Untamed Page 5

  before she lifted her head, Jo knew it was Keane who held her. She recognized his touch. Through some clever maneuvering, she had managed to avoid being alone with him since they had walked together and looked back on the circus.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Prescott. I’m afraid I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “Perhaps the weather’s dampened your radar, Jovilette.” He made no move to release her. Annoyed, Jo was forced to hold her hat steady with one hand as she tilted her head to meet his eyes. Rain fell cool on her face.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, I think you do,” Keane countered. “There’s not another soul around. You’ve been careful to keep yourself in a crowd for days.”

  Jo blinked rain from her lashes. She admitted ruefully that it had been foolish to suppose he wouldn’t notice her ploy. She saw he carried no umbrella either, nor did he bother with a hat. His hair was darkened with rain, much the same color that one of her cats would be if caught in an unexpected shower. It was difficult, in the murky light, to clearly make out his features, but the rain could not disguise his mockery.

  “That’s an interesting observation, Mr. Prescott,” Jo said coolly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m getting wet.” She was surprised when she remained in his hold after a strong attempt on her part to pull away. Frowning, she put both hands against his chest and pushed. She discovered that she had been wrong; under the lean frame was an amazing amount of strength. Infuriated that she had misjudged him and that she was outmatched, Jo raised her eyes again. “Let me go,” she demanded between clenched teeth.

  “No,” Keane returned mildly. “I don’t believe I will.”

  Jo glared at him. “Mr. Prescott, I’m cold and wet and I’d like to go to my trailer. Now, what do you want?”

  “First, I want you to stop calling me Mr. Prescott.” Jo pouted but she kept silent. “Second, I’d like an hour of your time for going over a list of personnel.” He paused. Through her wind-breaker Jo could feel his fingers unyielding on her arms.

  “Is there anything else?” she demanded, trying to sound bored.

  For a moment there was only the sound of rain drumming on the ground and splashing into puddles. “Yes,” Keane said quietly. “I think I’ll just get this out of my system.”

  Jo’s instincts were swift but they were standing too close for her to evade him. And he was quick. Her protest was muffled against his mouth. Her arms were pinioned to her sides as his locked around her. Jo had felt a man’s body against her own before—working out with the tumblers, practicing with the equestrians—but never with such clarity as this. She was aware of Keane in every fiber of her being. His body was whipcord lean and hard, his arms holding the strength she had discounted the first time she had seen him. But more, it was his mouth that mystified her. Now it was not gentle or testing; it took and plundered and demanded more before she could withhold a response.

  Jo forgot the rain, though it continued to fall against her face. She forgot the cold. The warmth spread from inside, where her blood flowed fast, as her body was molded to Keane’s. She forgot herself, or the woman she had thought herself to be, and discovered another. When he lifted his mouth, Jo kept her eyes closed, savoring the lingering pleasures, inviting fresh ones.

  “More?” he murmured as his hand trailed up, then down her spine. Heat raced after it. “Kissing can be a dangerous pastime, Jo.” He lowered his mouth again, then nipped at her soft bottom lip. “But you know all about danger, don’t you?” He kissed her hard, leaving her breathless. “How courageous are you without your cats?”

  Suddenly her heart raced to her throat. Her legs became rubbery, and a tingle sprinted up her spine. Jo recognized the feeling. It was the way she felt when she experienced a close call with the cats. Reaction would set in after the door of the safety cage locked behind her and the crisis had passed. It was then that fear found her. She studied Keane’s bold, amber eyes, and her mouth went dry. She shuddered.

  “You’re cold.” His voice was abruptly brisk. “Small wonder. We’ll go to my trailer and get you some coffee.”

  “No!” Jo’s protest was sharp and instantaneous. She knew she was vulnerable and she knew as well that she did not yet possess the experience to fight him. To be alone with him now was too great a risk.

  Keane drew her away, but his grip remained firm. She could not read his expression as he searched her face. “What happened just now was personal,” he told her. “Strictly man to woman. I’m of the opinion that lovemaking should be personal. You’re an appealing armful, Jovilette, and I’m accustomed to taking what I want, one way or another.”

