let someone into my club without knowing everything about them? The safety of my members is of the utmost importance and I wouldn’t be a proper host if I didn’t make absolutely certain everyone here had been thoroughly investigated and approved.”

  Her voice held such a note of pride Isabella relaxed, even feeling slightly guilty about her earlier outburst. “But I can remain anonymous within the club? You don’t pass out any private information?”

  “Non.” Manette shook her head. “And once you don the mask and go into the ballroom you are free to take pleasure with anyone you desire. You are not obligated in any way to be with the one who sent you the invitation, even if you know who he is.”

  “Oh I know who he is.” Isabella trembled as she pictured his long and elegant fingers tucking money in her belt, his voice as soft as the silk of her mask as he leaned close and whispered in her ear.

  “So are you ready?” The other woman held up the mask and motioned for Isabella to turn around.

  Her heart pounded as Isabella realized she was going to actually go through with the night, meet Zayne Saladar with the sole intent to have him take her to bed. An ache spread from between her legs, building in intensity as she imagined his hands—

  “Okay.” Taking a breath to steady her nerves, Isabella spun around. “Do I look all right?”

  She had worn a simple black pencil skirt that hugged her thighs and unzipped easily down the back, an ivory blouse that showed off her assets without baring her entire cleavage, nude stockings with black lace around the tops, a simple black thong and bra—which she knew Manette couldn’t see—and her favorite ruby slippers with their sleek, spiked stiletto heels.

  She’d left her hair long and let it curl naturally down her back, knowing it was one of her very best features and that the subtle streaks of color would show through it every time she moved her head.

  “Magnificent,” Manette agreed with a smile. “I mean that, Isabella. You have a grace and poise many women would envy. Use it to your best advantage.” She tied the mask in place. “Make him burn. In the end he will jump gladly into the fire.”

  With that she turned on her heel and strode down the hall. Isabella followed, swallowing the panic that tried to steal the breath from her lungs.

  And she had almost succeeded when Manette swung open a pair of massive doors and the two of them stood overlooking the most elaborately decorated room she had ever seen—with Zayne Saladar, in all his glory, standing at the base of the stairs as if he knew exactly when she was going to arrive.

  “Enjoy,” Manette said, stepping back and pulling the huge doors shut behind her.

  Zayne held out his hand, taking her fingers in his when she finally managed to make it down the stairs. “I am so very pleased you accepted my invitation.” He brought her hand up to his lips, the gesture causing a rumble of need to erupt low in her stomach.

  “I chose not to wear a mask.” His lips twisted into a self-deprecating smile. “You know who I am. I have nothing to hide.” The words rolled over her skin like drifting sand, so soft and exotic they were an aphrodisiac in themselves. “Would you like a drink?”

  When she nodded he led her to the bar where he ordered her a frozen margarita and himself a club soda with lime, which she knew was because alcohol could have serious side effects for a diabetic.

  “You watched me at the restaurant,” she chided as she took the delicious frozen concoction.

  “So I did.” His grin said he wasn’t i
n the least embarrassed. “I watched you every second of every night I saw you dance. I could not force myself to look away.” Emotions shifted across his face, pain, desire, guilt, fleeting as a shooting star, so brief she was left to wonder if she’d really seen any of them at all.

  “Your generous donation was put to good use,” she assured him, placing her free hand on his arm. “My dancing money goes to support our local food bank.”

  “Ah. This is good. I know about hunger. It is a bleak and dangerous thing.” Suddenly Isabella realized she knew nothing of the man at all, despite what she’d read about him in the papers and the medical file upon her desk. She didn’t know how much physical pain he’d suffered after the roadside attack or how he’d coped with the death of his wife…or how many other women he’d brought to this place in an attempt to soothe his wounded spirit.

  It was as if he’d read her mind. “I am a very lonely man, my lovely one. Should you stay with me tonight, you will be the very first I have invited here.”

  Unable to stop herself, she reached out and smoothed her hand across his face as if the touch could soothe his pain away. “Why me?”

  “Because we both dream of desert sand and nights beneath glittering stars. You will come with me now.”

  She barely noticed it was an order, not a request, as her body responded to his nearness. How would she ever manage to survive the intimacies to come…and did it matter when his eyes were glued upon her every move as if she were the only woman in his entire world?

  Chapter Two

  Stepping into Zayne’s room was like stepping into a scene from One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. A fabulous Persian carpet covered the floor, woven in shades of crimson, lapis and gold. The bed that sat against one wall was covered with golden satin sheets, piled high with pillows in vivid jewel tones, its canopy hung with rows of tiny bells that would jingle with every jostle of the bed.