by Gia Dawn
“An Arabian stallion,” he corrected with a smile. “A breed that is beyond compare.” He winked.
Although she chuckled she ducked her head and turned her damaged cheek away as he regarded her with an intensity that made her heart flutter. Most days she was immune to the stares and the whispers, especially from those who did not know her. She had learned to live with the scars years ago. But today, next to Zayne’s cultured elegance, remembering how he had called her beautiful when her face was covered, she felt awkward and ugly.
Keeping her face averted, she wrote down the necessary instructions before handing him several small slips of paper. “Here are your prescriptions. They should last you several months but if you have any questions or concerns in the meantime, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you, Dr. Seda.” His fingers brushed hers as he took the prescriptions and a familiar awareness rippled along her arm. “It was most accommodating of you to see me with such little notice.”
“No problem at all.” She was still unable to look him fully in the face “I admit I was curious to meet you. The medical community here is buzzing with word of your new women’s center. We can’t wait to see it when it opens.”
She stared at his hand as he shoved the prescriptions into his jacket pocket, admiring the grace with which he moved, aching to feel his fingers once again upon her skin, parting her flesh, spearing into her—
“The work is coming along nicely,” he was saying as she blinked the need away. “We should be finished by the fall.”
“I understand it will be dedicated to your late wife,” she heard herself say as he turned to leave, frustrated she had brought up something so personal when he gave her a sharp look over his shoulder. “I cannot think of a better legacy,” she added lamely.
“Laylia was a tireless proponent of women’s rights around the globe. While I am currently unable to build such a place in our home country I am honored to be given the opportunity here.”
Now that intrigued her much more than it should. Was he a spy? Or possibly a political refugee granted asylum in the US? He became more mysterious and alluring by the second. “I understand Ryan Marquis had some influence in your decision to come to Charleston. Have you known each other long?”
“Many years.”
“And do you plan to stay here permanently?”
His eyes shuttered, giving him a feral look. “My people are nomads, Doctor, but with the right motivation I could be persuaded to settle down. Do you intend to offer your services?”
Did he think she was flirting? Embarrassment flooded her cheeks as she became aware of how far she had overstepped her professional boundaries. “At any rate, welcome and I hope you enjoy your stay in the city.”
She held out her hand for him to shake and was stunned into silence when he closed his fingers around hers and brought her knuckles almost to his lips, the gesture falling just short enough of intimate to leave her mind whirling in several different directions.
“Thank you again, Doctor.” He kept her hand in his. “When do you need to see me next?”
Tonight.
Tomorrow.
The day after that.
“Six months. You can make an appointment at the desk.”
“Excellent.” He still did not let go of her hand, his eyes as sharp as those of a falcon as they studied her from top to bottom. “We are having a benefit for the center at the Gaston Plantation in just a couple of weeks. I do hope you plan to attend. I will send you another invitation.”
“Another?” Had she really heard the innuendo in his voice?
His face betrayed nothing, although his fingers brushed along her palm. “I would make certain you come.” Something in his expression sent warning bells pealing at the back of her mind but they were replaced by the sound of the bells chiming on the canopy of his bed as he’d made her beg to let her find release.
His fingers finally slid from hers. For another long moment he hesitated until he finally asked, “Seda. That means silk in Spanish, does it not?”
A quick jerk of her head was the only answer she could manage as he opened the door and made his way down the hall, leaving her wanting so much more. Even her office felt cold after he’d left, as if he’d taken the heat of everything with him, this desert nomad who had roamed into her life.
She had to refer him to a different physician. She could not continue to treat him as a patient when she was so emotionally involved, even if she never saw him again outside the office. With a groan she tried to put thoughts of Zayne Saladar out of her mind and concentrate on the rest of her obligations for the day.
Zayne was also plagued by thoughts of his new primary-care physician. He had known her instantly, despite the web of scars splayed across her cheek and the bulky lab coat that covered her like a burqa.
She could not hide the shape and color of her magnificent eyes, or the softness of her skin, or the familiarity of her touch.
He felt his manhood rise to attention as he remembered the feel of her hands upon his chest and stomach as she’d performed her examination, remembering other places she had touched and the way her mouth had felt when she knelt at his feet and sucked his member between her lips.
He cursed as he was forced to duck into the men’s room to get his body back under control. Not put off by the scars along her cheek at all he frowned, displeased by the way she’d felt the need to hide from his view, and vowed to force her to bare her face entirely when next he had her in his bed…before he remembered he didn’t have that right, which made his mood take a second turn for the worse.
What tragedy had she faced in the past? Had it come from the hands of a man? Anger rose to replace his desire, a dark and dangerous emotion he had not felt since leaving Iraq. And with the anger came the desire to protect, to hold this woman so close to his side no one could ever get close enough to harm her again.
Which was a thoroughly sexist impulse, Laylia would have reminded him. Women in the modern age were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves if they were given the education and support they needed. Support that did not include hiding them away from the world, smothering them in layers of veils and keeping them so illiterate they had to depend on a man to survive.
