Bound in Blue (Cirque Masters 2)

“Thank you for your promptness,” he said. “We have many things to talk about. Yesterday...” He stopped and leaned forward. “First of all, how are you feeling?”

“Feeling? You mean, physically?”

“Let’s start with that. You didn’t sustain any injuries?”

Only to my ass, she thought. “I’m doing fine,” she said aloud. “I practiced with Theo today and everything went well.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And emotionally? How are you holding up?”

He asked so gently, so kindly, when she’d expected anger. “I’ve been feeling guilty,” she admitted. “And a little scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Losing my job. Finding my way forward. I was with Baat a long time.”

Her emotions were so close to the surface. Her throat tightened and she dug her nails into her palm so she wouldn’t cry. It was bad enough to cry in front of Theo, but Lemaitre?

“You mustn’t worry about your friend,” he said. “Baat is bound for an alcohol rehabilitation center in Ulaanbaatar. They have excellent programs there, and Baat agreed it was a necessary course of action.”

“Oh. Thank you. I...I tried to get him to stop drinking so much. I didn’t know how to help him.”

“I knew how to help him.” There was the censure, the intimation that she ought to have said something.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lemaitre. I’m sorry for causing all this trouble.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Let’s be clear—Baat caused the trouble. You exacerbated it by staying quiet. But Jason tells me you’ve been corrected on that point.”

She flushed twenty shades of red and shifted on her sore ass. Lemaitre seemed to take pity on her and produced a note from his desk. “Baat wrote this for you. I understand it’s an apology. He did realize by the time he left how badly he’d wronged you. Please, read it. I’ll wait.”

Sara looked down at the note written in Baat’s broad hand. It held an apology, but so much more. When you took the Amerik’s ring, something in me broke. I always loved you.

I never meant to hurt you, but Sarant, I hurt. I’ll get better. Please forgive me one day. She stared down at the words, shocked.

“Does it say he loves you?” Lemaitre asked in the silence.

She couldn’t speak, only nod her head.

He made a soft, sad sound. “I don’t read Mongolian, but I expected he was writing more than a simple apology.”

“I never realized. I’ve been so blind.” She pressed the back of her hand to her lips to still their trembling. “I don’t understand, though. Baat was like a brother to me.”

“Ah, well. He saw things differently. But he never told you, so how could you know?” Another reprimand, couched in a cool, soft voice. “The two of you, keeping dangerous secrets. Cry if you like, Sara. It’s a lot to process.”

“I don’t want to cry.” She shook her head, feeling anger more than anything else. She’d never known Baat, not really. Why had he hidden his feelings from her? And then drowned himself in drink? “He should have told me. He should have been honest,” she said.

Lemaitre studied her, his lips drawn down in a frown. “Perhaps he didn’t feel capable of being honest. Perhaps he thought it would hurt you to know.”

“Hurt me? To know the truth? To know how he really felt about me?” She rubbed her eyes and grasped for calm. “Please, I just want to know what happens now. Can I stay here?”

“With Cirque du Monde?”

“Because I had this idea for an act. A solo trapeze act. Theo and I developed the basics so I can work on it after he leaves for Marseille.” She rushed to get the words out before he could cut in. “It’s about a girl. About a girl caught between the world she was born in and the world where she wants to belong. And she has all these frustrations, and fears, and horrible anxieties and this loneliness, because she doesn’t fit in anywhere. But she also...” She stared down at her ring, twisting it on her finger. “She also has love. And that scares her most of all, because it can’t save her. She knows she has to find her own way, her own strength, but it’s so hard.”

He looked at her a long time, then he asked, “Is this act about you?”

“Not really,” she lied. “Well, a little bit. But it could be anyone’s story.”

“Yes, it could be,” he agreed. “Fear. Love. Loneliness. They’re universal themes.”

After all her efforts, the tears came anyway, a crushing wave of emotion she hid as well as she could. While she swiped at her eyes, Lemaitre came around his desk and sat beside her. “Is that your ring? May I see it?”

Sara held it out, trying to still the shaking of her fingers. He touched the stone. “Beautiful.” He gave a sigh and took her hand. “A ring is a serious commitment, especially for one so young. You’re sure he’s the one for you?”

His nearness shook her. His touch startled her. It felt encroaching. Inappropriate. She got the same feeling she’d gotten in the hall that day, that he had an interest in her beyond boss and artist. Baat’s secret love was bad enough. She had to set this man straight. “Mr. Lemaitre, I’m not too young to know what I want. And I want to be with Jason. I’m in love with him, totally and completely. I’m not available. At all.”

“Available?” He processed her rejection, narrowed his eyes and made a face. “Mon Dieu. I suppose I’ve brought this on myself.”

He looked so upset that Sara tried to console him. “I’m sorry. It’s not that you aren’t attractive—”

He held up a hand. “I beg you, please.”

“It’s just that Jason and I are meant to be together. From the moment we met, we’ve had this bond.”

“Sara.” Lemaitre let out a ragged breath. “Please understand I have absolutely no interest in you. Not interest of that kind. For God’s sake.”

Oh. Embarrassing. “I just thought… From the way you…”

“Did you never wonder why you had eyes that color?”

The angst in his question caught her off guard. She fell back on her usual explanation. “I was born outside, under a blue sky. My mother said I opened my eyes and the sky changed them forever. That the sky turned them blue.”

He stood and went to the window. “What a beautiful story. I’ll have to use that in

a show sometime. It’s just the sort of story your mother liked to tell.”

It took her a moment to unpack his words. “You knew my mother?”

“I knew her well, once upon a time. We worked in the same circus for a while, touring Europe. We made a baby together, a little girl. I didn’t know at the time. She only told me later.”

Sara gawked at him, at his carved profile outlined by the sun outside. It wasn’t possible. Her mother only had two children, herself and a brother who died as a child. “But how? When did you know her?”

“About twenty-three years ago.” He turned from the window and crossed to her, reaching in his pocket for his wallet. He flipped it open and pulled out a small, dog-eared photo and handed it to her. Sara stared down into her own face, her own features as a girl of six or seven, with blue eyes, wind-chapped cheeks, and a hint of a smile.

He stared at her, saying nothing. She struggled to understand.

“This is— You mean, I’m— You—”

The pronouns got tangled up in her mouth, just like the revelation got tangled up in her brain. “It can’t be,” she said. “I can’t be your daughter. My eyes…the sky…”

“You didn’t get your blue eyes from the sky,” he said sharply. “Have some sense.”

How dare he admonish her when he was the one making up this crazy story? It had to be a lie, all of it, a lie. “My mother loved my father!”

“She certainly did,” said Mr. Lemaitre. “That’s why you grew up with him instead of me. A mercy, I’m certain.”

Sara’s thoughts reeled, along with an avalanche of emotions: confusion, fury, disbelief, and a terrible sadness. “It can’t be true. I don’t look anything like you.”