Untamed (7 page)

Keane smiled, letting his eyes travel over her face. “Yes, Duffy's given me a route list. I'll find you. Aren't you going to ask me in?”

“In?” Jo repeated. “Oh, no, I told you, I have to change, and . . .” He stepped forward as she talked. Something in his eyes told her a firm stand was necessary. She had seen a similar look in a lion's eyes while he contemplated taking a dangerous liberty. “I simply don't have time right now. If I don't see you before you go, have a good trip.” She turned and opened the door. Aware of a movement, she turned back, but not before he had nudged her through the door and followed. As it closed at his back, Jo bristled with fury. She did not enjoy being out-maneuvered. “Tell me, counselor, do you know anything about a law concerning breaking and entering?”

“Doesn't apply,” he returned smoothly. “There was no lock involved.” He glanced around at the attractive simplicity of Jo's trailer. The colors were restful earth tones without frills. The beige– and brown– flecked linoleum floor was spotlessly clean. It was the same basic floorplan as Frank's trailer, but here there were softer touches. There were curtains rather than shades at the windows; large, comfortable pillows tossed onto a forest green sofa; a spray of fresh wildflowers tucked into a thin, glass vase. Without comment Keane wandered to a black lacquer trunk that sat directly opposite the door. On it was a book that he picked up while Jo fumed.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,”
he read aloud and flipped it open. “In French,” he stated, lifting a brow.

“It was written in French,” Jo muttered, pulling it from his hand. “So I read it in French.” Annoyed, she lifted the lid on the trunk, preparing to drop the book inside and out of his reach.

“Good heavens, are those all yours?” Keane stopped the lid on its downswing, then pushed books around with his other hand. “Tolstoy, Cervantes, Voltaire, Steinbeck. When do you have time in this crazy, twenty-four-hour world you live in to read this stuff?”

“I make time,” Jo snapped as her eyes sparked. “My
own
time. Just because you're the owner doesn't mean you can barge in here and poke through my things and demand an account of my time. This is my trailer. I own everything in it.”

“Hold on.” Keane halted her rushing stream of words. “I wasn't demanding an account of your time, I was simply astonished that you could find enough of it to do this type of reading. Since I can't claim to be an expert on your work, it would be remarkably foolish of me to criticize the amount of time you spend on it. Secondly,” he said, taking a step toward her—and though Jo stiffened in anticipation, he did not touch her, “I apologize for ‘poking through your things,' as you put it. I was interested for several reasons. One being I have quite an extensive library myself. It seems we have a common interest, whether we like it or not. As for barging into your trailer, I can only plead guilty. If you choose to prosecute, I can recommend a couple of lousy attorneys who overcharge.”

His last comment forced a smile onto Jo's reluctant lips. “I'll give it some thought.” With more care than she had originally intended, Jo lowered the lid of the trunk. She was reminded that she had not been gracious. “I'm sorry,” she said as she turned back to him.

His eyes reflected curiosity. “What for?”

“For snapping at you.” She lifted her shoulders, then let them fall. “I thought you were criticizing me. I suppose I'm too sensitive.”

Several seconds passed before he spoke. “Unnecessary apology accepted if you answer one question.”

Mystified, Jo frowned at him. “What question?”

“Is the Tolstoy in Russian?”

Jo laughed, pushing loose strands of hair from her face. “Yes, it is.”

Keane smiled, enjoying the two tiny dimples that flickered in her cheeks when she laughed. “Did you know that though you're lovely in any case, you grow even more so when you smile?”

Jo's laughter stilled. She was unaccustomed to this sort of compliment and studied him without any idea of how to respond. It occurred to her that any of the sophisticated women she had imagined that morning would have known precisely what to say. She would have been able to smile or laugh as she tossed back the appropriate comment. That woman, Jo admitted, was not Jovilette Wilder. Gravely, she kept her eyes on his. “I don't know how to flirt,” she said simply.

Keane tilted his head, and an expression came and went in his eyes before she could analyze it. He stepped toward her. “I wasn't flirting with you, Jo, I was making an observation. Hasn't anyone ever told you that you're beautiful?”

