MasterofSilk

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

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 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 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.”