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“I’m touched.”
His hands were at his belt, undoing the buckle. At his fly, opening the button above the zipper, revealing the start of a line of silky hair that arrowed down, down, down…
Terror skittered through her like a small animal clawing for escape but she knew better than to let it show. That might excite him even more.
“I need your help. I swear it! Just hear me out and—”
“You haven’t answered my question.” He started toward her, his gaze moving over her breasts, her belly, her thighs. “I can take you slowly. Or I can take you without any preliminaries. It’s your call.”
Leanna choked back a sob as he reached the bed. She tried to roll away but he grabbed her ankle and pulled her into the center of the mattress.
“The hard way,” he growled. “That’s fine with me.”
“No,” she panted, and gave up any attempt at reason. He was on her now and she fought for her life, kicking, bucking, kicking again, aiming for his groin, catching him in the gut with her knee instead.
“Okay,” he said grimly, “that’s it.”
His hands were quick and hard as he undid the rope around her wrists, then dragged her arms over her head and bound them to the headboard. When she kicked harder, he whipped the belt from his jeans and wound it around her right ankle, securing it to a footpost before rolling from the bed and returning with a scarf, a tie, something bright and silky that he looped around her left ankle and tied to the other footpost.
Terror swooped down on her, smothering her in feathery black wings. She opened her mouth and her scream, shrill and high, pierced the air.
“Scream,” he said. “That’s fine with me. You can damned well bet we’ve got a crowd listening at the door. You scream, you’ll liven up the show.”
“Don’t,” she whispered, because a whisper was all she was capable of now, “please, don’t, don’t, don’t.”
“Why not?” he said coldly. “Because I haven’t got the price of admission?”
He came down on the bed beside her. “Oh God,” Leanna said. She turned her face away, closed her eyes and let the tears come.
All she could do now was survive.
She was good, Cam thought. He had to give her that.
It was one hell of a performance. From sexy temptress to terrified innocent in, what, twenty minutes? Unfortunately the routine was about as real as Asaad’s offer of her as a gift.
Why the big act? The tease, then the turnoff.
The only certainty was that the lady was a fine actress. She was probably an even better lay. How many men had paid for her favors? He let his gaze move slowly over her as she lay spread-eagled before him, those glorious breasts bare to his eyes, her golden thighs spread for his pleasure.
His erection, already hard enough to hurt, was going to kill him if he didn’t get inside her soon.
So, why was he hesitating? Her fear wasn’t real. It was part of the performance. That was fine with him. He’d done a lot of things in bed that had nothing to do with the missionary position. Silk scarves could be a turn-on.
Besides, she’d given him no choice. The kind of game she was playing had only one possible conclusion.
It was a game, wasn’t it?
Was it possible she was telling the truth? That she didn’t want him to screw her? No. Impossible. If that were the case, she could have had her wish without any effort. He’d already told the sultan he didn’t want her.
Why deliberately taunt him unless she wanted to make him change his mind?
Cam’s eyes narrowed.
The whole thing smelled like a scam. Her being dragged in like a criminal, Asaad saying he was going to have her killed, the lady’s aren’t-you-man-enough routine followed by her implausible plea for help.
Had everything that happened been meant to heighten an erotically charged situation so that the stupid American would think with his hormones instead of his head?
If so, it had worked.
