Bound in Blue (Cirque Masters 2)

“These performers are well known, very popular,” the translator said over the din of the crowd. “The woman’s parents also did trapeze, but they died in an accident.”

He grimaced, watching them raise and lower the off-kilter bar. “A trapeze accident?”

“A car accident.”

Jason glanced down at the note in his hand. The performer’s names were miles long, indecipherable. At last the apparatus was ready to go, and the man leaped up and caught a rope affixed to the bar. He used it to haul himself up, and then hung by his knees, extending his arms for his partner. The woman climbed the rope next and he grabbed her by her arms. A warbling soundtrack whirred to life over static-y loudspeakers. At the resounding approval of the audience, the woman looked over her shoulder and smiled.

Jason froze. He knew that smile. He realized now that he knew that body too, that perfect, proportionate body. He looked back down at the note. The man was Baatarsaikhan, the woman, Sarantsatsral.

I suppose you could call me...Sara.

Just like that, his heart was in his throat. He looked up into the rigging, hoping the trapeze was truly secure. There was no cushion or safety net underneath, no space-age crash mat like they used at the Cirque. He’d been worried before, but now it was his Sara performing. His Sara?

One night, he reminded himself. You spent one night with her. She’s not yours.

Even so, he didn’t want to watch her plummet to her death. He hunched over, biting his nails as the act unfolded. The duo was fast and reckless, doing releases that made his mouth drop open. She did somersaults, flips, and even handstands on the narrow bar. Then she did them on her partner’s shoulders while the bar shimmied under them, and he wanted to scream at her, stop that. Get down! It’s not safe. It wasn’t even really a trapeze act. It was aerial acrobatics, with a little suicidal crazysauce mixed in.

So many goddamn releases, so many skills in the air... Sara, what are you doing to me? But her partner always caught her, always propelled her into the next move. His strength was amazing, her acrobatics were amazing, but the timing was the awe-inspiring thing. So many opportunities to drop her, but the man caught her every time in smooth, perfect coordination. The translator clasped her hands to her chest and took sharp breaths at each risky stunt. She was enjoying this. Jason was on the verge of a meltdown.

Then the man let go of one of her hands. The audience cried out and Jason tensed, but it became apparent it was part of the act, as Sara rolled into a ball and twisted around in a circle, supported only by one hand. The man’s fingers were miraculous, and she moved like water, fluid and sinuous. A flex of arms and legs and she was airborne again, then caught and swung, each muscle in perfect alignment.

The act concluded with a lightning-fast barrage of risky catch-and-release maneuvers, shock and awe as the music rose to a fever pitch. If Jason had her back in his hotel room, he would have caned her to shreds for what she put him through, but she didn’t make one mistake. Finally, Sara shimmied back down the rope and her partner followed, and they took a bow for the cheering audience. The translator turned to Jason, her eyes alight in wonder, and she didn’t even understand the important things, like how strong the man was, whatever his name was, or the precision of Sara’s performance. They had so much potential, so much to offer Cirque du Monde.

He couldn’t wait to get her there. She’d have no more worries about a second job, or about money. What would Sara think of the sprawling Paris headquarters, with its luxurious practice studios and cutting-edge training equipment? What would she think of the costumes, the makeup, the flashy sets? He had to get both of them there right away, her and her partner. They didn’t belong in this marginal circus, in their plain red leotards, climbing a rope to their trapeze in a rickety tent.

But after last night, how could Jason approach her, professionally, as a talent scout?

After ten solid minutes of applause the program ended and the audience filed out, chattering happily. Jason looked over at his translator. “I need to talk to them. Can you introduce me?”

They made their way behind the curtain, to the dank, windowless staging area. Jason clutched his notes, his Cirque papers that gave him an official, legitimate reason to be here, even though he’d caned and fucked the shit out of Sara last night. Never doing the local-pleasures thing again, no, because Sara with the eternal blue eyes was part of the goddamn act he’d come here to recruit.

The translator led him to the man first. Baat-something-or-other. She pitched into a lengthy introduction, and was midway through it when Sara turned from her gym bag and saw him. Her eyes went wide and immediately flew to her partner. She gave the barest shake of her head. Jason understood the message. Pretend we’ve never met.

