Untamed (6 page)

“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 cooling 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.

“You're smarter than that, Jo,” Keane countered calmly. “It takes more than an accident of birth to make a father. Frank Prescott was a complete stranger to me.”

“You resent him.” Jo felt suddenly torn between loyalty for Frank and understanding for the man who sat beside her.

“No.” Keane shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I believe I actively resented him when I was growing up, but . . .” He shrugged the thought aside. “I grew rather ambivalent over the years.”

“He was a good man,” Jo stated, leaning forward as she willed him to understand. “He only wanted to give people pleasure, to show them a little magic. Maybe he wasn't made to be a father—some men aren't—but he was kind and gentle. And he was proud of you.”

“Of me?” Keane seemed amused. “How?”

“Oh, you're hateful,” Jo whispered, hurt by his careless attitude. She slipped from her chair, but before she could step away, Keane took her arm.

“No, tell me. I'm interested.” His hold on her arm was light, but she knew it would tighten if she resisted.

“All right.” Jo tossed her head to send her hair behind her back. “He had the Chicago paper delivered to his Florida office. He always looked for any mention of you, any article on a court case you were involved in or a dinner party you attended. Anything. You have to understand that to us a write-up is very important. Frank wasn't a performer, but he was one of us. Sometimes he'd read me an article before he put it away. He kept a scrapbook.”

Jo pulled her arm away and strode past Keane into the bedroom. The oversize wooden chest was where it had always been, at the foot of Frank's bed. Kneeling down, Jo tossed up the lid. “This is where he kept all the things that mattered to him.” Jo began to shift through papers and mementos quickly; she had not been able to bring herself to sort through the chest before. Keane stood in the doorway and watched her. “He called it his memory box.” She pushed at her hair with an annoyed hand, then continued to search. “He said memories were the rewards for growing old. Here it is.” Jo pulled out a dark green scrapbook, then sat back on her heels. Silently, she held it out to Keane. After a moment he crossed the room and took it from her. Jo could hear the rain hissing on the ground outside as their eyes held. His expression was unfathomable as he opened the book. The pages rustled to join the quiet sound of the rain.

“What an odd man he must have been,” Keane murmured, “to keep a scrapbook on a son he never knew.” There was no rancor in his voice. “What was he?” he asked suddenly, shifting his eyes back to Jo.

“A dreamer,” she answered. “His watch was always five minutes slow. If he hung a picture on the wall, it was always crooked. He'd never straighten it because he'd never notice. He was always thinking about tomorrow. I guess that's why he kept yesterday in this box.” Glancing down, she began to straighten the chaos she had caused while looking for the book. A snatch of red caught her eye. Reaching for it, her fingers found a familiar shape. Jo hesitated, then drew the old doll out of the chest.

It was a sad piece of plastic and faded silk with its face nearly washed away. One arm was broken off, leaving an empty sleeve. The golden hair was straggled but brave under its red cap. Ballet shoes were painted on the dainty feet. Tears backed up behind Jo's eyes as she made a soft sound of joy and despair.

“What is it?” Keane demanded, glancing down to see her clutching the battered ballerina.

“Nothing.” Her voice was unsteady as she scrambled quickly to her feet. “I have to go.” Though she tried, Jo could not bring herself to drop the doll back into the box. She swallowed. She did not wish to reveal her emotions before his intelligent, gold eyes. Perhaps he would be cynical, or worse, amused. “May I have this, please?” She was careful with the tone of the request.

Slowly, Keane crossed the distance between them, then cradled her chin in his hand. “It appears to be yours already.”

“It was.” Her fingers tightened on the doll's waist. “I didn't know Frank had kept it. Please,” she whispered. Her emotions were already dangerously heightened. She could feel a need to rest her head against his shoulder. The evening had been a roller coaster for her feelings, climaxing now with the discovery of her most prized childhood possession. She knew that if she did not escape, she would seek comfort in his arms. Her own weakness frightened her. “Let me by.”

For a moment, Jo read refusal in his eyes. Then he stepped aside. Jo let out a quiet, shaky breath. “I'll walk you back to your trailer.”

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “It isn't necessary,” she amended, moving by him and into the kitchen. Sitting down, she pulled on her shoes, too distraught to remember she still wore his socks. “There's no reason for us both to get wet again.” She rambled on, knowing he was watching her hurried movement, but unable to stop. “And I'm going to check on my cats before I go in, and . . .”

