Untamed Read online

  she told her, letting the warm sun play on her face. “Pete’s done a study on it from the male point of view.”

  “Oh.” Rose threw Pete her most disdainful look. “You think I’m indifferent so he’ll get interested?”

  “It’s a zinger,” Pete repeated, adjusting his cap. “You get him confused so he starts thinking about you. You make him crazy wondering why you don’t notice him.”

  Rose considered the idea. “Does it usually work?”

  “It’s got an eighty-seven percent success average,” Pete assured her, then gave Baby a friendly pat. “It even works with cats.” He jerked his thumb behind him and winked at Jo. “The pretty lady cat, she sits there and stares off into space like she’s got important things occupying her mind. The boy in the next cage is doing everything but standing on his head to get her attention. She just gives herself a wash, pretending she doesn’t even know he’s there. Then, maybe after she’s got him banging his head against the bars, she looks over, blinks her big yellow eyes and says, ‘Oh, were you talking to me?’” Pete laughed and stretched his back muscles. “He’s hooked then, brother, just like a fish on a line.”

  Rose smiled at the image of Jamie dangling from her own personal line. “Maybe I won’t put Baby in Carmen’s trailer after all,” she murmured. “Oh, look, here comes Duffy and the owner.” An inherent flirt, Rose instinctively fluffed her hair. “Really, he is the most handsome man. Don’t you think so, Jo?”

  Jo’s eyes had already locked on Keane’s. She seemed helpless to release herself from the gaze. Gripping the edge of the water barrel tightly, she reminded herself not to be a fool. “Yes,” she agreed with studied casualness. “He’s very attractive.”

  “Your knuckles are turning white, Jo,” Pete muttered next to her ear.

  Letting out a frustrated breath, Jo relaxed her hands. Straightening her spine, she determined to show more restraint. Control, she reminded herself, was the basic tool of her trade. If she could train her emotions and outbluff a dozen lions, she could certainly outbluff one man.

  “Hello, Duffy.” Rose gave the portly man a quick smile, then turned her attention to Keane. “Hello, Mr. Prescott. It’s nice to have you back.”

  “Hello, Rose.” He smiled into her upturned face, then lifted a brow as his eyes slid over the reptile around her neck and shoulders. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Oh, this is Baby.” She patted one of the tan-colored saddle marks on Baby’s back.

  “Of course.” Jo noticed how humor enhanced the gold of his eyes. “Hello, Pete.” He gave the handler an easy nod before his gaze shifted and then lingered on Jo.

  As on the first day they had met, Keane did not bother to camouflage his stare. His look was cool and assessing. He was reaffirming ownership. It shot through Jo that yes, she was in love with him, but she was also afraid of him. She feared his power over her, feared his capacity to hurt her. Still, her face registered none of her thoughts. Fear, she reminded herself as her eyes remained equally cool on his, was something she understood. Love might cause impossible problems, but fear could be dealt with. She would not cower from him, and she would honor the foremost rule of the arena. She would not turn and run.

  Silently, they watched each other while the others looked on with varying degrees of curiosity. There was the barest touch of a smile on Keane’s lips. The battle of wills continued until Duffy cleared his throat.

  “Ah, Jo.”

  Calmly, without hurry, she shifted her attention. “Yes, Duffy?”

  “I just sent one of the web girls into town to see the local dentist. Seems she’s got an abscess. I need you to fill in tonight.”

  “Sure.”

  “Just for the web and the opening spectacular,” he continued. Unable to prevent himself, he cast a quick look at Keane to see if he was still staring at her. He was. Duffy shifted uncomfortably and wondered what the devil was going on. “Take your usual place in the finale. We’ll just be one girl shy in the chorus. Wardrobe’ll fix you up.”

  “Okay.” Jo smiled at him, though she was very much aware of Keane’s eyes on her. “I guess I’d better go practice walking in those three-inch heels. What position do I take?”

  “Number four rope.”

  “Duffy,” Rose chimed in and tugged on his sleeve. “When are you going to let me do the web?”