It was difficult but he managed as best he could. The translator was still prattling on in Mongolian to the man, gesturing, her voice rising and falling. Jason didn’t have the first idea what the woman said about him. “Cirque du Monde,” he heard in the midst of it. “Paris.”

“Tell them the offer is immediate,” he said, cutting in. “They could come right away, train at headquarters, and be placed in a show after the Exhibition in a couple months.”

The translator only spoke to the man, and he didn’t seem impressed with what he was hearing. Sara stood behind him, off to the side. She looked shell-shocked. Traumatized. Jason stared at her, trying to express without words that everything would be okay. He assumed from her behavior that this partner must be her lover, maybe even her husband. He wouldn’t judge and he wouldn’t get her in any more trouble than he already had. He wished he could touch her again, though, fuck her, give her pain, give her joy. They’d had such a wonderful scene together, such a connection. At least now he understood why she’d been so insistent about leaving. One time. One night.

The translator prodded him. He’d been so lost in memories that he’d missed her comment. Sara’s partner glowered at him.

“They do not wish to come to Paris,” the translator repeated in her clipped voice. “They prefer to perform here.”

What? They didn’t wish to come to Paris? The man hadn’t even asked Sara, and anyway, no wasn’t an option. They had to come. “Did you explain about the state-of-the-art facilities?” he asked. “About the excellent benefits and salaries? About the beautiful theaters?” He cast a pointed look around the sagging tent.

With a terse smile, the translator addressed the man again. He shook his head and went off on a long spiel that didn’t need translating. He wasn’t feeling the whole Cirque du Monde thing.

Jason met Sara’s eyes. He couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t speak up. Was she afraid of her partner? Or afraid that Jason would expose what they’d done together?

With one last scowl at Jason, the man took Sara’s arm and led her away into the night. Halfway across the dirty, graveled lot, she tried to turn around, but he nudged her forward with a sharp word. Jason almost lost his shit. If they were in Paris he would have said something, or done something, but this rough-edged town probably wasn’t the place to start an international incident.

He wanted to, though. He wanted to beat Baat-de-baklava or whatever into the ground and kidnap Sara and put her on a plane. He wanted to rescue her from her lug of a partner and take her to the Cirque, and make her the star she was born to be. They could find her a new act, a new partner. Michel Lemaitre would take care of everything.

Jason wanted to do that, but he could only stand, powerless, as Sara and the other man walked away.

Back at his hotel room, Jason paced and fumed, and sulked over

the previously-arousing leather cuffs. Stupid. He was so stupid. Of course a gorgeous woman like Sara would already be in a relationship. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much, that she could be so open and submissive to him when she was already with someone else.

Well, he knew why it bothered him. Because he was strung too tight. Because he liked the people in his life to be well-behaved and perfect. He wanted Sara to be well-behaved and perfect because some part of him still thought she was his slave.

But she wasn’t his slave—she never had been—and he didn’t even know if he could get her to Paris now. What a clusterfuck. It was nearly eleven, with a long, cold Mongolian night staring him in the face. He spent a half hour trying to get onto the hotel Wi-Fi so he could bring Michel Lemaitre up to date.

Michel,

The trapeze act was spectacular. Unfortunately, they didn’t want to come. Or rather, he didn’t want to come. I’m still hoping to speak to the woman again, because I think she might be convinced. She’s talented, real Cirque material.

Also, I may have accidentally done a BDSM scene with her and fucked her to pieces. Do you think this will be a problem?

He deleted the last part and sent it, and then collapsed on the bed. At some point, he drifted off, because he woke to a tapping on the door.

He flew to unlock it, his fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar deadbolt. Please be Sara. “Hold on a second,” he said. “Don’t go.”

He glanced at the clock. It was almost two in the morning. He opened the door and there she was, his beautiful slave girl. His trapezist with the eternal eyes, now red from crying. He almost kissed her, almost pulled her into a crushing hug, but then he remembered he had to work with her now. Professionally.

“Thank God you’re here,” he said instead, drawing her inside. “Thank God you came.” Then, “Does he know you’re here?”

Her face crumpled and she covered her eyes. “No. And I don’t know if I should be here.”