He came up to her, his own carry-on bag dangling easily from his loose grip. The fit of his jeans showed narrow hips and legs that went on forever. Lani would have been in ecstasy. “That was the final boarding call. Let’s go.”
“Mr. Markov—please—you don’t really want to go through with this. If you’ll just lend me a third of the money that’s rightfully mine, we can put this behind us.”
“I made a promise to your father, and I never go back on my word. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but it’s a matter of honor with me.”
“Honor! You sold yourself to him! You let my father buy you! What kind of honor is that?”
“Max and I made a deal, and I’m not going to welsh. Of course, if you insist on walking away, I won’t stop you.”
“You know I can’t do that! I don’t have any money.”
“Then let’s get to it.” He pulled their boarding passes from his shirt pocket and turned away.
She had no checking account, no charge cards, and her father had ordered her not to contact him. With a sinking stomach, she realized she had run out of options, and she picked up her bag.
Ahead of her, Alex reached the last row of chairs, where a teenage boy sat smoking. As her new husband passed by, the boy’s cigarette went up in flames.
A little over two hours later she stood in the blazing afternoon sun in the parking lot at the Charleston airport and gazed at Alex’s black pickup truck, taking in the thick layer of dust on the hood and the Florida license plates nearly obscured by dried mud.
“Just throw it in the back.” Alex tossed his suitcase over the side of the truck but didn’t offer to do the same with hers, just as he hadn’t offered to carry it from the plane.
She set her jaw. If he thought she was going to beg him for help, he could think again. Her arms screamed in protest as she struggled to hoist the cumbersome bag over the side. She felt his eyes on her, and although she suspected that she’d eventually be grateful her father’s housekeeper had managed to stuff so much into one carry-on bag, at that moment she would have given anything for Louis Vuitton’s smallest tote.
She grabbed the handle in one hand and the hook at the bottom in the other. With a mighty effort, she heaved.
“Need help?” he inquired with phony innocence.
“No . . . thank . . . you.” The words came out more as grunts than civilized speech.
“Are you sure?”
She had hoisted it to shoulder level, and she didn’t have enough breath left to reply. Just a few more inches. She wobbled on her high heels. A few more—
With a squawk of dismay, she and the bag fell backward. She yelped as she hit the pavement, then yelped again out of pure rage. As she stared straight up into the sun, she realized the bag had cushioned her fall, which was the only reason she hadn’t hurt herself. She also realized she had sprawled into an ungainly position, with her short skirt stretched tight across her upper thighs, her knees pressed together, and her feet splayed.
A pair of scuffed brown cowboy boots appeared in her peripheral vision. As her eyes slid up along denim-clad thighs and over a broad chest to a pair of amber eyes glinting with amusement, she mustered her dignity. Bringing her ankles together, she propped herself up on her elbows. “I meant to do that.”
His chuckle had an old, rusty sound, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. “You don’t say.”
“Yes, I do.” With as much dignity as possible, she pushed herself the rest of the way into a sitting position. “This is what your childish behavior has led to, and I hope you’re sorry.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “You need a keeper, angel face, not a husband.”
“Will you stop calling me that!”
“Be grateful that’s all I’m calling you.” He snagged the strap of her bag with three fingers of one hand and tossed it over the top as if it weighed no more than her pride. Then he hauled her to her feet, unlocked the door of the cab, and pushed her into the sweltering interior.
She didn’t trust herself to speak until they had left the airport far behind and were traveling on a two-lane highway that seemed to be heading inland instead of toward Hilton Head, as she’d hoped.
Flat stretches of palmetto and scrub stretched on both sides of the road, and the blast of warm air coming through the truck’s open windows whipped feathery strands of hair against her cheeks. Keeping her voice determinedly pleasant, she finally broke the silence. “Would you mind turning on the air-conditioning? I’m getting blown to bits.”
“It hasn’t worked for years.”
Maybe she was getting numb, because his announcement didn’t surprise her. More miles ticked by, and signs of civilization grew increasingly sparse. Once again, she asked the question he’d refused to answer when they’d gotten off the plane. “Will you please tell me where we’re going?”
“It’ll probably be easier on your nervous system if you wait to see for yourself.”
“I’m not taking that as a hopeful sign.”
“Let’s put it this way. The place doesn’t have a cocktail lounge.”
The jeans, the boots, the pickup with Florida plates. Maybe he was a rancher! She knew that there were all kinds of wealthy cattle ranchers in Florida. Maybe they were taking a roundabout way south. Please, God, let him be a rancher. And let it be like a Dallas rerun. A beautiful house, tacky clothes, Sue Ellen and JR. cavorting around the swimming pool.
“Are you a rancher?”
“Do I look like a rancher?”
“Right now you sound like a psychiatrist. You answered a question with a question.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that. I never visited one.”