She stopped short when he took her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. “And you don't want to take the chance of being alone in your trailer with me in case I change my mind.”

A sharp denial trembled on her lips, but the knowledge in his eyes crushed it. “All right,” she admitted. “That, too.”

Keane brushed her hair from her neck and shook his head. He kissed her nose and moved down to pluck her hat and coat from their hooks. Cautiously, Jo followed him. When he held out her coat, she turned and slipped her arms into the sleeves. Before she could murmur her thanks, he turned her back and pulled up the zipper. For a moment his fingers lingered at her neck, his eyes on hers. Taking her hair into his hand, he piled it atop her head, then dropped on her hat. The gestures were innocent, but Jo was rocked by a feeling of intimacy she had never experienced.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” he said, pulling the brim of her hat down further over her eyes.

Jo nodded. Holding the doll against her side, she pushed open the door. The sound of rain was amplified through the trailer. “Good night,” she murmured, then moved quickly into the night.

Chapter Five

The morning scent was clean. In the new lot rainbows glistened in puddles. At last the sky was blue with only harmless white puffs of clouds floating over its surface. In the cookhouse a loud, crowded breakfast was being served. Finding herself without appetite, Jo skipped going to the cookhouse altogether. She was restless and tense. No matter how she disciplined her mind, her thoughts wandered back to Keane Prescott and to the evening they had spent together. Jo remembered it all, from the quick passion of the kiss in the rain to the calmness of his voice when he had said good-night. It was odd, she mused, that whenever she began to talk to him, she forgot he was the owner, forgot he was Frank's son. Always she was forced to remind herself of their positions.

Deep in thought, Jo slipped into tights and a leotard. It was true, she admitted, that she had failed to keep their relationship from becoming personal. She found it difficult to corral her urge to laugh with him, to share a joke, to open for him the doorway to the magic of the circus. If he could feel it, she thought, he would understand. Though she could admit her interest in him privately, she could not find a clear reason for his apparent interest in her.

Why me?
she wondered with a shake of her head. Turning, she opened her wardrobe closet and studied herself in the full-length glass on the back of the door. There she saw a woman of slightly less-than-average height with a body lacking the generous curves of Duffy's showgirls. The legs, she decided, were not bad. They were long and well-shaped with slim thighs. The hips were narrow, more, she thought with a pout, like a boy's than a woman's; and the bustline was sadly inadequate. She knew many women in the troupe with more appeal and a dozen with more experience.

Jo could see nothing in the mirror that would attract a sophisticated Chicago attorney. She did not note the honesty that shone from the exotically shaped green eyes or the strength in her chin or the full promise of her mouth. She saw the touch of gypsy in the tawny complexion and raven hair but remained unaware of the appeal that came from the hint of something wild and untamed just under the surface. The plain black leotard showed her firm, lithe body to perfection, but Jo thought nothing of the smooth satiny sheen of her skin. She was frowning as she pulled her hair back and began to braid it.

He must know dozens of women, she thought as her hands worked to confine her thick mane of hair. He probably takes a different one to dinner every night. They wear beautiful clothes and expensive perfume, she mused, torturing herself with the thought. They have names like Laura and Patricia, and they have low, sophisticated laughs. Jo lifted a brow at the reflection in the mirror and gave a light, low laugh. She wrinkled her brow at the hollowness of the sound. They discuss mutual friends, the Wallaces or the Jamesons, over candlelight and Beaujolais. And when he takes the most beautiful one home, they listen to Chopin and drink brandy in front of the fire. Then they make love. Jo felt an odd tightening in her stomach but pursued the fantasy to the finish. The lovely lady is experienced, passionate and worldly. Her skin is soft and white. When he leaves, she is not devastated but mature. She doesn't even care if he loves her or not.

Jo stared at the woman in the glass and saw her cheeks were wet. On a cry of frustration, she slammed the door shut.
What's wrong with me?
she demanded, brushing all traces of tears from her face. I haven't been myself for days! I need to shake myself out of this—this . . . whatever it is that I'm in. Slipping on gymnastic shoes and tossing a robe over her arm, Jo hustled from the trailer.

She moved carefully, avoiding puddles and any further speculation on Keane Prescott's romantic life. Before she was halfway across the lot, she saw Rose. From the expression on her face, Jo could see she was in a temper.

“Hello, Rose,” she said, strategically stepping aside as the snake charmer splashed through a puddle.