He was much too close now, but in the narrow confines of the trailer, Jo had little room to maneuver. She was forced to tilt back her head to keep her eyes level with his. “Not precisely the way you did.” Quickly, she put her hand to his chest to keep the slight but important distance between them. She knew she was trapped, but that did not mean she was defeated.

Gently, Keane lifted her protesting hand, turning it palm up as he brought it to his lips. An involuntary breath rushed in and out of Jo's lungs. “Your hands are exquisite,” he murmured, tracing the fine line of blue up the back. “Narrow-boned, long-fingered. And the palms show hard work. That makes them more interesting.” He lifted his eyes from her hand to her face. “Like you.”

Jo's voice had grown husky, but she could do nothing to alter it. “I don't know what I'm supposed to say when you tell me things like that.” Beneath her robe her breasts rose and fell with her quickening heart. “I'd rather you didn't.”

“Do you really?” Keane ran the back of his hand along her jawline. “That's a pity, because the more I look at you, the more I find to say. You're a bewitching creature, Jovilette.”

“I have to change,” she said in the firmest voice she could muster. “You'll have to go.”

“That's unfortunately true,” he murmured, then cupped her chin. “Come, then, kiss me goodbye.”

Jo stiffened. “I hardly think that's necessary. . . .”

“You couldn't be more wrong,” he told her as he lowered his mouth. “It's extremely necessary.” In a light, teasing whisper, his lips met hers. His arms encircled her, bringing her closer with only the slightest pressure. “Kiss me back, Jo,” he ordered softly. “Put your arms around me and kiss me back.”

For a moment longer she resisted, but the lure of his mouth nibbling at hers was too strong. Letting instinct rule her will, Jo lifted her arms and circled his neck. Her mouth grew mobile under his, parting and offering. Her surrender seemed to lick the flames of his passion. The kiss grew urgent. His arms locked, crushing her against him. Her quiet moan was not of protest but of wonder. Her fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in its thickness as they urged him closer. She felt her robe loosen, then his hands trail up her rib cage. At his touch, she shivered, feeling her skin grow hot, then cold, then hot again in rapid succession.

When his hand took her breast, she shied, drawing in her breath quickly. “Steady,” he murmured against her mouth. His hands stroked gently, coaxing her to relax again. He kissed the corners of her mouth, waiting until she quieted before he took her deep again. The thin leotard molded her body. It created no barrier against the warmth of his searching fingers. They moved slowly, lingering over the peak of her breast, exploring its softness, wandering to her waist, then tracing her hip and thigh.

No man had ever touched her so freely. Jo was helpless to stop him, helpless against her own growing need for him to touch her again. Was this the passion she had read of so often? The passion that drove men to war, to struggle against all reason, to risk everything? She felt she could understand it now. She clung to him as he taught her—as she learned—the demands of her own body. Her mouth grew hungrier for the taste of him. She was certain she remained in his arms while seasons flew by, while decades passed, while worlds were destroyed and built again.

But when he drew away, Jo saw the same sun spilling through her windows. Eternity had only been moments.

Unable to speak, she merely stared up at him. Her eyes were dark and aware, her cheeks flushed with desire. But somehow, though it still tingled from his, her mouth maintained a youthful innocence. Keane's eyes dropped to it as his hands loitered at the small of her back.

“It's difficult to believe I'm the first man to touch you,” he murmured. His eyes roamed to hers. “And quite desperately arousing. Particularly when I find you've passion to match your looks. I think I'd like to make love with you in the daylight first so that I can watch that marvelous control of yours slip away layer by layer. We'll have to discuss it when I get back.”

Jo forced strength back into her limbs, knowing she was on the brink of losing her will to him. “Just because I let you kiss me and touch me doesn't mean I'll let you make love to me.” She lifted her chin, feeling her confidence surging back. “If I do, it'll be because it's what I want, not because you tell me to.”

The expression in Keane's eyes altered. “Fair enough,” he agreed and nodded. “It'll simply be my job to make it what you want.” He took her chin in his hand and lowered his mouth to hers for a brief kiss. As she had the first time, Jo kept her eyes open and watched him. She felt him grin against her mouth before he raised his head. “You are the most fascinating woman I've ever met.” Turning, he crossed to the door. “I'll be back,” he said with a careless wave before it closed behind him. Dumbly, Jo stared into empty space.

