Untamed (3 page)

Why was Duffy rambling about books and contracts? Jo glanced at the man who still held her hands in his. He was watching Duffy with an easy, amused smile.

“Are you a bookkeeper?” Jo asked, perplexed. Duffy laughed and patted her head.

“You know Mr. Prescott's a lawyer, Jo. Don't miss your cue.” He gave them both a friendly nod and toddled off.

Jo had stiffened almost imperceptibly at Duffy's offhand information, but Keane had felt it. His brows lowered as he studied her. “Now you know my name.”

“Yes.” All warmth fled from Jo. Her voice was as cool as her blood. “Would you let go of my hands, Mr. Prescott?”

After a brief hesitation Keane inclined his head and obliged. Jo stuffed her hands quickly into the pockets of her robe. “Don't you think we've progressed to the first name stage of our relationship, Jo?”

“I assure you, Mr. Prescott, if I had known who you were, we wouldn't have progressed at all.” Jo's words were stiff with dignity. Inside, though she tried to ignore it, she felt betrayal, anger, humiliation. All pleasure had died from the evening. Now the kiss that had left her feeling clean and alive seemed cheap and shabby. No, she would not use his first name, she vowed. She would never use it. “If you'll excuse me, I have some things to do before my cue.”

“Why the turnaround?” he asked, halting her with a hand on her arm. “Don't you like lawyers?”

Coldly, Jo studied him. She wondered how it was possible that she had completely misjudged the man she had met that morning. “I don't categorize people, Mr. Prescott.”

“I see.” Keane's tone became detached, his eyes assessing. “Then it would appear that you have an aversion to my name. Should I assume you hold a grudge against my father?”

Jo's eyes glittered with quick fury. She jerked her arm from his hold. “Frank Prescott was the most generous, the kindest, most unselfish man I've ever known. I don't even associate you with Frank, Mr. Prescott. You have no right to him.” Though it was nearly impossible, Jo forced herself to speak in a normal tone of voice. She would not shout and draw anyone's attention. This would be kept strictly between Keane Prescott and herself. “It would have been much better if you had told me who you were right away, then there would have been no mix-up.”

“Is that what we've had?” he countered mildly. “A mix-up?”

His cool tone was nearly Jo's undoing. He watched her with a dispassionate curiosity that tempted her to slap him. She fought to keep her fury from spilling over into her voice. “You have no right to Frank's circus, Mr. Prescott,” she managed quietly. “Leaving it to you is the only thing I've ever faulted him for.” Knowing her control was slipping, Jo whirled, running across the grass until she merged with the darkness.

Chapter Three

The morning was surprisingly warm. There were no trees to block the sun, and the smell of the earth was strong. The circus had moved north in the early hours. All the usual scents merged into the aroma of circus: canvas, leather, sweating horses, greasepaint and powder, coffee and oilcloth. The trailers and trucks sat in the accustomed spots, forming the “back yard” that would always take the same formation each time the circus made a stop along the thousands of miles it traveled. The flag over the cookhouse tent signaled that lunch was being served. The Big Top stood waiting for the matinee.

Rose hurried along the midway toward the animal cages. Her dark hair was pinned neatly in a bun at the back of her neck. Her big brown eyes darted about searchingly, while her mouth sat softly in a pout. She was wrapped in a terry cloth robe and wore tennis shoes over her tights. When she saw Jo standing in front of Ari's cage, she waved and broke into a half-run. Watching her, Jo shifted her attention from Ari. Rose was always a diversion, and Jo felt in need of one.

“Jo!” She waved again as if Jo had not seen her the first time, then came to a breathless halt. “Jo, I only have a few minutes. Hello, Ari,” she added out of politeness. “I was looking for Jamie.”

“Yes, I gathered.” Jo smiled, knowing Rose had set her heart on capturing Topo's alter ego. And if he had any sense, she thought, he'd let himself be caught instead of pining over Carmen. Silly, she decided, dismissing all affairs of the heart. Lions were easier to understand. “I haven't seen him all morning, Rose. Maybe he's rehearsing.”

“Drooling over Carmen, more likely,” Rose muttered, sending a sulky glare in the direction of the Gribalti trailer. “He makes a fool of himself.”

“That's what he's paid for,” Jo reminded her, but Rose did not respond to the humor. Jo sighed. She had a true affection for Rose. She was bright and fun and without pretensions. “Rose,” she said, keeping her voice both light and kind. “Don't give up on him. He's a little slow, you know,” she explained. “He's just a bit dazzled by Carmen right now. It'll pass.”

“I don't know why I bother,” she grumbled, but Jo saw the dark mood was already passing. Rose was a creature of quick passions that flared and soon died. “He's not so very handsome, you know.”

“No,” Jo agreed. “But he has a cute nose.”

“Lucky for him I like red,” Rose returned and grinned. “Ah, now we're speaking of handsome,” she murmured as her eyes drifted from Jo. “Who is this?”

At the question, Jo glanced over her shoulder. The humor fled from her eyes. “That's the owner,” she said colorlessly.

