Master's Flame (Cirque Masters)

by Joseph, Annabel

  His teasing tone brought a much-needed, if weak, smile to her lips. She looked up into her director’s incisive sea-blue eyes. “You’re right. This isn’t the end of the world. I think I’m calmer now.”

  “Good.” He glanced at his watch. “Because I’m late for my next practice. Damn it. Are you really okay? You’re not going to hop a plane to Naples?”

  She shook her head. “I guess I’m staying here.”

  “Then I suggest you take a day to get your head back on straight. Unpack, go out for some lunch, soak in the tub. Maybe go to Priya and get a mind-numbing back rub. Whatever you do, don’t think about him. He’s gone anyway, back to Brussels.”

  That thought comforted her. He wasn’t even here, and probably wouldn’t be for any length of time until the construction project wound down. That gave her some leeway to get over him, at least the deepest pangs of misery and rejection, but she thought she’d always feel a little pain when she saw him. Feelings that strong never went away.

  “Wait,” she said as Jason moved toward the door.

  He looked uneasy when he turned. “What now?”

  “If he won’t have me because I’m too hot-headed and crazy...well...what if I became less crazy? What if I worked on being calm and sedate?”

  “Calm and sedate?” He made a face. “Even if such a thing was possible, you couldn’t keep it up long-term. You wouldn’t be you.”

  “People can change.”

  “You’ll never be calm and sedate, Valentina. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. My advice? Forget about Lemaitre and find someone who wants you as you are. I mean, there are a ton of men and women who would love to top you. You could take your pick of a dozen D-types at the Citadel if that’s what you’re into.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. I’ve seen the way they look at you.”

  Valentina tuned out his words because they meant nothing to her. No one else was like Michel Lemaitre, and they never would be. She barely noticed when Jason said goodbye and closed the door, because she realized she’d hit upon the answer. She only had to remake herself in the image of Maxim and Leonid. She had to be calm and clear-eyed, silent and utterly self-effacing. If he didn’t like her as she was, she would transform herself into his image of a perfect slave. She would pour herself out to make room for whatever Lemaitre wanted, and once he filled her up, she’d finally feel complete.

  She would practice being calm and sane while Mr. Lemaitre was away, and practice submission at the Citadel until she was great at taking pain, as great as Leonid and Maxim, then she’d win his regard when he returned to gauge Élémental’s progress. He wouldn’t be able to resist her when he saw how much she’d changed.

  It was so simple a solution. Thank God Jason had come by to open her eyes.

  *** *** ***

  Michel stayed away almost a month, until there was nothing else to do in Brussels and the Christmas holidays brought him home. The new year found him holed up in his office, concentrating on business. Margins were good. It was a perfect time to launch a new production and there were plenty of tasks to be done.

  Even sequestered in his office, he heard company news, but nothing of La Vampa aside from the usual status reports on the development of her act. He found this shocking—he had expected her to run rampant while he was away. He wondered if she still went to the Citadel, if she was still cutting a swath through all the sexually available men of the Cirque. He hoped so. He hoped she was having fun. He hoped it had not been too difficult for her to come to terms with his rejection. The way she had looked at him that night...like he was eviscerating her soul.

  If Valentina was not so central to the upcoming production, he might have sent her to some other show, only to free himself of temptation. As it was, he could not. By now all the acts were in place and proper rehearsals were underway, with new sets and equipment constructed by the art department. Huge stage pieces filled the Cirque’s workshops, and red, orange, and gold paint covered everything.

  He scheduled time in mid-January to see an overview of the show before they moved into the practice theater. The directors and coaches huddled around him as the performers demonstrated their progress and awaited his critique. Of course, nothing was ever perfect, not at this stage. Michel was as blunt as he could be without disrespecting his staff and performers. He shared many positives to balance the negatives, but Jason seemed strangely subdued as the order of acts led up to Valentina’s routine.

  “So, how is the hand-to-hand coming, now that you’ve added extra men?” asked Michel. Had he tried too hard to sound casual? He didn’t want to admit how anxious he was to see her perform, how many times his gaze had strayed to the side of the room where she stretched to stay warm.

  Jason’s expression gave nothing away. “The act is coming along. They’ve been very focused. Working hard.” He paused, looking up from the page of notes before him. “I understand the ‘twins’ have been put out to pasture.”

  “Is that what people are saying?”

  “It’s true, isn’t it? You sent them away.”

  “They were needed for the Los Angeles show.” Indeed, Maxim and Leonid had volunteered with just a little urging from his direction. “They have earned it, don’t you think?” he asked Jason. “If you stay too long in any one show, or any one situation, life grows stale.”

  “Hmm.” Jason made a non-committal sound as Valentina entered the performance area. The costumes were one of the last components to be created but she was dressed in the spirit of the show, in a bright orange-yellow bodysuit that was still not as eye-catching as her hair. Jason explained the progress on the act, new stunts and nuances that had been added. Michel listened with half his attention. Valentina and her partners would show him the heart and soul of the performance, which was all he really cared about.

