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ALLIE HADN’T INTENDED to do much at the carnival on opening night. She had to attend, since she’d volunteered to work a shift at the firehouse’s bingo tent but wasn’t planning to stay afterward. Hank was at home with her landlady, Miss Emily, and she almost never left him in the evening.
But somehow, after she’d awarded a gift certificate for a Thanksgiving turkey to the winner of a full-card match—finishing her shift—Allie found herself wandering the fairgrounds. “Just for cotton candy,” she whispered as she explored the rides and maneuvered through the gauntlet of games decked out with every color stuffed animal ever invented.
Quickly finding the right vendor, she’d invested in a bag of cotton candy big enough to make an entire kindergarten class bounce off the walls for hours. But before she could grab a handful to savor on the way to her car, something else equally as irresistible had caught her eye: The Roma king’s show.
It was sold out. But it hadn’t been hard to spot an untied flap in the rear of the tent. Which was how she had come to be standing in the shadows, watching a performance taking place on a small, portable stage a few yards away.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered as she stared, unable to tear her eyes off him.
The painting hadn’t lied. Not one bit. The mesmerist was just as sexy, mysterious and devastating as his image had promised him to be. More, really, since she could so easily make out the power of his muscular body beneath the tight clothes and appreciate the richness of his black hair—tied back in a short ponytail—beneath the shimmering spotlights. She honestly had never imagined just how hot a man could look in a pair of tight, silky black pants and a flowing shirt, equally as black. That dramatic red sash just emphasized his lean hips and taut butt…not to mention the ripples of muscle, and other bulges. Such bulgedy bulges.
His profile revealed a hard, determined jaw and high cheekbones, with dark, slashing hollows beneath. A light beard, maybe two days’ growth, gave him a slightly swarthy, dangerous look that was so damned sexy she could almost feel it scraping over her smooth skin. Though not prominent, his nose was strong, his mouth sinfully shaped and meant for kissing.
Unfortunately, from this angle, she couldn’t see his eyes. A skeptical voice inside her said they wouldn’t be purple—no man could be that perfect. But she found herself hoping she was wrong.
She also found herself breathing faster. Leaning toward the stage, she could feel her heart tripping over itself in her chest.
“I’m going to count backward from ten, now, Mr. Fitzweather,” the performer said, addressing a balding, middle-aged man who stood facing the audience. “When I reach one, I want you to be the nine-year-old boy you once were and tell us why you didn’t do your homework assignment.”
Allie snorted, wishing somebody would hypnotize nasty old Mr. Fitzweather into keeping his clothes on. The man was a weekend nudist, as Allie knew from firsthand experience. There wasn’t enough soap in the world to wash away the mental image of Butch—her sister’s poodle—dangling between the inn owner’s chunky, hairy legs. Butch had accidentally mistaken the man’s family jewels for a pair of kiwis.
“I did the report, honest,” Mr. Fitzweather said. He remained in place, but his body had changed. He was hunched over, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his foot scuffing the floor of the stage like a nervous kid. He even stuttered a bit before adding, “B-but a big gust of wind blew it out of my hands on the way to school today. Can I use the bathroom?”
The audience laughed, Allie along with them, acknowledging this was meant to be entertaining, not humiliating. She’d heard of Vegas hypnotist acts where audience members made fools of themselves by stripping, quacking like ducks or crawling like babies. This gentle ribbing wasn’t like that, which made her appreciate the hot-as-sin performer even more.
But, gentle or not, it was still pretty darn funny, especially since Mr. Fitzweather wasn’t a particularly good sport. She suspected he’d only gone up on stage to prove he couldn’t be hypnotized, which made his sudden transition to nervous schoolboy even better for the home-town crowd.
Though she told herself she needed to slip back out of the tent the same way she’d crept in, she couldn’t help standing there for a few more moments. She couldn’t stop staring at the so-called mesmerist…Damon—at least that’s what the sign had said his name was.
The name’s probably as fake as his eyes.
When, she suddenly wondered, had she become such a skeptic? She didn’t wonder for long. It had been when she’d been used and dumped by a guy who’d only been out for payback against her sister. Still, she couldn’t hate Peter-the-prickface too much anymore, for two reasons. First, because he’d given her Hank. Second, because he’d since stayed away from both of them, which was exactly the way she wanted it.
Suddenly realizing she no longer heard the tittering of the audience or the boyish stammerings of a hypnotized Mr. Fitzweather, she shook the bad thoughts out of her brain and peered toward the stage again. And immediately found herself staring into a pair of intense-looking eyes.
Even from here, she could see they were not the stormy purple from the painting, but rather a clear, brilliant violet that were somehow even more disarming. Beautiful. Intelligent. And they were looking right back at her.
Chapter 2
TRAPPED BY THE captivating stare of the mysterious Roma king, Allie could do nothing but remain frozen in place, whispering the word crap a few times under her breath.
She’d been busted. She was a carnival crasher, sneaking into a sold-out show like a horny kid trying to get a peek at the half-naked dancers. Mr. Fitzweather had obviously snapped out of his daze and gone back to his seat, and the audience had gone silent. As had the main attraction, who was, at this moment, staring at her with such powerful intensity that she felt almost magnetically pulled to him.
She sent a message to her feet. Move. Backward. Now.
Instead, they Moved. Forward. Now.
“Come out here,” his strong voice demanded. His hand rose as he beckoned her toward him.
No way, bud. But her feet continued to ignore her, edging forward an inch at a time.
She hadn’t gone too many inches when suddenly Mr. Mysterious was right before her eyes. He’d obviously gotten tired of waiting and had come to her. “No need to hide in the shadows,” he murmured. “I don’t bite.”
The black clothes and hair, swarthy face and brilliant gleam of his white teeth as he smiled made her question that assertion under her breath. “Sure you don’t.”
His eyes glittered. She obviously hadn’t spoken as quietly as she’d thought. “Well, maybe just a little bit, when I’m asked. And only very carefully.”
Gorgeous, sexy, with a hint of kink? She’d found her dream man. Forget it. Peter was your dream man once, too.