Zayne swallowed and pushed the memory away as he splashed water on his face and dried his hands. There was too much he needed to forget, too much he needed to forgive—and his lovely new doctor might just provide the distraction he needed to let go of the past and move forward.
So she had secrets? Excellent. He had always enjoyed a well-posed riddle, like those told by the myths of his people, meant to trap the unwary and drag them to their doom. His lips twisted up as he redefined his game, rearranging his pieces over the board until he was certain he would always win.
Then he called his driver and gave her instructions to take him to the shops along King Street. It was best to trap one’s opponent with silk. Burlap did little to stimulate the senses.
Chapter Four
It took Isabella until Thursday evening to work up the courage to call Zayne and tell him she was referring him to another doctor. Her hands were actually sweating as she called his number, hoping against hope she would get transferred to voice mail.
To her horror the man himself answered after a single ringtone. “Yes?”
“Za—Mr. Saladar, this is Dr. Seda. I hope I haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time.” Because if I have I can hang up now and leave a message later.
“Not at all. I was just finishing work and heading out for dinner.”
“Ah, um—” She tried to clear the sand that seemed to have settled in her throat. “I was calling to let you know I have transferred your records to—”
“Wait, please,” he interrupted. She heard him giving instructions to someone on his side of the line, listening even more carefully when she heard him say her office address. “Excuse me, Dr. Seda, but I have given my driver instructions to pick you up at your office. You are done for t
he day, yes?”
“I, um…don’t think that is a good idea—”
“As you know I am on a strict schedule. I must eat at the proper time every day to keep my blood sugar stable. I am on my way to dinner. You will join me.”
“N-no, I really can’t.” Isabella was in a true panic now. She’d had an overly busy day, her hair had long since frizzed out of its carefully swirled bun, she didn’t have a stitch of makeup left on her face—and she was not going out to dinner in her sensible doctor shoes!
“Fifteen minutes.” Zayne clicked off before she had a chance to make her refusal stick.
She could back out, she knew, call him and make up some emergency that prevented her from dinner—but she’d already deceived him so many times before, she could not add another lie to the list.
A glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed her worst suspicions. She looked like a hag. Fumbling in her pocketbook, she managed to find a single tube of mascara and a pot of lip gloss she couldn’t even remember buying. She applied them with shaking hands, managing to smear the mascara beneath one eye.
“Mierda,” she gritted out as she grabbed a paper towel and fixed the damage.
Then she undid her hair and smoothed it out with her fingers, not having a brush on hand. She really would have to rethink her necessities in case Zayne decided to pull something like this on her again—which, to her continued shame, she really wished he would.
Her hair was far from decent, but it looked better than it had, and at least she would have the ability to let it fall over her cheek as they dined. And she would have to make damned sure she sat with her good side turned toward him.
Throwing her lab coat in the hamper, she unbuttoned the top button of her shirt, buttoned it back again when she thought it showed too much skin and then undid it once more as her collar closed like a noose around her throat.
Shoes. She had to find another pair of shoes. Was there anyone in the office who walked to work? Practically running down the hall, she checked in the employee lounge, opening cabinets and pulling out drawers without hesitation until she finally found a pair of black heels.
Which were too damned big.
But a wad of toilet paper in each of the toes was enough to make them wearable if she didn’t walk too far or too fast. With barely a minute to spare she grabbed her bag and forced herself to take her time locking up and making her way down the stairs, winding her favorite red silk scarf around her neck.
A sleek, black limo was just pulling up to the curb as Isabella stepped out the door. When it came to a stop Zayne’s driver got out and moved to open the door to the back. A woman, she noticed with a flash of jealousy—a really pretty redhead as polished and streamlined as the car.
“Ma’am.” She tipped the brim of her hat as Isabella stepped forward. The other woman made her feel even frumpier—and older—than she’d felt before.
This was so not a good idea.
But she couldn’t back out now as Zayne leaned forward and motioned her to sit beside him. “Come. I know a restaurant I think you will enjoy.”
No way would she enjoy anything about this evening, she decided as she caught sight of her hair in the rearview mirror. It was winding itself into a tighter mass of frizz as it responded to the humid Charleston air.
“So nice of you to join me,” Zayne said smoothly, as if he’d actually given her a choice in the matter. “I find I dine alone too often.”
“Thank you for the invitation.” Isabella clasped her hands in her lap so he wouldn’t see they were shaking. “But you are my patient and this is a decided breach of protocol.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t tell.” One corner of his mouth twitched up deliciously, his eyes glittering with a wicked light. “I have just thanked Ryan Marquis for suggesting you as a physician. His recommendation was excellent. So why did you need to call me earlier? No bad news I hope?”
He blinked the gleam from his eyes so fast she thought she must have imagined it as he turned toward her, one arm splayed along the back of the seat, his fingers brushing over her shoulder.
He was near enough she could smell his soap, the scent bringing all manner of naughty desires to mind. Isabella plucked restlessly at her silk scarf to keep from smoothing out a wrinkle in his shirt.