  A moment later, the quintet took the floor. The first thing he noticed was an inexplicable slouch to Valentina’s shoulders, a deflation, as if she were half asleep. Performing for the boss should have had her at full charge. He narrowed his eyes as the music began and Adei and Danil drew Valentina into the first lift.

  The performance had no errors, no hesitations or confusion. There were no wobbles or bobbles and the stunts themselves were graceful and creative. He could not say what was wrong with the act except that it had no life. Valentina had no spark, no joy, not even a smile.

  “What is she doing?” Michel hissed under his breath to Jason. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Jason grimaced and rubbed his neck. “She’s trying to please you, I think.”

  Her face was a blank, pretty mask, and her body, while capable at the tricks, expressed no deeper artistry. She wasn’t on fire. His La Vampa, his inspiring flame, had fizzled out.

  “Arrête,” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “Stop.”

  Fifty faces turned to him. The recorded music came to a halt mid-note and Valentina slid down Roman’s chest. She turned to regard her boss with a flash of irritation that immediately disappeared back into that unsettling mask.

  That was when he realized she was doing this on purpose, punishing him, perhaps, for rejecting her before. She was not ill, she was not tired, she was simply hiding her charisma behind this polished, expressionless shell. It infuriated him.

  “Where is the energy? Where is the soul?” he yelled. “I almost fell asleep in the middle of your performance.”

  Her four partners looked accusingly at Valentina.

  “I was trying to be controlled,” she said in a stilted manner that sounded nothing like her usual tumbling speech. “Precision and grace are the foundations of a good hand-to-hand act.”

  “Precision and grace?” His voice edged up to a roar, his temper goaded by her level explanations. “Do you presume to educate me on the vagaries of performance?”

  “I don’t presume anything,” she said, her voice faltering. “Why are you angry with me? Did I fall? Did I make any mistakes?”

  “You can do every
movement perfectly and still put the audience to sleep.” His gaze swept over her partners but it was on Valentina that he focused his ire. “We must have emotion and spirit from you most of all. You are the anchor of this show, the focal point of the act, and you’re like a mannequin being passed around and arranged in static poses. How boring and depressing. Where is the life, the risk? The drama?”

  “Oh.” She gave him an arch look. “My apologies, monsieur. I thought uncontrolled dramatics were not to your taste.”

  Michel heard a small sound from Jason, a light sigh over the furious racing of his blood. “Michel—” Jason began in a warning tone, but La Vampa had pushed him beyond temper into indelicacy. He yanked her away from the others, marching her toward the corner of the rehearsal space. He tried without success to collect himself before he leaned down to glare into her sullen gaze.

  “Are you playing games with me, Miss Sancia?” he said between his teeth. “You may find such strategies blow up in your face.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, not backing down in the slightest. “Playing games? I am not the one between us who plays games, Mr. Lemaitre. I have not forgotten that night, not one second of what happened, even if you choose to act now as if nothing took place. Miss Sancia,” she mocked, affecting a low, French-inflected voice. “You will call me Miss Sancia, as if we’re mere acquaintances, when once you called me mignonne, just like a caress, and knelt between my legs?”

  “Enough.” That bark, that command was generally enough to bring any disorderly person to heel. But Valentina was not any disorderly person. She batted his hand away.

  “No, it’s not enough,” she yelled. “I thought you were different. I thought you were brave and that your heart was open to everything in the world. You disappoint me, Mr. Lemaitre. No, disappointment is not a good enough word. You devastate me with your manipulations and lies. I’ve tried to please you but you won’t be pleased.”

  He looked over at Jason as if he could save him, but no one could save him, not now. The entire room—fifty people or more—stood still as statues, watching and listening to every word that passed between them.

  He tuned them out and fixed his eyes on his dream and his nightmare. Knelt between her legs, had he? How novel of her to throw it in his face. “You have no concept of professionalism, do you, Miss Sancia?” he asked in a cutting tone. “Or discretion, for that matter.” He took her arm, pulling her right against him, and lowered his voice so no one else could hear. “If you have private things to say to me, you’ll make an appointment and meet me in my office like any sane person would.”

  “Why not your back room?” she sneered.

  He squeezed her arm, unforgivably hard, but this insubordination couldn’t continue. “My office, mademoiselle,” he said, giving her a little shake. “There, and only there, will we discuss the personal issues between us. You will never air them publicly again or you will find yourself on the first flight back to Napoli. Do you understand?” His tone had gone from cutting to vicious. She nodded without comment, going white about her lips.

  He released her and pointed to the center of the practice space, where her partners stood waiting. “Now, you will go and repeat your act, and this time you will perform it with the spirit and artistry of which you are capable. Go.”

  He stalked to stand just on the perimeter of the performance space, his arms crossed over his chest. Her partners regrouped and took their positions and Valentina straightened her slouched shoulders. If she hadn’t, he would have gone and done it himself, and added a great whack to her backside for good measure. How could she imagine he’d be pleased with her lackluster, robotic performance? My apologies, monsieur. I thought uncontrolled dramatics were not to your taste.

  Little hellion. He could not allow a battle of wills between them. He couldn’t allow her to win. He watched her repeat her performance with the same accuracy and control, but this time she let her flame burn. My God, she was incomparable in her artistry.