“He's hopeless,” Rose tossed back. “I tell you,” she continued, stopping and wagging a finger at Jo, “I'm through this time. Why should I waste my time?”

“You've certainly been patient,” Jo agreed, deciding that sympathy was the wisest course. “It's more than he deserves.”

“Patient?” Rose raised a dramatic hand to her breast. “I have the patience of a saint. Yet even a saint has her limits!” Rose tossed her hair behind her shoulders. She sighed heavily.
“Adios.
I think I hear Mama calling me.”

Jo continued her walk toward the Big Top. Jamie walked by, his hands in his pockets. “She's crazy,” he muttered. He stopped and spread his arms wide. His look was that of a man ill-used and innocent. Jo shrugged. Shaking his head, Jamie moved away. “She's crazy,” he said again.

Jo watched him until he was out of sight, then darted to the Big Top.

Inside, Carmen watched adoringly while Vito practiced a new routine on the incline wire. The tent echoed with the sounds of rehearsals: voices and thumps, the rattle of rigging, the yapping of clown dogs. In the first ring Jo spotted the Six Beirots, an acrobatic act that was just beginning its warm-ups. Pleased with her timing, Jo walked the length of the arena. A raucous whistle sounded over her head, and she glanced up to shake a friendly fist at Vito. He called from fifteen feet above her as he balanced on a slender wire set at a forty-five-degree angle.

“Hey, chickie, you have a nice rear view. You're almost as cute as me.”

“No one's as cute as you, Vito,” she called back.

“Ah, I know.” With a weighty sigh, he executed a neat pivot. “But I have learned to live with it.” He sent down a lewd wink. “When you going into town with me, chickie?” he asked as he always did.

“When you teach my cats to walk the wire,” Jo answered as she always did. Vito laughed and began a light-footed cha-cha. Carmen fired Jo a glare. She must have it bad, Jo decided, if she takes Vito's harmless flirting seriously. Stopping beside her, Jo leaned close and spoke in a conspirator's whisper. “He'd fall off his wire if I said I'd go.”

“I'd go,” Carmen said with a lovely pout, “if he'd just ask me.”

Jo shook her head, wondering why romances were invariably complicated. She was lucky not to have the problem. Giving Carmen an encouraging pat on the shoulder, Jo set off toward the first ring.

***

The Six Beirots were brothers. They were all small-statured, dark men who had immigrated from Belgium. Jo worked out with them often to keep herself limber and to keep her reflexes sharp. She liked them all, knew their wives and children, and understood their unique blending of French and English. Raoul was the oldest, and the stockiest of the six brothers. Because of his build and strength, he was the under-stander in their human pyramid. It was he who spotted Jo and first lifted a hand in greeting.

“Halo.”
He grinned and ran his palm over his receding hairline. “You gonna tumble?”

Jo laughed and did a quick handspring into the ring. She stuck out her tongue when the unanimous critique was “sloppy.” “I just need to warm up,” she said, assuming an air of injured dignity. “My muscles need tuning.”

For the next thirty minutes Jo worked with them, doing muscle stretches and limbering exercises, rib stretches and lung expanders. Her muscles warmed and loosened, her heart pumped steadily. She was filled with energy. Her mind was clear. Because of her lightened mood, Jo was easily cajoled into a few impromptu acrobatics. Leaving the more complicated feats to the experts, she did simple back flips, handsprings or twists at Raoul's command. She did a brief, semi-successful thirty seconds atop the rolling globe and earned catcalls from her comrades at her dismount.

She stood back as they began the leaps. One after another they lined up to take turns running along a ramp, bounding upon a springboard and flying up to do flips or twists before landing on the mat. There was a constant stream of French as they called out to each other.

“Hokay, Jo.” Raoul gestured with his hand. “Your turn.”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head and reached for her robe. “Uh-uh.” There was a chorus of coaxing, teasing French. “I've got to give my cats their vitamins,” she told them, still shaking her head.

“Come on, Jo. It's fun.” Raoul grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Don't you like to fly?” As she glanced at the ramp, Raoul knew she was tempted. “You take a good spring,” he told her. “Do one forward somersault, then land on my shoulders.” He patted them to show their ability to handle the job.

Jo smiled and nibbled pensively on her lower lip. It had been a long while since she had taken the time to go up on the trapeze and really fly. It did look like fun. She gave Raoul a stern look. “You'll catch me?”