He had already taken off his tie and crumpled it in the seat, the wad of blue cloth just begging to be folded. His jacket was nowhere to be seen and his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, giving him a look of rumpled elegance that only added to his allure.
“Dr. Seda?” he prompted after several seconds had passed, making her excruciatingly aware she had been staring and he had caught her at it.
“A routine follow-up call,” she said, hating that she’d lied again when she’d just sworn not to. Yes, she was going to hell—just like her grandmother had said after catching her at thirteen, wrapped in the arms of a much older altar boy one Sunday after Mass.
But that was before the accident—when the boys in their neighborhood fought for her attention.
What Abuela Sofia would have to say about her latest sexual exploits made Isabella shudder.
“Excellent.” As they hit a bump Zayne’s hand slipped down around her shoulder—whether accidental or deliberate she could not guess. She only knew her nipples had already peaked beneath her bra, aching with the need for him to slide his hand down even farther and pluck them until she begged for mercy. “Then I do have a personal favor to ask, Doctor, if you don’t think me too intrusive.”
He didn’t have a clue how intrusive she wanted him to be, Isabella thought, slightly shrugging in a subtle hint she hoped he would notice. Which he didn’t. Those fingers she was all too familiar with were now toying with her scarf.
“The pleasure of silk,” he muttered as he tugged at a lock of her hair. She gave him a sharp look but his expression remained perfectly earnest, as if he had nothing on his mind but the favor he was about to ask as their eyes locked and held.
“Mr. Saladar—”
“Call me Zayne, please, if that is not a problem?”
“I am your doctor,” she reminded him.
“Does that mean we cannot be friends? Surely you have other patients you know outside the office.”
“Of course, but—”
“Then that is settled. We have arrived.” The car pulled to a stop. “My favorite restaurant in the city.”
The Oasis Moroccan Grill.
Oh good grief, had he really brought her here? Isabella stared in shock at the familiar restaurant sign as the chauffeur opened the door and helped her stand. Zayne followed, rising gracefully from the car to place his hand on her back as he steered her to the entrance.
“Eight o’clock,” he said to his driver as Isabella tried to gather her wits.
No one here knew her outside of dancing hours, she was certain. She came fully costumed and veiled and never showed her face backstage or to any of the patrons if she stayed for a quick drink after she had finished. Not even the other dancers knew her real name, nor had they ever asked, respecting her need for anonymity.
Shamal, the owner, greeted Zayne warmly and fussed over her as if she were royalty as he led them to his usual table. Isabella searched Shamal’s face desperately but he showed not a single sign of recognition.
“Welcome, welcome.” He beamed, pulling out Isabella’s seat.
“You got my message in time?” Zayne leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “It did not cause you any difficulty?”
“No, no. All is well. I have taken care of everything.” Shamal continued to fuss as a server brought over a plate of fresh olives and feta cheese along with coffee for Zayne and a margarita for her.
“I hope you approve of the drink,” he said casually, picking up his cup of coffee. “I am told these are very popular.”
“Uh…they are.” If her hand shook at the too-coincidental circumstances of it all she hid it very well, she thought—until she saw the fire banked in his eyes.
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br /> “Taste. It pleases you?” he added as she took her first sip, his voice so seductive it licked between her thighs.
Isabella choked on a stray piece of ice as she saw the way he watched her, tense as a sand viper ready to strike. Surely he wasn’t deliberately seducing her…not after the night he and Silk had had together. Surely she had pleased him enough he wasn’t already looking to replace her.
“You said you had a favor to ask,” she managed, setting down the glass with a decided thud. She could not afford to let even the smallest bit of alcohol hinder her control. Not with his body so close to hers, his lips so firm and full of promise.
He bent forward and plucked an olive from the plate, tossing it into his mouth before grabbing another. “You must try one of these. Open.” He held the bite close to her lips.
Instinctively Isabella obeyed, just like she had obeyed his other demands, letting him feed her the olive, trying to keep from trembling at the satisfied glimmer in his eyes.
“The favor?” she prodded. She didn’t like the way he kept her off balance and was near-desperate to change the subject back to their original discussion.
“I would like for you to come and take a tour of the center. It isn’t finished of course, but I was hoping to get your opinion.”
“I would be happy to give you whatever insight I can.” Now they were back on neutral territory she took another sip of the margarita, enjoying the way it chilled her throat. “Which hospital are you working with? Have you met any of the other doctors in town?”
The rest of dinner passed smoothly as they talked about Zayne’s project. He was surprisingly knowledgeable about all the regulations and legalities required and she was enthralled by his enthusiasm and true desire to make a difference.
The meal itself was amazing and her physician side noted it was served in the proper proportions for his condition and that Zayne ate everything on his plate. She refused a second margarita, opting for a cup of decaf coffee as the lights went down and the band began to play.
“You will stay and watch the dancing.” Zayne moved his chair around the table so they both could see the stage.