  He ought to have congratulated the five of them on an improved performance, but his temper burned too brightly. Instead he returned to his place at the table and called for the next act, not sparing Valentina a look.

  Chapter Six: Mastery

  Michel leaned back in his chair. His private dungeon was busy, filled with friends and a selection of his past and present slaves. None of them appealed, but he had to be here to reassert his authority after Valentina had publicly dressed him down. Was Lemaitre going soft? everyone wondered. Losing control of the company?

  No. Just control of one crazy girl.

  He stared across the dungeon at the delightful brunette waiting in chains against a St. Andrews cross. Why didn’t Kaiya’s beautiful body stir him? Why did her hair, which he’d long admired, suddenly seem a drab, dark shade?

  He pushed out of his chair and approached her, willing himself to find excitement in her bondage, her submission. She pulled at the chains, putting on a lovely show. Male slaves were good for enduring his darker impulses, but for connection, for beauty, women possessed a softness men couldn’t match. Their bodies were, by default, vulnerable, composed of tender orifices. Women were designed to be invaded.

  His organ stirred at the thought, not yet erect, but heading there. Was it the chains? The fear in her eyes? The voyeurs around them, studying their every move? Then someone stepped in his way, one of the more experienced Masters.

  “Monsieur, forgive me for interrupting.”

  Michel stared at the man. He would never have entered a scene in progress, except in an emergency. “What is it?”

  “There’s something going on in one of the other rooms. It’s...causing a stir.” Another man stood behind him, also a respected Citadel player.

  Michel blew out a breath. “I don’t want to be bothered. Have someone else handle it.” Of course, Valentina would be involved. Who else would create such chaos that they would come here and interrupt him?

  Something flickered in the glance between the two men before they turned to go. Something telling. With a curse, Michel turned from his pretty, trembling victim and strode across the hall after them, toward the last of the back rooms.

  He heard Valentina’s screams first, shrill, wild shrieks that made his hair stand on end. He threw open the door with a bang. People scuttled out before he could even take stock of what he was seeing. A pair of men wielding whips, marking their victim. Too many welts, some of them bleeding. Manacles. Red curls pulled up in a messy twist. A knife in another man’s hands, and a noose around the slim column of the woman’s neck.

  Valentina’s neck.

  Michel cursed in French, because it was the first language that came to his lips, and then in English because the men were Americans, part of a high wire act. They dropped their whips and scattered back as he crossed to Valentina and lifted her with an arm around her waist. The blood on her back and thighs smeared warm against his skin. He ripped the noose off her neck with a shudder. Damn them. If she’d passed out during their onslaught...even lost her balance for a moment...

  She collapsed against him, moaning, weak, and sub-spacey. A quick inspection assured him the worst of her injuries were the angry cuts on her back. He was furious with her, but this was Valentina, who was crazy. Her tormentors should have known better. He turned to the two men who’d been throwing the whips.

  “What in holy fuck possessed you to play this game with her? A noose?”

  “She a-asked us,” one of them stammered. “She said she wanted to play hard. She wanted it.”

  “And you said yes?” Michel tightened his grip around her waist. “We have rules here, even in the back rooms. Safe, sane, consensual.”

  The men looked at each other, then gestured to the third man holding a knife. “If she fell, we would have cut the rope.”

  Michel eyed the weapon, then snarled at the asshole holding it. “What good it would have done, once she snapped or injured her neck?”

  “She asked us to do this,” repeated the fi
rst guy. “It was consensual.”

  “But not safe or sane,” he barked. “Get out, all of you. You’re banned for one year from the Citadel. Go.”

  The last man hesitated before he left, gesturing toward Valentina. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “I’ll deal with her,” Michel said. “Get out of the Citadel before I have you dragged out with a fucking noose around your neck.”

  “It was my idea,” Valentina protested weakly. “Don’t be angry at them.”

  “I’ll be angry at them as much as I like, and angry at you.” He looked down at her in despair. What was he to do with this woman? How was he to control her erratic behavior? “How much did you drink?” he asked, shaking her from her subspace stupor. “Answer me.”

  “Nothing. Half a drink.”

  “Then why? Why would you participate in such a scene?”

  “Because I wanted to,” she yelled, trying to struggle away. “I wanted to feel something. Something horrible. Something bad.”

  “Why?” he shook her again so her teeth rattled together.

  “You should know,” she said, her voice rising to a shriek. “You insulted me today. Rejected me.”

  “Oh, this is my fault?” He bit back sharper words, words that would have maimed her, words he would have regretted. The idea of her risking her life because of something he’d done to her? God, it flayed him raw, and he didn’t deal well with that feeling. He focused instead on the bleeding cuts on her back. He would have to take her home and treat them, not because he blamed himself for them, but because he didn’t trust her to do it herself. “Do you think before you do anything?” he said, giving her a sharp shake. “What did you imagine you’d accomplish with that scene?”

  He wanted to shy away from the pain in her eyes. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want any of this. “Don’t look at me that way,” she screamed. “Don’t touch me. I hate you. I hate you, and you don’t care about me anyway! What I do outside of work is none of your business.”