“Of course not. You’re obviously much too well-adjusted.” She’d meant the remark to be sarcastic, but she didn’t do sarcasm well, and it seemed to go right past him.
She gazed out the window at the hypnotically flat stretch of highway. Off to her right, she saw a dilapidated house with a scraggly tree in the front yard holding a collection of bird feeders made from gourds. The hot air blew over her.
She closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was inhaling. Until today, she hadn’t realized how addicted she was to nicotine. As soon as things settled down, she’d have to quit. She’d be in a new setting, and she’d make some rules for herself. For example, she wouldn’t ever smoke in the ranch house. If she wanted a cigarette, she’d slip out onto the veranda or lie on a chaise next to the pool.
As she drifted into sleep, she once again found herself praying. Please, God, let there be a veranda. Let there be a pool. . . .
Sometime later, the jolting of the truck awakened her. She jerked upright, opened her eyes, and gave a choked gasp.
“Something wrong?”
“Tell me that’s not what I think it is.” Her finger shook as she pointed toward the moving object on the other side of the dusty windshield.
“It’s pretty hard to confuse an elephant with anything else.”
It was an elephant. A real, live elephant. The beast picked up a clump of hay in its trunk and tossed it on its back. As she gazed into the glare of the late afternoon sun, she prayed that she was still asleep and this was only a bad dream. “We’re stopping here because you want to take me to the circus, right?”
“Not exactly.”
“You want to go to the circus yourself?”
“No”
Her mouth was so dry it was difficult forming the words. “I know you don’t like me, Mr. Markov, but please don’t say you work here.”
“I’m the manager.”
“You manage a circus,” she repeated faintly.
“That’s right.”
Stunned, she sagged back in the seat, but even her naturally optimistic nature couldn’t find a silver lining in this dark cloud.
The sun-parched vacant lot held a red-and-blue striped big top, several smaller tents, and a variety of trucks and trailers. The largest one was painted with red and blue stars, along with the bright red legend quest
brothers circus, owen quest, owner. In addition to a number of shackled elephants, she saw a llama, a camel, some large animal cages, and all kinds of disreputable people, including some dirty-looking men, most of whom seemed to be missing their front teeth.
Her father had always been a snob. He loved ancient lineages and royal titles. He boasted of his own descent from one of czarist Russia’s great aristocratic families. The fact that he’d given his only daughter to a man who worked for a circus was the clearest message he could have sent of his feelings for her.
“It’s not exactly Ringling Brothers.”
“I see that,” she replied weakly.
“Quest Brothers is what’s known as a mud show.”
“Why is that?”
His response sounded faintly diabolical. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
He parked the truck in a row with several others, turned off the ignition, and got out. By the time she’d climbed down, he’d taken both their bags out of the back and set off with them.
She tottered awkwardly after him over the uneven ground, her high heels sinking into the sand. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at her. Her knee poked through a widening hole in her shredded nylons, the singed gold satin jacket slipped off one shoulder, and her shoe sank into something ominously soft. With a sinking heart, she looked down, only to see that she’d stepped in exactly what she’d feared.
“Mr. Markov!”
Her shriek bore an edge of hysteria, but he didn’t seem to hear. Instead, he kept walking toward a row of house trailers and motor homes. She wiped the sole of her shoe in the sandy soil, filling it with grit in the process. With a strangled exclamation, she set off again.
He approached two vehicles that sat close together. The nearest one was a sleekly modern silver motor home that had a satellite dish on top. Next to it rested a battered and rust-streaked trailer that might have been green in a past life.
Let him be going to the motor home instead of that horrible trailer. Let him be—
He stopped at the ugly green trailer, opened the door, and disappeared inside. She groaned, then realized she was so numb to shock she wasn’t even surprised.
He reappeared in the doorway a moment later and watched her wobbly approach. When she reached the bottom of the bent metal step, he gave her a cynical smile. “Home sweet home, angel face. Do you want me to carry you over the threshold?”
Despite his sarcasm, she chose that particular moment to remember that she’d never been carried over a threshold, and regardless of the circumstances, this was her wedding day. Maybe a small bow to sentiment would help both of them salvage something positive from this terrible experience.
“Yes, please.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to.”
She tried to swallow her disappointment. “All right, then.”
“It’s a damned trailer!”
“So I see.”
“I don’t even think trailers have thresholds.”
“If something has a door, it has a threshold. Even an igloo has a threshold.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that they were beginning to draw a crowd. Alex noticed, too. “Just get in here, all right.”
“You’re the one who offered.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“I’ve noticed you’re that way a lot. In case no one has ever pointed it out, it’s an annoying habit.”
“Get inside, Daisy.”
Somehow a line had been drawn, and what had begun impulsively had turned into a battle of wills. She stood at the bottom of the step, her knees shaking with dread, but still trying to hold her ground. “I’d appreciate it if you’d at least honor this one tradition.”