  His words were like a shot of adrenaline. Jo’s chin thrust forward, and her eyes flamed. “No one takes me, one way or another.” She spoke with the deadly calm of fury. “If I make love with anyone, it’s only because I want to.”

  “Of course,” Keane agreed with an easy nod. “We’re both aware you’ll be willing when the time comes. We could make love quite successfully tonight, but I think it best if we know each other better first.”

  Jo’s mouth trembled open and closed twice before she could speak. “Of all the arrogant, outrageous . . .”

  “Truthful,” Keane supplied, tossing her into incoherency again. “But for now, we have business, and while I don’t mind kissing in the rain, I prefer to conduct business in a drier climate.” He held up a hand as Jo started to protest. “I told you, the kiss was between a man and a woman. The business we have now is between the owner of this circus and a performer under contract. Understood?”

  Jo took a long, deep breath to bring her voice to a normal level. “Understood,” she agreed. Without another word she let him lead her across the slippery lot.

  When they reached Keane’s trailer, he hustled Jo inside without preliminaries. She blinked against the change in light when he hit the wall switch. “Take off your coat,” he said briskly, pulling down her zipper before she could perform the task for herself. Instinctively, her hand reached for it as she took a step backward. Keane merely lifted a brow, then stripped off his own jacket. “I’ll get the coffee.” He moved down the length of the narrow trailer and disappeared around the corner where the tiny kitchen was set.

  Slowly, Jo pulled off her dripping hat, letting her hair tumble free from where it had been piled under its confinement. With automatic movements she hung both her hat and coat on the hooks by the trailer door. It had been almost six months since she had stood in Frank’s trailer, and like a woman visiting an old friend, she searched for changes.

  The same faded lampshade adorned the maple table lamp that Frank had used for reading. The shade sat straight now, however, not at its usual slightly askew angle. The pillow that Lillie from wardrobe had sewn for him on some long-ago Christmas still sat over the small burn hole in the seat cushion of the couch. Jo doubted that Keane knew of the hole’s existence. Frank’s pipe stand sat, as always, on the counter by the side window. Unable to resist, Jo crossed over to run her finger over the worn bowl of his favorite pipe.

  “Never could pack it right,” she murmured to his well-loved ghost. Abruptly, her senses quivered. She twisted her head to see Keane watching her. Jo dropped her hand. A rare blush mantled her cheeks as she found herself caught unguarded.

  “How do you take your coffee, Jo?”

  She swallowed. “Black,” she told him, aware that he was granting her the privacy of her thoughts. “Just black. Thank you.”

  Keane nodded, then turned to pick up two steaming mugs. “Come, sit down.” He moved toward the Formica table that sat directly across from the kitchen. “You’d better take off your shoes. They’re wet.”

  After squeaking her way down the length of the trailer, Jo sat down and pulled at the damp laces. Keane set both mugs on the table before disappearing into the back of the trailer. When he returned, Jo was already sipping at the coffee.

  “Here.” He offered her a pair of socks.

  Surprised, Jo shook her head. “No
, that’s all right. I don’t need . . .”

  Her polite refusal trailed off as he knelt at her feet. “Your feet are like ice,” he commented after cupping them in his palms. Briskly, he rubbed them while Jo sat mute, oddly disarmed by the gesture. The warmth was spreading dangerously past her ankles. “Since I’m responsible for keeping you out in the rain,” he went on as he slipped a sock over her foot, “I’d best see to it you don’t cough and sneeze your way through tomorrow’s show. Such small feet,” he murmured, running his thumb over the curve of her ankle as she stared wordlessly at the top of his head.

  Raindrops still clung to and glistened in his hair. Jo found herself longing to brush them away and feel the texture of his hair beneath her fingers. She was sharply aware of him and wondered if it would always be this way when she was near him. Keane pulled on the second sock. His fingers lingered on her calf as he lifted his eyes. Hers were darkened with confusion as they met his. The body over which she had always held supreme control was journeying into frontiers her mind had not yet explored.