“Keane Prescott? No one told me he was so handsome. Or so tall,” she added, admiring him openly as he crossed the back yard. Jo noted that Rose always became more Mexican around men. “Such shoulders. Lucky for Jamie I'm a one-man woman.”

“Lucky for you your mama can't hear you,” Jo muttered, earning an elbow in the ribs.

“But he comes here,
amiga,
and he looks at you. La, la, my papa would have Jamie to the altar
pronto
if he looked at me that way.”

“You're an idiot,” Jo snapped, annoyed.

“Ah, Jo,” Rose said with mock despair. “I am a romantic.”

Jo was helpless against the smile that tugged at her lips. Her eyes were laughing when she glanced up and met Keane's. Hastily, she struggled to dampen their brilliance, turning her mouth into a sober line.

“Good morning, Jovilette.” He spoke her name too easily, she thought, as if he had been saying it for years.

“Good morning, Mr. Prescott,” she returned. Rose gave a loud, none-too-subtle cough. “This is Rose Sanches.”

“It's a pleasure, Mr. Prescott.” Rose extended a hand, trying out a smile she had been saving for Jamie. “I heard you were traveling with us.”

Keane accepted the hand and smiled in return. Jo noticed with annoyance that it was the same easy, disarming smile of the stranger she had met the morning before. “Hello, Rose, it's nice to meet you.”

Seeing her friend's Mexican blood heat her cheeks, Jo intervened. She would not permit Keane Prescott to make a conquest here. “Rose, you only have ten minutes to get back and into makeup.”

“Holy cow!” she said, forgetting her attempt at sophistication. “I've got to run.” She began to do so, then called over her shoulder, “Don't tell Jamie I was looking for him, the pig!” She ran a little further, then turned and ran backwards. “I'll look for him later,” she said with a laugh, then turned back and streaked toward the midway.

Keane watched her dart across the compound while holding up the long skirts of her robe in one hand. “Charming.”

“She's only eighteen,” Jo offered before she could stop herself.

When Keane turned to her, his look was one of amusement. “I see,” he said. “I'll take that information under advisement. And what does the eighteen-year-old Rose do?” he asked, slipping his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. “Wrestle alligators?”

“No,” Jo returned without batting an eye. “Rose is Serpentina, your premier sideshow attraction. The snake charmer.” She was pleased with the incredulous look that passed over his face. It was replaced quickly, however, with one of genuine humor.

“Perfect.” He brushed Jo's hair from her cheek before she could protest by word or action. “Cobras?” he asked, ignoring the flash in her eyes.

“And boa constrictors,” she returned sweetly. Jo brushed the dust from the knees of her faded jeans. “Now, if you'll excuse me . . .”

“No, I don't think so.” Keane's voice was cool, but she recognized the underlying authority. She did her best not to struggle against it. He
was
the owner, she reminded herself.

“Mr. Prescott,” she began, banking down hard on the urge to mutiny. “I'm very busy. I have to get ready for the afternoon show.”

“You've got an hour and a half until you're on,” he countered smoothly. “I think you might spare me a portion of that time. You've been assigned to show me around. Why don't we start now?” The tone of the question left room for only one answer. Jo's mind fidgeted in search of a way out.

Tilting her head back, she met his eyes. He won't be easy to beat, she concluded, studying his steady, measuring gaze. I'd better study his moves more carefully before I start a battle. “Where would you like to begin?” she asked aloud.

“With you.”

Keane's easy answer brought a deep frown to Jo's brows. “I don't understand what you mean.”

For a moment Keane watched her. There was no coyness or guile in her eyes as they looked into his. “No, I can see you don't,” he agreed with a nod. “Let's start with your cats.”

“Oh.” Jo's frown cleared instantly. “All right.” She watched as he pulled out a thin cigar, waiting until the flame of his lighter licked the tip before speaking. “I have thirteen—seven males, six females. They're all African lions between four-and-a-half and twenty-two years.”

“I thought you worked with twelve,” Keane commented as he dropped his lighter into his pocket.

“That's right, but Ari's retired.” Turning, Jo indicated the large male lion dozing in a cage. “He travels with me because he always has, but I don't work him anymore. He's twenty-two, the oldest. My father kept him, even though he was born in captivity, because he was born the same day I was.” Jo sighed, and her voice became softer. “He's the last of my father's stock. I couldn't sell him to a zoo. It seemed like shoving an old relative into a home and abandoning him. He's been with this circus every day of his life, just as I have. His name is Hebrew for
lion.”
Jo laughed, forgetting the man beside her as she sifted through memories. “My father always gave his cats names that meant lion somehow or other. Leo, Leonard, Leonara. Ari was a first-class leaper in his prime. He could climb, too; some cats won't. I could teach Ari anything. Smart cat, aren't you, Ari?” The altered tone of her voice caused the big cat to stir. Opening his eyes, he stared back at Jo. The sound he made was more grumble than roar before he dozed again. “He's tired,” Jo murmured, fighting a shaft of gloom. “Twenty-two's old for a lion.”

“What is it?” Keane demanded, touching her shoulder before she could turn away. Her eyes were drenched with sadness.