Fascinating?
she repeated, tracing her still warm lips with her fingertips. Quickly, she ran to the window, and kneeling on the sofa below it, watched Keane stride away.

She realized with a sudden jolt that she missed him already.

Chapter Six

Jo learned that weeks could drag like years. During the second week of Keane's absence she had searched each new lot for a sign of him. She had scanned the crowds of towners who came to watch the raising of the Big Top, and as the days stretched on and on, she balanced between anger and despair at his continued absence. Only in the cage did she manage to isolate her concentration, knowing she could not afford to do otherwise. But after each performance Jo found it more and more difficult to relax. Each morning she felt certain he would be back. Each night she lay restless, waiting for the sun to rise.

Spring was in full bloom. The high grass lots smelled of it. Often there were wildflowers crushed underfoot, leaving their heavy fragrances in the air. Even as the circus caravan traveled north, the days grew warm, sunlight lingering further into evening. While other troupers enjoyed the balmy air and providentially sunny skies, Jo lived on nerves.

It occurred to her that after returning to his life in Chicago, Keane had decided against coming back. In Chicago he had comfort and wealth and elegant women. Why should he come back? Jo closed her mind against the ultimate fate of the circus, unwilling to face the possibility that Keane might close the show at the end of the season. She told herself the only reason she wanted him to come back was to convince him to keep the circus open. But the memory of being in his arms intruded too often into her thoughts. Gradually, she grew resigned, filling the strange void she felt with her work.

Several times each week she found time to give the eager Gerry more training. At first she had only permitted him to work with the two menagerie cubs, allowing him, with the protection of leather gloves, to play with them and to feed them. She encouraged him to teach them simple tricks with the aid of small pieces of raw meat. Jo was as pleased as he when the cats responded to his patience and obeyed.

Jo saw potential in Gerry, in his genuine affection for animals and in his determination. Her primary concern was that he had not yet developed a healthy fear. He was still too casual, and with casualness, Jo knew, came carelessness. When she thought he had progressed far enough, Jo decided to take him to the next step of his training.

***

There was no matinee that day, and the Big Top was scattered with rehearsing troupers. Jo was dressed in boots and khakis with a long-sleeved blouse tucked into the waist. She studied Gerry as she ran the stock of her whip through her hand. They stood together in the safety cage while she issued instructions.

“All right, Buck's going to let Merlin through the chute. He's the most tractable of the cats, except for Ari.” She paused a moment while her eyes grew sad. “Ari isn't up to even a short practice session.” She pushed away the depression that threatened and continued. “Merlin knows you, he's familiar with your voice and your scent.” Gerry nodded and swallowed. “When we go in, you're to be my shadow. You move when I move, and don't speak until I tell you. If you get frightened, don't run.” Jo took his arm for emphasis. “That's
important,
understand? Don't run. Tell me if you want out, and I'll get you to the safety cage.”

“I won't run, Jo,” he promised and wiped hands, damp with excitement, on his jeans.

“Are you ready?”

Gerry grinned and nodded. “Yeah.”

Jo opened the door leading to the big cage and let Gerry through behind her before securing it. She walked to the center of the arena in easy, confident strides. “Let him in, Buck,” she called and heard the immediate rattle of bars. Merlin entered without hurry, then leaped onto his pedestal. He yawned hugely before looking at Jo. “A solo today, Merlin,” she said as she advanced toward him. “And you're the star. Stay with me,” she ordered as Gerry merely stood still and stared at the big cat. Merlin gave Gerry a disinterested glance and waited.

With an upward move of her arm, she sent Merlin into a sit-up. “You know,” she told the boy behind her, “that teaching a cat to take his seat is the first trick. The audience won't even consider it one. The sit-up,” she continued while signaling Merlin to bring his front paws back down, “is usually next and takes quite a bit of time. It's necessary to strengthen the cat's back muscles first.” Again she signaled Merlin to sit up, then, with a quick command, she had him pawing the air and roaring. “Marvelous old ham,” she said with a grin and brought him back down. “The primary move of each cue is always given from the same position with the same tone of voice. It takes patience and repetition. I'm going to bring him down off the pedestal now.”