  “Still cold?” Keane asked softly.

  Jo moistened her lips and shook her head. “No. No, I’m fine.”

  He smiled a lazy, masculine smile that said as clearly as words that he was aware of his effect on her. His eyes told her he enjoyed it. Unsmiling, Jo watched him rise to his feet.

  “It doesn’t mean you’ll win,” she said aloud in response to their silent communication.

  “No, it doesn’t.” Keane’s smile remained as his gaze roamed possessively over her face. “That only makes it more interesting. Open and shut cases are invariably boring, hardly worth the trouble of going on if you’ve won before you’ve finished your opening statement.”

  Jo lifted her coffee and sipped, taking a moment to settle her nerves. “Are we here to discuss the law or circus business, counselor?” she asked, letting her eyes drift to his again as she set the mug back on the table. “If it’s law, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you. I don’t know much about it.”

  “What do you know about, Jovilette?” Keane slid into the chair beside hers.

  “Cats,” she said. “And Prescott’s Circus Colossus. I’ll be glad to let you know whatever I can about either.”

  “Tell me about you,” he countered, and leaning back, pulled a cigar from his pocket.

  “Mr. Prescott—” Jo began.

  “Keane,” he interrupted, flicking on his lighter. He glanced at the tip of his cigar, then back up at her through the thin haze of smoke.

  “I was under the impression you wanted to be briefed on the personnel.”

  “You are a member of this circus, are you not?” Casually, Keane blew smoke at the ceiling. “I have every intention of being briefed on the entire troupe and see no reason why you shouldn’t start with yourself.” His eyes traveled back to hers. “Humor me.”

  Jo decided to take the line of least resistance. “It’s a short enough story,” she said with a shrug. “I’ve been with the circus all my life. When I was old enough, I started work as a generally useful.”

  “A what?” Keane paused in the action of reaching for the coffeepot.

  “Generally useful,” Jo repeated, letting him freshen her cup. “It’s a circus term that means exactly what it says. Rose’s parents, for instance, are generally usefuls. We get a lot of drifters who work that way, too. It’s also written into every performer’s contract, after the specific terms, that they make themselves generally useful. There isn’t room in most circuses, and certainly not in a tent circus, for performers with star complexes. You do what’s necessary, what’s needed. Buck, my handler, fills in during a slump at the sideshow, and he’s one of the best canvas men around. Pete is the best mechanic in the troupe. Jamie knows as much about lighting as most shandies—electricians,” she supplied as Keane lifted a brow. “He’s also a better-than-average tumbler.”

  “What about you?” Keane interrupted the flow of Jo’s words. For a moment she faltered, and the hands that had been gesturing became still. “Besides riding a galloping horse without reins or saddle, giving orders to elephants and facing lions?” He lifted his cup, watching her as he sipped. A smile lurked in his eyes. Jo frowned, studying him.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  His smile sobered instantly. “No, Jo, I’m not making fun of you.

  She continued. “In a pinch, I run the menagerie in the sideshow or I fill in the aerial act. Not the trap,” she explained, relaxing again. “They have to practice together constantly to keep the timing. But sometimes I fill in on the Spanish Web, the big costume number where the girls hang from ropes and do identical moves. They’re using butterfly costumes this year.”

  “Yes, I know the one.” Keane continued to watch her as he drew on his cigar.

  “But mostly Duffy likes to use girls who are more curvy. They double as showgirls in the finale.”

  “I see.” A smile tugged at the corners of Keane’s mouth. “Tell me, were your parents European?”

  “No.” Diverted, Jo shook her head. “Why do you ask?”

  “Your name. And the ease with which I’ve heard you speak both French and Italian.”

  “It’s easy to pick up languages in the circus,” Jo said.

  “Your accent was perfect in both cases.”