  “Rose, how’s a pint-sizer like you going to stand up with that heavy costume on?” Duffy shook his head at her, keeping a respectable distance from Baby. After thirty-five years of working carnies, sideshows and circuses, he still was uneasy around snakes.

  “I’m pretty strong,” Rose claimed, stretching her spine in the hope of looking taller. “And I’ve been practicing.” Anxious to demonstrate her accomplishments, Rose deftly unwound Baby. “Hold him a minute,” she requested and dumped several feet of snake into Keane’s arms.

  “Ah . . .” Keane shifted the weight in his arms and looked dubiously into Baby’s bored eyes. “I hope he’s eaten recently.”

  “He had a nice breakfast,” Rose assured him, going into a fluid backbend to show Duffy her flexibility.

  “Baby won’t eat owners,” Jo told Keane. She did not bother to suppress her grin. It was the first time she had seen him disconcerted. “Just a stray towner, occasionally. Rose keeps him on a strict diet.”

  “I assume,” Keane began as Baby slithered into a more comfortable position, “that he’s aware I’m the owner.”

  Grinning at Keane’s uncomfortable expression, Jo turned to Pete. “Gee, I don’t know. Did anybody tell Baby about the new owner?”

  “Haven’t had a chance, myself,” Pete drawled, taking out a fresh stick of gum. “Looks a lot like a towner, too. Baby might get confused.”

  “They’re just teasing you, Mr. Prescott,” Rose told him as she finished her impromptu audition with a full split. “Baby doesn’t eat people at all. He’s docile as a lamb. Little kids come up and pet him during a demonstration.” She rose and brushed off her jeans. “Now, you take a cobra . . .”

  “No, thank you,” Keane declined, unloading the six-foot Baby back into Rose’s arms.

  Rose slipped the boa back around her neck. “Well, Duffy, I’m off. What do you say?”

  “Get one of the girls to teach you the routine,” he said with a nod. “Then we’ll see.” Smiling, he watched Rose saunter away.

  “Hey, Duffy!” It was Jamie. “There’s a couple of towners looking for you. I sent them over to the red wagon.”

  “Fine. I’ll just go right on along with you.” Duffy winked at Jo before turning to catch up with Jamie’s long stride.

  Keane was standing very close to the barrels. Jo knew getting down from her perch was risky. She knew, too, however, that her pulse was beginning to behave erratically despite her efforts to control it. “I’ve got to see about my costume.” Nimbly, she came down, intending to skirt around him. Even as her boots touched the ground, his hands took her waist. Exercising every atom of willpower, she neither jerked nor struggled but lifted her eyes calmly to his.

  His thumbs moved in a lazy arch. She could feel the warmth through the fabric of her blouse. With her entire being she wished he would not hold her. Then, perversely, she wished he would hold her closer. She struggled not to weaken as her lips grew warm under the kiss of his eyes. Her heart began to hammer in her ears.

  Keane ran a hand down the length of her long, thick braid. Slowly, his eyes drifted back to hers. Abruptly, he released her and backed up to let her pass. “You’d best go have wardrobe take a few tucks in that costume.”

  Deciding she was not meant to decipher his changing moods, Jo stepped by him and crossed the compound. If she spent enough time working, she could keep her thoughts from dwelling on Keane Prescott. Maybe.

  Chapter Seven

  The Big Top was packed for the evening show. Jo watched the anticipation in the range of faces as she took her temporary position in the opening spectacular. The band played jumpy, upbeat music, leaning heavily on bra
ss as the theme parade marched around the hippodrome track. As the substitute Bo Peep, Jo wore a demure mobcap and a wide crinoline skirt and led a baby lamb on a leash. Because her act came so swiftly on the tail of the opening, she rarely participated in the spectacular. Now she enjoyed a close-up look at the audience. In the cage, she blocked them out almost completely.

  They were, she decided, a well-mixed group: young babies, older children, parents, grandparents, teenagers. They gave the pageant enthusiastic applause. Jo smiled and waved as she performed the basic choreography with hardly a thought.

  After a quick costume change, she took her cue as Queen of the Jungle Cats. After that followed another costume change that transformed her into one of the Twelve Spinning Butterflies.

