Captured in Croatia Read Online Free PDF Page B

so around him.
    “Hold your arms out , please,” he says in a methodical, nearly clinical tone. Nothing like the heated, tension-filled exchange we had in the shadowy club hallway. Juric is occupied scanning emails on his black iPhone a few feet away.
    I can’t stifle a full body shiver as Zoran lowers down into a crouch and spans my right ankle with both his giant hands. They sweep straight up my leg to the top of my thigh. His touch makes me feel lightheaded. I try to think of something else, anything to distract me from his electrifying touch.
    What is he searching for? A knife or a miniature gun? This dress allows for no secrets and he must know that. After he runs his hands up my other leg he stands, towering over me, and reaches out to place his hands on my shoulders. I flinch and he notices. His brows draw together and he frowns as he slows his movements. Is he trying not to frighten me? Why should he care?
    I suck in a breath as his hot, rough hands move from my shoulders down my bare arms to encircle my slim wrists. He pulls them outward with surprising gentleness.
    Holding my eyes with his cool, calculating gaze, he says, “Leave them there.”
    With arms held away from my sides, I wait for the examination to continue. He spreads his hands and encircles my waist as a simultaneous flash of need erupts deep within me. If he doesn’t stop soon he’ll certainly know how his touch is affecting me ….
    “ Please,” I whisper quietly as his hands slowly sweep up to the base of my peaked breasts. The material of my dress is a thin silk blend. Everything, including my aroused nipples, is on display through the flimsy material. Ignoring my plea, he stares at them for a moment longer than is acceptable before turning away to tell Juric in Croatian, “She’s good.”
    I drop my arms back down and mentally berate myself for nearly salivating over this inscrutable man. I straighten my shoulders and ask Juric, “Are we finished with the formalities, then?”
    He doesn’t seem apologetic in the least for allowing me to be frisked. It’s a simple precaution in order for a stranger to be welcomed into his inner sanctum, a necessary means of survival for him. How daunting to have to go through that on a daily basis, to never be sure who you can trust.
    Juric leads the way as w e enter a foyer the size of an art gallery. Three stories soar upward to a stunning dome that, at this distance, appears to be inlaid with silver. But what’s hanging suspended from the curved ceiling makes me gasp in sheer delight.
    “Oh my , Vasilije, is that a Florian Cassel chandelier?” I can’t hide the genuine thrill in my voice.
    Standing motionless in the foyer, he grins down at me like a proud peacock.
    “Why yes , my beauty. I commissioned him to create the piece especially for this space. Are you familiar with his work?”
    Florian Cassel , one of the most celebrated modern Parisian glass blowers. His work is beyond extraordinary. I’ve always been fascinated with glass art and in my humble opinion, Florian’s work is hands down the finest in the world. I regularly swoon over his creations in art review magazines, and this man actually possesses one of his pieces. Unbelievable! This shocking piece of art must cost upwards of half a million dollars . For a chandelier .
    I stare in wonder at the twisting swirls of colored glass that flow downward into a twelve-foot-long pyramid. Turquoise, white, gold, and pewter colors create a kaleidoscopic riot of perfection.
    Still gazing upwards , I say softly, “Yes, he had an exhibit at a botanical garden back in the states that I attended while in college. It was one of the most beautiful collections of art that I have ever seen. You’re very fortunate to have one of his pieces.”
    He seems serious as he says, “I work hard and make certain to acquire everything that I want. I admire a woman who has passion for life, for art. Come, my beauty.”
    His arm closes around my waist and he