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“Who? Mee-shell Le-May...?”
“Michel Lemaitre,” he said, writing the name on a piece of hotel stationary. “Your soon-to-be boss. He lives for performers like you, the ones who have that fire in them.”
There was some shadow, some hardness in his expression that made Sara think he didn’t completely approve of Michel Lemaitre. She chewed at the corner of a nail, a horrible habit, although short nails were necessary in trapeze. Would Michel Lemaitre approve of her?
She stood and started to clean up her breakfast things. They were going to leave for the airport soon, and once they were there, she couldn’t come back. She was abandoning her homeland—and her long-time trapeze partner—to follow her dreams. Was it worth it? She had a paralyzing moment of doubt.
Jason took her in his arms, speaking to her in an achingly tender voice. “Everything’s going to be great, Sara. But if you’re not ready to make this decision, that’s okay too. If you want to stay, you can stay.”
“I don’t want to stay,” she said against his shoulder, and she realized she meant it. “I want to go.”
“Let’s go then. If you get to Paris and you don’t like it, you can always come back.”
But she couldn’t come back. That’s what he didn’t understand. Baat would never forgive her for doing this selfish thing. Even if he gave in and came to the Cirque, he would never forgive her.
Oh, but Jason’s arms were so strong around her, and her dreams were so close. A fourteen-hour flight, and her life could start over. She’d be part of the world’s most famous circus.
And this strong, kind, masterful man would be with her. That would be the most wonderful thing.
* * * * *
Sara was quiet during the cab ride to the airport. Jason couldn’t blame her for feeling pensive. For doubting. She had nothing with her, only her dreams and convictions. She’d put her life in the hands of a stranger she’d just met. She was either very brave or very stupid, and he didn’t usually go for stupid women, so he had to bank on brave.
As for him…he fought his own doubts. Perhaps he should have delayed this abrupt departure, asked her to mull over her choices a little longer. Perhaps he shouldn’t have slept with her again last night. Impulsive, unprofessional behavior, but what could he do? She had a way of stripping his self-control. Him, Jason Beck, the most controlled, by-the-rules guy at the Cirque. Even now, he was aware of her every movement, every sigh and every shift.
About halfway there, she sat up straighter in her seat. She spoke to the taxi driver in Mongolian and he eased to the side of the road, stopping on a corner. She turned to Jason. “This will only take a minute.” She spoke again to the driver and got out of the car.
Jason followed, afraid to let her out of his sight, but she only went a short distance, to an alley beside a soot-blackened cement building. A small, circular heap of rocks nestled just inside the corner, against the wall.
“My parents died here,” she said, turning to him. “Almost two years ago now. A drunk driving accident.” She knelt down and replaced a few stones that had come dislodged from the cairn. “Baat helped me build this to remember them.”
Yes, the accident. The reason she had no money, the reason she had to make her way alone. Jason looked back toward the cab, then leaned to help her. “Did they catch the person at fault?”
“The person at fault was my father. He drank a lot. Alcoholism is a—”
“Serious problem in Mongolia. Yes, you told me, that first night.” When they stood, he took her hand, wanting to comfort her. “I’m sorry you lost your parents.”
She didn’t seem to want comfort. She pocketed one of the smallest stones and looked up at the sky. It wasn’t very blue in Ulaanbaatar. It was smoggy and cold.
“Last chance,” he said quietly. “Last chance to stay.”
She shook her head. “I’ve been leaving for a long time. There’s nothing for me here.”
They rode the rest of the way in somber silence, then the bustle and confusion of the airport swallowed them up. He kept hold of her hand, like a father corralling a child, until they found the correct gate and boarded. Since they’d bought Sara’s ticket at the last minute, they couldn’t sit together on the plane. She sat two rows in front of Jason, on the aisle, so at least he could watch her. From time to time she turned to look at him, as if he might disappear.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Not now, but she might have to leave him at some point. There was only one Cirque show in Paris. The rest of them were spread all over the globe. Some were touring shows that moved from city to city, pulling up roots every six or eight weeks. He hadn’t warned her about that, hadn’t explained that Paris would only be her temporary home. If she was placed in Stockholm or Berlin or Rome he’d have to let her go, or leave his job in Paris and go with her, doing whatever was available at her new show. If they didn’t need acrobatics help, he might have to move into physical therapy, or nutrition. Or costuming.
He shuddered. Costuming? Maybe, if it meant staying close to her. Even two rows away in an airplane felt too far.