  “Just heard,” Jamie whispered in her ear as she took the customary pose by the rope. “You got the job for the next week. Barbara won’t be able to handle the teeth grip.”

  Jo shifted her shoulders to compensate for the weight of her enormous blue wings. “Rose is going to learn the routine,” she mumbled back, smiling in the flood of the sunlight. “Duffy’s giving her the job if she can stand up under this blasted costume.” She made a quick, annoyed sound and smiled brightly. “It weighs a ton.”

  Slowly, to the beat of the waltz the band played, Jo climbed hand over hand up the rope. “Ah, show biz,” she heard Jamie sigh. She vowed to poke him in the ribs when she took her bow. Then, hooking her foot in the hoop, she began the routine, imitating the other eleven Spinning Butterflies.

  She was able to share a cup of coffee with Rose’s mother when she returned the butterfly costume to wardrobe and changed into her own white and gold jumpsuit. Her muscles complained a bit due to the unfamiliar weight of the wings, and she gave a passing thought to a long, luxurious bath. That was a dream for September, she reminded herself. Showers were the order of the day on the road.

  Jo’s last duty in the show was to stand on the head of Maggie, the key elephant in the finale’s long mount. Sturdy and dependable, Maggie stood firm while four elephants on each side of her rose on their hind legs, resting their front legs on the back of the one in front. Atop Maggie’s broad head, Jo stood glittering under the lights with both arms lifted in the air. It was here, more than any other part of the show, that the applause washed over her. It merged with the music, the ringmaster’s whistle, the laughter of children. Where she had been weary, she was now filled with energy. She knew the fatigue would return, so she relished the power of the moment all the more. For those few seconds there was no work, no long hours, no predawn drives. There was only magic. Even when it was over and she slid from Maggie’s back, she could still feel it.

  Outside the tent, troupers and roustabouts and shandies mingled. There were anecdotes to exchange, performances to dissect, observations to be made. Gradually, they drifted away alone, in pairs or in groups. Some would change and help strike the tents, some would sleep, some would worry over their performances. Too energized to sleep, Jo planned to assist in the striking of the Big Top.

  She switched on a low light as she entered her trailer, then absently braided her hair as she moved to the tiny bath. With quick moves she creamed off her stage makeup. The exotic exaggeration of her eyes was whisked away, leaving the thick fringe of her lashes and the dark green of her irises unenhanced. The soft bloom of natural rose tinted her cheeks again, and her mouth, unpainted, appeared oddly vulnerable. Accustomed to the change, Jo did not see the sharp contrast between Jovilette the performer and the small, somewhat fragile woman in the glittering jumpsuit. With her face naked and the simple braid hanging down her back, the look of the wild, of the gypsy, was less apparent. It remained in her movements, but her face rinsed of all artifice and unframed, was both delicate and young, part ingenue, part flare. But Jo saw none of this as she reached for her front zipper. Before she could pull it down, a knock sounded on her door.

  “Come in,” she called out and flicked her braid behind her back as she started down the aisle. She stopped in her tracks as Keane stepped through the door.

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to ask who it is first?” He shut the door behind him and locked it with a careless flick of his wrist. “You might not have to lock your door against the circus people,” he continued blandly as she remained still, “but there are several dozen curious towners still hanging around.”

  “I can handle a curious towner,” Jo replied. The offhand quality of his dominance was infuriating. “I never lock my door.”

  There was stiffness and annoyance in her voice. Keane ignored them both. “I brought you something from Chicago.”

  The casual statement succeeded in throwing Jo’s temper off the mark. For the first time, she noticed the small package he carried. “What is it?” she asked.

  Keane smiled and crossed to her. “It’s nothing that bites,” he assured her, then held it out.

  Still cautious, Jo lifted her eyes to his, then dropped her gaze back to the package. “It’s not my birthday,” she murmured.

  “It’s not Christmas, either,” Keane pointed out.

  The easy patience in the tone caused Jo to lift her eyes again. She wondered how it was he understood her hesitation to accept presents. She kept her gazed locked on his. “Thank you,” she said solemnly as she took the gift.