  “What? Oh.” She shrugged and absently shifted in her chair, bringing her feet up to sit cross-legged. “We have a wide variety of nationalities here. Frank used to say that the world could take a lesson from the circus. We have French, Italian, Spanish, German, Russian, Mexican, Americans from all parts of the country and more.”

  “I know. It’s like a traveling United Nations.” He tipped his cigar ash in a glass tray. “So you picked up some French and Italian along the way. But if you’ve traveled with the circus all your life, what about the rest of your schooling?”

  The hint of censure in his voice brought up her chin. “I went to school during the winter break and had a tutor on the road. I learned my ABCs, counselor, and a bit more, besides. I probably know more about geography and world history than you, and from more interesting sources than textbooks. I imagine I know more about animals than a third-year veterinary student and have more practical experience healing them. I can speak seven languages and—”

  “Seven?” Keane interrupted. “Seven languages?”

  “Well, five fluently,” she corrected grudgingly. “I still have a bit of trouble with Greek and German, unless I can really take my time, and I can’t read Greek yet at all.”

  “What else besides French, Italian and English?”

  “Spanish and Russian.” Jo scowled into her coffee. “The Russian’s handy. I use it for swearing at the cats during the act. Not too many people understand Russian cursing, so it’s safe.”

  Keane’s laughter brought Jo’s attention from her coffee. He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes gold with their mirth. Jo’s scowl deepened. “What’s so funny?”

  “You are, Jovilette.” Stung, she started to scramble up, but his hands on her shoulders stopped her. “No, don’t be offended. I can’t help but find it amusing that you toss out so offhandedly an accomplishment that any language major would brag about.” Carelessly, he ran a finger over her sulky mouth. “You continually amaze me.” He brushed a hand through her hair. “You mumbled something at me the other day. Were you swearing at me in Russian?”

  “Probably.”

  Grinning, Keane dropped his hand and settled into his chair again. “When did you start working with the cats?”

  “In front of an audience? When I was seventeen. Frank wouldn’t let me start any earlier. He was my legal guardian as well as the owner, so he had me both ways. I was ready when I was fifteen.”

  “How did you lose your parents?”

  The question caught her off guard. “In a fire,” she said levelly. “When I was seven.”

  “Here?”

  She knew Keane was not referring to their locale but to the circus. Jo sipped her coo
ling coffee. “Yes.”

  “Didn’t you have any other family?”

  “The circus is a family,” she countered. “I was never given the chance to be an orphan. And I always had Frank.”

  “Did you?” Keane’s smile was faintly sarcastic. “How was he as a father figure?”

  Jo studied him for a moment. Was he bitter? she wondered. Or amused? Or simply curious? “He never took my father’s place,” she replied quietly. “He never tried to, because neither of us wanted it. We were friends, as close as I think it’s possible for friends to be, but I’d already had a father, and he’d already had a child. We weren’t looking for substitutes. You look nothing like him, you know.”

  “No,” Keane replied with a shrug. “I know.”

  “He had a comfortable face, all creases and folds.” Jo smiled, thinking of it while she ran a finger absently around the rim of her mug. “He was dark, too, just beginning to gray when . . .” She trailed off, then brought herself back with a quick shake of her head. “Your voice is rather like his, though; he had a truly beautiful voice. I’ll ask you a question now.”

  Keane’s expression became attentive, then he gestured with the back of his hand. “Go ahead.”

  “Why are you here? I lost my temper when I asked you before, but I do want to know.” It was against her nature to probe, and some of her discomfort found its way into her voice. “It must have caused you some difficulty to leave your practice, even for a few weeks.”

  Keane frowned at the end of his cigar before he slowly crushed it out. “Let’s say I wanted to see firsthand what had fascinated my father all these years.”

  “You never came when he was alive.” Jo gripped her hands together under the table. “You didn’t even bother to come to his funeral.”

  “I would’ve been the worst kind of hypocrite to attend his funeral, don’t you think?”

  “He was your father.” Jo’s eyes grew dark and her tone sharp in reproof.