Bound in Blue (Cirque Masters 2)

Then she was there, storming along beside him, a bag slung over her shoulder. She took off her collar and flung it at the biggest man’s face, along with a stream of furious words. The man yelled back at her, a heated exchange that probably included both the words “I quit” and “You’re fired.” After the doormen extracted payment for Jason’s drinks, he and his waitress were forced out the door.

Fucking hell. It was cold outside, and she stood in nothing but a bra, garter skirt, and stockings. He took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her until she could pull some jeans and a sweater from her bag. People hurried by, minding their own business. Nothing to see here. Just got kicked out of a fetish club.

“That was fucking ridiculous.” Jason fumed when she handed his jacket back. “Is that true what you said? That they were trying to get me drunk?”

“They do it all the time, to all the tourists who wander in there.”

She’d almost said stupid tourists. He was glad she stopped herself, because he already felt humiliated enough. “We should go to the police.”

“The police won’t do anything.” Her gaze darkened, her blue eyes snapping in anger. “And I won’t get my money. All that work, three weeks, for nothing.”

“I’m sorry. I guess that was my fault.”

She gave him a look of exasperation and walked away.

“Hey.” He shrugged into his jacket and followed her. “Let me make it up to you. How much money were you due?”

She put her head down, walking faster. “I don’t want your money. It wasn’t your fault, not really. And I hated that job.”

“I owe you. You saved my ass in there with that horror or whatever it was called.”

“Har.”

“Will you stop a minute?”

She halted and turned to him, her arms crossed tight over her chest. Inside, he’d sensed some chemistry between them, but now…

He broke out his most charming, seductive smile. “You can tell me your name now, can’t you?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Would you like to get something to eat? I want to make this up to you but I don’t know how.” I’d like to fuck you too, and explore your beautiful body, and kiss those pouting lips. “There’s a place at my hotel, a restaurant with a bar. It’s not too far from here.” He was propositioning her. They both knew it.

She studied him in silence. What did she see? A stupid American? Some businessman looking for a one-night stand? “I’m not hungry,” she said in a flat voice.

“How about some coffee then? We should hang out for a while.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Because my boss told me I had to sample the pleasures of Mongolia. But that wasn’t why. There was something else in play here, some weird, aching attraction that wouldn’t go away. “Because you helped me,” he finally said. “Because I’m a flailing, clueless American in Ulaanbaatar and I just got you fired, and I’d like to make it up to you, if there’s any way.”

“There’s no way. You can’t make it up to me.”

She took off again. He lunged and grabbed her elbow. “Please, wait.”

She angled herself away from him, but she didn’t go. He stared down at her, wondering why he was doing this hard sell. He didn’t usually have to. Women threw themselves at him in Paris, due to his reputation as a skilled Dom. Women liked his body, his build. He was tall and muscular, and exceptionally fit from his background in acrobatics. How long since he’d petitioned a woman like this, begged for sex? He hadn’t begged yet, but he might if it came to that, if that’s what it took to possess this lovely creature just once. One time, that was all he needed, or he’d spend his whole life wishing she hadn’t gotten away.

“Do you have to leave right now?” he asked. “Where are you going?”

“Home. It’s late.”

“It’s not that late.”

“It’s cold and I just got fired.”

“I can warm you up.” He didn’t mean the words to sound sleazy. Oh wait, yes, he did.

She shook her head. “You’re a tourist. You’re going to leave. I don’t have time for this.”

She set her jaw, her lips pursed into a heart shape he wanted to kiss. She wanted him. He knew it, but she wouldn’t have him. She was too angry, too conflicted. And he would leave in a few days, as she said. She didn’t want a hook-up, and that was all he could offer her.

“Okay then.” He gave up, because he believed in control, even control of his own passionate urges. “Let me give you some money and find you a cab.”

“No.”

He let out a huff of frustration. “Tell me your name, at least.”

“No.”

“You’re full of nos. To be honest, I preferred the Yes, Masters. They were pretty great.” He put a thumb under her chin and tilted her face to his. “Are you okay? Have those guys roughed you up before? Was it a…a bad place to work?”

She swallowed hard, her gaze flitting away. “It was an awful place to work. This is an awful place to live. You’re lucky you get to leave.”

Surely she would fit in his suitcase. He could take her home, put a collar around her neck. “My name’s Jason,” he said, taking out his wallet for a business card. “Jason Beck. If you ever need anything, I live in Pari—”

She pushed his hand down before he could give it to her. “Please, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

* * * * *

For a moment, he looked so angry she thought he might slap her. But no, he wasn’t that type of man. He was civilized, disciplined. Controlled. He returned the card to his wallet as she saved his name in her memory. Jason. Jason Beck.

When things got bleak—and they were always bleak—she would repeat it to herself and remember there were men like Jason Beck in the world, men with big, graceful bodies and kind eyes.

But to go with him to his hotel, to accept the one-night stand he was offering, that would only bring regret.

Push and pull. She’d always liked that English phrase, and now she understood it. Jason Beck was like some physical force of nature. The harder she pushed him away, the more she felt pulled to him. He had pushed and pulled at the club, pushed away Tomor when he tried to silence her. He’d tried to protect her.

That was an entirely new thing.

“If you’re going to leave me with nothing,” he said, pocketing his wallet, “at least give me a name. Any name. Otherwise I’ll make up something ridiculous to remember you by, like Fantasia Dee-lite, or Cinnamon Buns.”

A sense of humor too. She let out a sigh. “I suppose you could call me...Sara.”

“Sara? That’s an English name.”

“If you wish.”

His eyes narrowed and his lips turned down at the corners, not in a scary way, but enough to see the dominant personality there. She was certain he was dominant. His posture, his questions, the way he’d defended her at the club, even his persistence in the face of her refusals, all of it communicated dominance and power. This man was used to being obeyed. She wondered what it would be like to do a BDSM scene with him. She could find out if she wanted to, if she wasn’t so tired of loss, of hurting.

“Silly Sara,” he said. He slid a hand across her cheek, then cupped her face. She studied his Western features in the dim glow of the surrounding shop lights. Wide-set, long-lashed blue eyes, a straight, handsome nose, and full lips that curved in the most seductive way. His shoulder-length brown hair was pulled back, but some stray strands escaped. Under the streetlight she could see other colors reflected in them. Gold, mahogany, brass.

“Why did you call me silly?” she asked.

“Because you won’t come to the hotel with me. You want to. You just won’t.”

“I can’t.” A stupid, vague excuse, but she couldn’t be more specific. She couldn’t confess that one night with him would probably destroy her, because nothing afterward could ever live up to it. She hated this sexy, powerful, enthralling, foreign man. She also wanted him more th

an she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

“I’m very kinky,” he said. “You would have a lot of fun with me, because I think you’re very kinky too.”

She looked around self-consciously. There were people everywhere, coming and going from the clubs. “That’s good to know. Let go of me, please.”

He didn’t let go of her. “Do you have a lover here, Sara? Someone who satisfies your needs? I hope so. I hope that’s why you’re turning me down.”