  “You’re welcome,” Keane returned in the same tone.

  The amenities done, Jo recklessly ripped the paper. “Oh! It’s Dante,” she exclaimed, tearing off the remaining paper and tossing it on the table. With reverence she ran her palm over the dark leather binding. The rich scent drifted to her. She knew her quota of books would have been limited to one a year had she bought a volume so handsomely bound. She opened it slowly, as if to prolong the pleasure. The pages were heavy and rich cream in color. The text was Italian, and even as she glanced over the first page, the words ran fluidly through her mind.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, overcome. Lifting her eyes to thank him again, Jo found Keane smiling down at her. Shyness enveloped her suddenly, all the more intense because she had so rarely experienced it. A lifetime in front of crowds had given her a natural confidence in almost any situation. Now color began to surge into her cheeks, and her mind was a jumble of words that would not come to order.

  “I’m glad you like it.” He ran a finger down her cheek. “Do you always blush when someone gives you a present?”

  Because she was at a loss as to how to answer his question, Jo maneuvered around it. “It was nice of you to think of me.”

  “It seems to come naturally,” Keane replied, then watched Jo’s lashes flutter down.

  “I don’t know what to say.” She was able to meet his eyes again with her usual directness, but he had again touched her emotions. She felt inadequate to deal with her feelings or with his effect on her.

  “You’ve already said it.” He took the book from Jo’s hand and paged through it. “Of course, I can’t read a word of it. I envy you that.” Before Jo could ponder the idea of a man like Keane Prescott envying her anything, he looked back up and smiled. Her thoughts scattered like nervous ants. “Got any coffee?” he asked and set the book back down on the table.

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, you know, coffee. They grow it in quantity in Brazil.”

  Jo gave him a despairing look. “I don’t have any made. I’d fix you a cup, but I’ve got to change before I help strike the tents. The cookhouse will still be serving.”

  Keane lifted a brow as he let his eyes wander over her face. “Don’t you think that between Bo Peep, lions and butterflies, you’ve done enough work tonight? By the way, you make a very appealing butterfly.”

  “Thank you, but—”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Keane countered smoothly. He took the tip of her braid in his fingers. “You’ve got the night off. I’ll make the coffee myself if you show me where you keep it.”

  Though she let out a windy sigh, Jo was more amused than annoyed. Coffee, she decided, was the least sh
e could do after he had brought her such a lovely present. “I’ll make it,” she told him, “but you’ll probably wish you’d gone to the cookhouse.” With this dubious invitation, Jo turned and headed toward the kitchen. He made no sound, but she knew he followed her. For the first time, she felt the smallness of her kitchen.

  Setting an undersized copper kettle on one of the two burners, Jo flicked on the power. It was a simple matter to keep her back to him while she plucked cups from the cupboard. She was well aware that if she turned around in the compact kitchen, she would all but be in his arms.

  “Did you watch the whole show?” she asked conversationally as she pulled out a jar of instant coffee.

  “Duffy had me working props,” Keane answered. “He seems to be making me generally useful.”

  Amused, Jo twisted her head to grin at him. Instantly, she discovered her misstep in strategy. Keane’s face was only inches from hers, and in his eyes she read his thoughts. He wanted her, and he intended to have her. Before she could shift her position, Keane took her shoulders and turned her completely around. Jo knew she had backed up against the bars.

  Leisurely, he began to loosen her hair, working his fingers through it until it pooled over her shoulders. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I saw you. It’s hair to get lost in.” His voice was soft as he took a generous handful. The gesture itself seemed to stake his claim. “In the sun it shimmers with red lights, but in the dark it’s like night itself.” It came to her that each time she was close to him, she was less able to resist him. She became more lost in his eyes, more beguiled by his power. Already her mouth tingled with the memory of his kiss, with the longing for a new one. Behind them the kettle began a feverish whistle.

  “The water,” she managed and tried to move around him. With one hand in her hair, Keane kept her still as he turned off the burner. The whistle sputtered peevishly, then died. The sound echoed in Jo’s head.

  “Do you want coffee?” he murmured as his fingers trailed to her throat.