“He's dying,” she said unsteadily. “And I can't stop it.” Stuffing her hands in her pockets, Jo moved away to the main group of cages. To steady herself, she took two deep breaths while waiting for Keane to join her. Regaining her composure, she began again. “I work with these twelve,” she told him, making a sweeping gesture. “They're fed once a day, raw meat six days a week and eggs and milk on the seventh. They were all imported directly from Africa and were cage-broken when I got them.”

The faint sound of a calliope reached them, signaling the opening of the midway. “This is Merlin, the one I ride out on at the finish. He's ten, and the most even-tempered cat I've ever worked with. Heathcliff,” she continued as she moved down the line of cages, “he's six, my best leaper. And this is Faust, the baby at four and a half.” The lions paced their cages as Jo walked Keane down the line. Unable to prevent herself, Jo gave Faust a signal by raising her hand. Obediently, he sent out a huge, deafening roar. To Jo's disappointment, Keane did not scramble for cover.

“Very impressive,” he said mildly. “You put him in the center when you lie down on them, don't you?”

“Yes.” She frowned, then spoke her thoughts candidly. “You're very observant—and you've got steady nerves.”

“My profession requires them, too, to an extent,” he returned.

Jo considered this a moment, then turned back to the lions. “Lazareth, he's twelve and a natural ham. Bolingbroke, he's ten, from the same lioness as Merlin. Hamlet,” she said stopping again, “he's five. I bought him to replace Ari in the act.” Jo stared into the tawny eyes. “He has potential, but he's arrogant. Patient, too. He's just waiting for me to make a mistake.”

“Why?” Keane glanced over at Jo. Her eyes were cool and steady on Hamlet's.

“So he can get a good clean swipe at me,” she told him without altering her expression. “It's his first season in the big cage. Pandora,” Jo continued, pointing out the females. “A very classy lady. She's six. Hester, at seven, my best all-around. And Portia; it's her first year, too. She's mostly a seat-warmer.”

“Seat-warmer?”

“Just what it sounds like,” Jo explained. “She hasn't mastered any complicated tricks yet. She evens out the act, does a few basics and warms the seat.” Jo moved on. “Dulcinea, the prettiest of the ladies. Ophelia, who had a litter last year; and Abra, eight, a bit bad-tempered but a good balancer.”

Hearing her name, the cat rose, stretched her long, golden body, then began to rub it against the bars of the cage. A deep sound rumbled in her throat. Jo scowled and jammed her hands into her pockets. “She likes you,” she muttered.

“Oh?” Lifting a brow, Keane studied the three-hundred-pound Abra more carefully. “How do you know?”

“When a lion likes you, it does exactly what a house cat does. It rubs against you. Abra's rubbing against the bars because she can't get any closer.”

“I see.” Humor touched his mouth. “I must admit, I'm at a loss on how to return the compliment.” He drew on his cigar, then regarded Jo through a haze of smoke. “Your choice of names is fascinating.”

“I like to read,” she stated, leaving it at that. “Is there anything else you'd like to know about the cats?” Jo was determined to keep their conversation on a professional level. His smile had reminded her all too clearly of their encounter the night before.

“Do you drug them before a performance?”

Fury sparked Jo's eyes. “Certainly not.”

“Was that an unreasonable question?” Keane countered. He dropped his cigar to the ground, then crushed it out with his heel.

“Not for a first of mayer,” Jo decided with a sigh. She tossed her hair carelessly behind her back. “Drugging is not only cruel, it's stupid. A drugged animal won't perform.”

“You don't touch the lions with that whip,” Keane commented. He watched the light breeze tease a few strands of her hair. “Why do you use it?”

“To get their attention and to keep the audience awake.” She smiled reluctantly.

Keane took her arm. Instantly, Jo stiffened. “Let's walk,” he suggested. He began to lead her away from the cages. Spotting several people roaming the back yard, Jo refrained from pulling away. The last thing she wanted was the story spreading that she was having a tiff with the owner. “How do you tame them?” he asked her.

“I don't. They're not tame, they're trained.” A tall blond woman walked by carrying a tiny white poodle. “Merlin's hungry today,” Jo called out with a grin.

The woman bundled the dog closer to her breast in mock alarm and began a rapid scolding in French. Jo laughed, telling her in the same language that Fifi was too tough a mouthful for Merlin.

“Fifi can do a double somersault on the back of a moving horse,” Jo explained as they began to walk again. “She's trained just as my cats are trained, but she's also domesticated. The cats are wild.” Jo turned her face up to Keane's. The sun cast a sheen over her hair and threw gold flecks into her eyes. “A wild thing can never be tamed, and anyone who tries is foolish. If you take something wild and turn it into a pet, you've stolen its character, blanked out its spark. And still, there's always an essence of the wild that can come back to life. When a dog turns on his master, it's ugly. When a lion turns, it's lethal.” She was beginning to become accustomed to his hand on her arm, finding it easy to talk to him because he listened. “A full-grown male stands three feet at the shoulder and weighs over five hundred pounds. One well-directed swipe can break a man's neck, not to mention what teeth and claws can do.” Jo gave a smile and a shrug. “Those aren't the virtues of a pet.”