Free Heart Craving by Sandra Hill Page A

twenty . . .
    PAULA FELT AS if she had fallen into a black hole and emerged on the other side of the world. It was Arabian Nights and a torrid Bertrice Small novel all wrapped up in one.
    By the flickering light of candles and tall flame-lit torches, she saw jewel-toned Persian carpets, topped with dozens of satin pillows. Wine cooled in an ice-filled bucket, and succulent Middle Eastern foods warmed over a brazier. Exotic music came from somewhere—a mournful twang reminiscent of hot Sahara nights and dark-skinned Bedouin lovers.
    Paula fought the seductive pull of the erotic fantasy Nick was creating for her. She didn’t understand why he did it, but she couldn’t deny the heightening of her senses—or the lowering of her resistance. She closed her eyes, fighting for control, and groaned behind her gag.
    “Did you say something, Zara?”
    Nick had come up behind her, silent as a desert bandit, and placed a sharp blade near her throat. She glanced back over her shoulder at him. A shiver ran through her, but not of fear. Nick wouldn’t hurt her.
    Before she realized what he intended, he cut her oversized T-shirt from the neck band to the end of the short sleeves on both sides. Despite her hands being still bound behind her back, he was able to pull the shirt down till it fell to the ground, exposing her bare breasts. They peaked immediately into telling points of aching arousal. She wore only shorts now, but those, and her panties, soon joined her shirt on the ground.
    And she stood before him, naked and vulnerable, like the slave captive he had deemed her.
    He circled her in a predatory fashion, examining her body from all angles, as if determining her worth. Nick had always been a good actor. That was why he often got assigned to drug busts or gigs where he had to play a role. He was using all those talents now. If Paula hadn’t known him before, she would swear he really was a ruthless sheik who’d captured an unwilling slave girl . . . on a New Jersey beach.
    She giggled, low in her throat.
    “You find humor in your captivity, do you, Zara?” he asked in a velvety voice, and trailed the dull side of his knife downward, flicking the nipples of both breasts lightly.
    She inhaled sharply at the intense pleasure.
    He smiled. “I’m going to remove your gag now, Zara, and you are not to speak unless I give you permission. I am the master. You are my slave. Do you understand?”
    At first, she remained obstinate. Then she nodded her head. Despite herself, she was curious as to just how far he would go with this charade.
    The minute the silk scarf fell away from her mouth, she charged, “Nick, you can’t do this.”
    “Oh, can’t I?” he said. “Did I not tell you to remain silent? I am Raschid. It is the only name I will answer to. Or master.”
    She made an “in your dreams” snort of disgust.
    He raised an eyebrow at her in challenge and continued, “And you are Zara . . . my love slave.”
    Love slave? Oh, my.
    “What is this, some kind of middle-aged crazy thing?”
    “Middle-aged?” he sputtered indignantly. “I’m only thirty-five. And you’re doing a hell of a lot more drooling than I am.”
    “Pre-middle-aged then. Or post-raging-stud-dom. All I know is, you’re acting crazy lately.”
    “Stud-dom?” He grinned, honing in on that one word. “You think I’m still a stud?”
    “Still?” She made another snort of disgust.
    “Now, now, sarcasm does not befit a harem girl.” He winked and held out a bundle of sheer fabric. “When I release your hands, slave , you will put this on,” he ordered.
    Paula looked down in puzzlement as he shook the fabric out, causing all the tiny bells sewn along its edges to tinkle delightfully. She couldn’t help but smile . . . until she realized what he held. A harem girl’s outfit—like a belly dancer’s—little more than transparent scarves that would reveal more than they would hide. Oh, this was outrageous! And, worst of all, it