“Raoul never misses,” he said proudly, then turned to his brothers.
“N'est-ce pas?”
His brothers shrugged and rolled their eyes to the ceiling with indistinguishable mutters. “Ah.” He waved them away with the back of his hand.

Knowing Raoul was indeed a top flight under-stander, Jo approached the ramp. Still she gave him one last narrow-eyed look. “You catch me,” she ordered, shaking her finger at him.

“Cherie.”
He took his position with a stylish movement of his hand. “It's a piece of pie.”

“Cake,” Jo corrected, took a deep breath, held it and ran. When she came off the springboard, she tucked into the somersault and watched the Big Top turn upside down. She felt good. As the tent began to right itself, she straightened for her landing, keeping herself loose. Her feet connected with Raoul's powerful shoulders, and she tilted only briefly before he took her ankles in a firm grip. Straightening her poor posture, Jo styled elaborately with both arms while she received exaggerated applause and whistles. She leaped down nimbly as Raoul took her waist to give her landing bounce.

“When do you want to join the act?” he asked her, giving her a friendly pat on the bottom. “We'll put you up on the sway pole.”

“That's okay.” Grinning, Jo again reached for her robe. “I'll stick with the cats.” After a cheerful wave, she slipped one arm into a sleeve and started back down the hippodrome track. She pulled up short when she spotted Keane leaning up against the front seat rail.

“Amazing,” he said, then straightened to move to her. “But then, the circus is supposed to be amazing, isn't it?” He lifted the forgotten sleeve to her robe, then slipped her other arm into it. “Is there anything here you can't do?”

“Hundreds of things,” Jo answered, taking him seriously. “I'm only really proficient with animals. The rest is just show and play.”

“You looked amazingly proficient to me for the last half hour or so,” he countered as he pulled out her braid from where it was trapped by her robe.

“Have you been here that long?”

“I walked in as Vito was commenting on your rear view.”

“Oh.” Jo laughed, glancing back to where Vito now stood flirting with Carmen. “He's crazy.”

“Perhaps,” Keane agreed, taking her arm. “But his eyesight's good enough. Would you like some coffee?”

Jo was reminded instantly of the evening before. Leery of being drawn to his charms again, she shook her head. “I've got to change,” she told him, belting her robe. “We've got a show at two. I want to rehearse the cats.”

“It's incredible how much time you people devote to your art. Rehearsals seem to run into the beginning of a show, and a show seems to run into more rehearsals.”

Jo softened when he referred to circus skills as art. “Performers always look for just a bit more in themselves. It's a constant struggle for perfection. Even when a performance goes beautifully and you know it, you start thinking about the next time. How can I do it better or bigger or higher or faster?”

“Never satisfied?” Keane asked as they stepped out into the sunlight.

“If we were, we wouldn't have much of a reason to come back and do it all over again.”

He nodded, but there was something absent in the gesture, as if his mind was elsewhere. “I have to leave this afternoon,” he said almost to himself.

“Leave?” Jo's heart skidded to a stop. Her distress was overwhelming and so unexpected that she was forced to take an extra moment to steady herself. “Back to Chicago?”

“Hmm?”
Keane stopped, turning to face her. “Oh, yes.”

“And the circus?” Jo asked, thoroughly ashamed that it had not been her first concern. She didn't want him to leave, she suddenly realized.

Keane frowned a moment, then continued to walk. “I see no purpose in disrupting this year's schedule.” His voice was brisk now and businesslike.

“This year's?” Jo repeated cautiously.

Keane turned and looked at her. “I haven't decided its ultimate fate, but I won't do anything until the end of the summer.”

“I see.” She let out a long breath. “So we have a reprieve.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Keane agreed.

Jo was silent for a moment but could not prevent herself from asking, “Then you won't—I mean, you'll be staying in Chicago now; you won't be traveling with us?”

They negotiated their way around a puddle before Keane answered. “I don't feel I can make a judicious decision about the circus after so brief an exposure. There's a complication in one of my cases that needs my personal attention, but I should be back in a week or two.”

Relief flooded through her. He would be back, a voice shouted in her ear. It shouldn't matter to you, another whispered. “We'll be in South Carolina in a couple of weeks,” Jo said casually. They had reached her trailer, and she took the handle of her door before she turned to face him.
It's just that I want him to understand what this circus means,
she told herself as she looked up into his eyes.
That's the only reason I want him to come back.
Knowing she was lying to herself made it difficult to keep her gaze steady.