Jo flicked the whip against the tanbark, and Merlin leaped down. “Now I maneuver him to the spot in the arena where I want him to lie down.” As she moved, Jo made certain her student moved with her. “The cage is a circle, forty feet in diameter. You have to know every inch of it inside your head. You have to know precisely how far you are from the bars at all times. If you back up into the bars, you've got no room to maneuver if there's trouble. It's one of the biggest mistakes a trainer can make.” At her signal Merlin laid down, then shifted to his side. “Over, Merlin,” she said briskly, sending him into a series of rolls. “Use their names often; it keeps them in tune with you. You have to know each cat and their individual tendencies.”

Jo moved with Merlin, then signaled him to stop. When he roared, she rubbed the top of his head with the stock of her whip. “They like to be petted just like house cats, but they are not tabbies. It's essential that you never give them your complete trust and that you remember always to maintain your dominance. You subjugate not by poking them or beating or shouting, which is not only cruel but makes for a mean, undependable cat, but with patience, respect and will. Never humiliate them; they have a right to their pride. You bluff them, Gerry,” she said as she raised both arms and brought Merlin up on his hind legs. “Man is the unknown factor. That's why we use jungle-bred rather than captivity-bred cats. Ari is the exception. A cat born and raised in captivity is too familiar with man, so you lose your edge.” She moved forward, keeping her arms raised. Merlin followed, walking on his hind legs. He spread seven feet into the air and towered over his trainer. “They might have a sense of affection for you, but there's no fear and little respect. Unfortunately, this often happens if a cat's been with a trainer a long time. They don't become more docile the longer they're in an act, but they become more dangerous. They test you constantly. The trick is to make them believe you're indestructible.”

She brought Merlin down, and he gave another yawn before she sent him back to his seat. “If one swipes at you, you have to stop it then and there, because they try again and again, getting closer each time. Usually, if a trainer's hurt in the cage, it's because he's made a mistake. The cats are quick to spot them; sometimes they let them pass, sometimes they don't. This one's given me a good smack on the shoulder now and again. He's kept his claws retracted, but there's always the possibility that one time he'll forget he's just playing. Any questions?”

“Hundreds,” Gerry answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I just can't focus on one right now.”

Jo chuckled and again scratched Merlin's head when he roared. “They'll come to you later. It's hard to absorb anything the first time, but it'll come back to you when you're relaxed again. All right, you know the cue. Make him sit up.”

“Me?”

Jo stepped to the side, giving Merlin a clear view of her student. “You can be as scared as you like,” she said easily. “Just don't let it show in your voice. Watch his eyes.”

Gerry rubbed his palm on the thighs of his jeans, then lifted it as he had seen Jo do hundreds of times. “Up,” he told the cat in a passably firm voice.

Merlin studied him a moment, then looked at Jo. This, his eyes told her clearly, was an amateur and beneath his notice. Carefully, Jo kept her face expressionless. “He's testing you,” she told Gerry. “He's an old hand and a bit harder to bluff. Be firm and use his name this time.”

Gerry took a deep breath and repeated the hand signal.

“Up, Merlin.”

Merlin glanced back at him, then stared with measuring, amber eyes. “Again,” Jo instructed and heard Gerry swallow audibly. “Put some authority into your voice. He thinks you're a pushover.”

“Up, Merlin!” Gerry repeated, annoyed enough by Jo's description to put some dominance into his voice. Though his reluctance was obvious, Merlin obeyed. “He did it,” Gerry whispered on a long, shaky breath. “He really did it.”

“Very good,” Jo said, pleased with both the lion and her student. “Now bring him down.” When this was accomplished, Jo had him bring Merlin from the seat. “Here.” She handed Gerry the whip. “Use the stock to scratch his head. He likes it best just behind the ear.” She felt the faint tremble in his hand as he took the whip, but he held it steady, even as Merlin closed his eyes and roared.

Because he had performed well, Jo afforded Merlin the liberty of rubbing against her legs before she called for Buck to let him out. The rattle of the bars was the cat's cue to exit, and like a trouper, he took it with his head held high. “You did very well,” she told Gerry when they were alone in the cage.

“It was great.” He handed her back the whip, the stock damp from his sweaty palms. “It was just great. When can I do it again?”