Fortunately, they’d have time before they had to make hard decisions. The Exhibition wasn’t until August. Anything could happen. Maybe things would burn out between them. Maybe she’d fall for someone else. There were plenty of compelling Doms at Cirque, not counting the Uber-Master himself, Michel Lemaitre. Lemaitre would notice Sara right away. He’d sense the purity of her submissive nature and he’d want her. If he made a move on her, Jason would have to publicly claim her as his own or else release her, because Lemaitre wouldn’t accept anything else.
Damn Lemaitre. He hoped Sara didn’t fall under his spell. Lemaitre wasn’t a nurturer. He was a gauntlet, a survival course. Jason didn’t want that for her. He wanted to challenge and control her, but he wanted to take care of her too.
She’ll get to decide what type of mastery she wants. Not you.
It was a bittersweet arrival in Paris, because he had to give up his guardianship of her. She belonged to Cirque du Monde now, and even at three in the morning, representatives were there to greet them and help with Sara’s paperwork. One of them, motherly Meg, took charge of Sara, clucking over the dark circles under her eyes. She assured Jason she’d get Sara settled in the dormitory apartments. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for Jason to invite himself along, although he wanted to.
Instead he hugged Sara and pressed his cheek to hers. “You’ll be fine,” he said in her ear. “As soon as you feel ready, you can check out the practice facility and meet your new coach.” Whoever that was. All the coaches were good, but he hoped she got the best one, one who would appreciate her unique qualities.
Meg cleared her throat, staring at him, and Jason released Sara. “My number’s in the Cirque directory,” he said, trying to sound casual. “If you need anything.”
Jason needed something. He needed to take Sara to his BDSM-equipped bedroom and lose himself between her thighs, but that wasn’t happening. Sara deserved to start her Cirque career on her own merits, not as a Director of Artistic Development’s fuck toy. They exchanged a brief, secret smile, then Jason left her in the capable hands of Cirque’s relocation specialists.
His capable hands would have to wait.
* * * * *
Jason reported to Lemaitre’s office the following afternoon as requested. Over the past five years, he’d managed to earn some measure of respect from the man, but one never really felt comfortable in Lemaitre’s presence. Le Maître, they called him at his clubs. The Master. With his black hair, carved features, imposing build, and piercing blue eyes, he lived up to his name.
Lemaitre glanced up from a file on his desk when Jason knocked. “Viens,” he said. “You have returned from the Asian steppes.”
“Yes, from my first and last trip to Mongolia. Next time you’re pissed at me, dock my pay instead.”
“I sent you because I trust you, not because I was angry at you. Although...” He snapped the file shut. ?
??I am somewhat upset. You only brought me half the act.”
Jason slid into the seat across from Lemaitre’s desk. “I brought as much of the act as I could.”
“You brought her, or you smuggled her out?” he asked in his clipped accent. “I hear she arrived with nothing but the clothes on her back.”
How to explain it? Her desperation and his impatience to get her out of the country? “It was a rushed acquisition, yes. But clothes are cheap. Things are cheap.” Lemaitre’s steady gaze dragged the rest out of him. “I didn’t want to leave her there.”
His regard sharpened. “Why? What was her situation? Your note explained nothing. Why didn’t her partner come?”
“Her partner wasn’t Cirque material. No artistry, no imagination. Believe me, you got the better half.”
Jason fell silent, unsure of Lemaitre’s mood. After a tense pause, the man leaned back in his chair and flicked the edge of the file. “Perhaps you have brought us a treasure,” he said. “I hear she’s already on the practice floor, anxious to begin. You are well?”
“I’ll be well if I never have to go back to Mongolia. How about that?”
“No sense of adventure.” Lemaitre shook his head and rose to his full height. “Come. Introduce me to this new trapezist.”
The men left the office complex and headed out into the larger facility, toward the soaring aerial arts space. While they walked, Jason talked to Lemaitre about Sara, trying not to betray his feelings for her. He definitely left out the fact that he’d slept with her—twice. He also shared his impressions of the Mongolian circus, from the Soviet-era facilities to the lack of production values. Lemaitre nodded, as if he knew all of it already. He made it his business to know everything about everything, especially in the circus world.
“So, where are you thinking about using her?” Jason asked. “Which show?”
“Do I have to decide that now? Brillante perhaps.”
“Vegas?” Jason choked on the word. He couldn’t see Sara in Las Vegas. It was too crazy and hectic, and it would place her so far away. “I didn’t realize Brillante needed a new act.”
“We always need new acts. People have children, family emergencies, injuries, and they must leave for some period of time. You remember Kelsey Martin?”