Jo smiled and patted his shoulder. “Soon,” she promised. “Just remember the things I've told you and come to me when you remember all those questions.”

“Okay, thanks, Jo.” He stepped through the safety cage. “Thanks a lot. I want to go tell the guys.”

“Go ahead.” Jo watched him scramble away, leaping over the ring and darting through the back door. With a grin, she leaned against the bars. “Was I like that?” she asked Buck, who stood at the opposite end of the cage.

“The first time you got a cat to sit up on your own, we heard about it for a week. Twelve years old and you thought you were ready for the big show.”

Jo laughed, and wiping the damp stock of her whip against her pants, turned. It was then she saw him standing behind her. “Keane!” She used the name she had sworn not to use as pleasure flooded through her. It shone on her face. Just as she had given up hope of seeing him again, he was there. She took two steps toward him before she could check herself. “I didn't know you were back.” Jo gripped the stock of the whip with both hands to prevent herself from reaching out to touch him.

“I believe you missed me.” His voice was as she remembered, low and smooth.

Jo cursed herself for being so naïve and transparent. “Perhaps I did, a little,” she admitted cautiously. “I suppose I'd gotten used to you, and you were gone longer than you said you'd be.” He looks the same, she thought rapidly, exactly the same. She reminded herself that it had only been a month. It had seemed like years.

“Mmm,
yes. I had more to see to than I had expected. You look a bit pale,” he observed and touched her cheek with his fingertip.

“I suppose I haven't been getting much sun,” she said with quick prevarication. “How was Chicago?” Jo needed to turn the conversation away from personal lines until she had an opportunity to gauge her emotions; seeing him suddenly had tossed them into confusion.

“Cool,” he told her, making a long, thorough survey of her face. “Have you ever been there?”

“No. We play near there toward the end of the season, but I've never had time to go all the way into the city.”

Nodding absently, Keane glanced into the empty cage behind her. “I see you're training Gerry.”

“Yes.” Relieved that they had lapsed into a professional discussion, Jo let the muscles of her shoulders ease. “This was the first time with an adult cat and no bars between. He did very well.”

Keane looked back at her. His eyes were serious and probing. “He was trembling. I could see it from where I stood watching you.”

“It was his first time—” she began in Gerry's defense.

“I wasn't criticizing him,” Keane interrupted with a tinge of impatience. “It's just that he stood beside you, shaking from head to foot, and you were totally cool and in complete control.”

“It's my job to be in control,” Jo reminded him.

“That lion must have stood seven feet tall when he went up on his hind legs, and you walked under him without any protection, not even the traditional chair.”

“I do a picture act,” she explained, “not a fighting act.”

“Jo,” he said so sharply she blinked. “Aren't you ever frightened in there?”

“Frightened?” she repeated, lifting a brow. “Of course I'm frightened. More frightened than Gerry was—or than you would be.”

“What are you talking about?” Keane demanded. Jo noted with some curiosity that he was angry. “I could see that boy sweat in there.”

“That was mostly excitement,” Jo told him patiently. “He hasn't the experience to be truly frightened yet.” She tossed back her hair and let out a long breath. Jo did not like to talk of her fears with anyone and found it especially difficult with Keane. Only because she felt it necessary that he understand this to understand the circus did she continue. “Real fear comes from knowing them, working with them, understanding them. You can only speculate on what they can do to a man. I
know.
I know exactly what they're capable of. They have an incredible courage, but more, they have an incredible guile. I've seen what they can do.” Her eyes were calm and clear as they looked into his. “My father almost lost a leg once. I was about five, but I remember it perfectly. He made a mistake, and a five-hundred-pound Nubian sunk into his thigh and dragged him around the arena. Luckily, the cat was diverted by a female in season. Cats are unpredictable when they have sex on their minds, which is probably one of the reasons he attacked my father in the first place. They're fiercely jealous once they've set their minds on a mate. My father was able to get into the safety cage before any of the other cats took an interest in him. I can't remember how many stitches he had or how long it was before he could walk properly again, but I do remember the look in that cat's eyes. You learn quickly about fear when you're in the cage, but you control it, you channel it or you find another line of work.”