“For chrissake.” He jumped down, scooped her up, and carried her inside, kicking the door behind him. As it shut, he dumped her onto her feet.
Before she could make up her mind whether she’d won or lost that particular skirmish, she became aware of her surroundings and forgot everything else. “Oh, dear.”
“You’re going to hurt my feelings if you tell me you don’t like it.”
“It’s awful.”
The inside was even worse than the outside. Cramped and cluttered, it smelled of mildew, old age, and stale food. A miniature kitchen sat just in front of her, its blue Formica top faded and chipped. Dirty dishes had been piled in the tiny sink, and a crusty pan sat on top of a stove, just above an oven door held shut by a piece of twine. The threadbare carpet had once been gold but now held so many ancient stains its color could only be described in terms of body functions. To the right of the kitchen, the faded plaid upholstery of a small couch was barely visible beneath stacks of books, newspapers, and remnants of male clothing. She saw a chipped refrigerator, cupboards with peeling laminate, and one unmade bed.
She whirled around looking for another. “Where are the rest of the beds?”
He regarded her evenly, then stepped around the bags he’d dropped in the center of the floor. “This is a trailer, angel face, not a suite at the Ritz. What you see is what you get.”
“But—” She clamped her mouth shut. Her throat felt dry and her stomach quivered.
The bed took up most of one end of the trailer, separated from the rest only by a sagging length of wire holding a faded brown curtain that was pushed back against the wall. The bedsheets tangled with a few items of clothing, a bath towel, and something that appeared from a distance to be a heavy black belt.
“The mattress is nice and comfortable,” he said.
“I’m sure the couch will be fine for me.”
“Whatever.”
She heard a series of metallic clinks and turned to see him unloading his pockets on the cluttered kitchen counter: change, truck keys, wallet. “I was living in another trailer until a week ago, but it was too small for two people, so I arranged for this one. Unfortunately, I haven’t had time to call my interior decorator.” He jerked his head. “Donnicker’s in there. It’s the only thing I’ve had time to clean up. You can try to fit your stuff into that storage closet behind you. Spec starts in an hour; stay away from the elephants.”
Donnicker? Spec?
“I really don’t think I can live like this,” she said. “It’s filthy.”
“You’re right about that. I guess it needs a woman’s touch. There’s some cleaning stuff under the sink.”
He moved past her to get to the door, then paused. The next thing she knew, he had crossed back to the counter and repocketed his wallet.
She was deeply offended. “I’m not a thief.”
“Of course you’re not. And let’s just keep it that way.” His chest brushed her arm as he turned sideways to slip past her to the door. “Today we have shows at five and eight. Be at both of them.”
“Stop it right now! I can’t stay in this awful place, and I’m not cleaning up your filth!”
He glanced absently down at the toe of his boot, then back up at her. She gazed into those pale golden eyes and felt a quiver of dread, along with a sensation of heightened awareness that she was afraid to examine too closely.
He slowly lifted his hand, and she flinched as he clasped it gently around her throat. She felt the light abrasion of his thumb as he began rubbing the hollow just beneath her ear in something that felt very much like a caress. “Listen to me, angel face,” he said softly. “We can do this easy, or we can do it rough. Either way, I’m going to win. You decide how it’ll be.”
Their gazes locked. In a moment that lasted forever, he wordlessly demanded that she submit to him. His eyes seemed to burn through her, dissolving her clothes, her skin, until she felt naked and open, with all her weaknesses exposed. She wanted to run away and hide, but the force of his will held her in place.
His hand moved across her throat, then brushed the boxy satin jacket down on her arms. It fell to the floor with a whisper. He touched the lacy gold strap of the dre
ss beneath and slipped it over her shoulder. She wore no bra—the dress wouldn’t allow it—and her heart began to pound.
With the tip of his finger, he drew the lace down on her breast until it caught on her nipple. Then he bent his head and put his teeth to the soft flesh he had exposed.
Her breath caught as she felt the nip. It should have been painful, but her nerve endings registered the small bite as pleasure. She felt the brush of his hand in her hair, and then he turned away, having left his mark on her, just like a wild animal. That was when she knew what his eyes had reminded her of. A creature of prey.
The trailer door swung on its hinges. He stepped outside and gazed back at her, dropping the white gardenia he had stolen from her hair.
It burst into flames.
3
Daisy slammed the door against the burning flower and pressed her fingers to her breast. What kind of man had the power of fire under his command?
As her heart thudded under her hand, she reminded herself that this was a circus, a place of illusion. He must have picked up a few magic tricks over the years, and she wasn’t going to let her imagination run wild.
She touched the small red mark on the curve of her breast, and her nipple beaded in response. Gazing at the unmade bed, she sank down on one of the chairs by the trailer’s built-in kitchen table and tried to absorb the irony of what had happened.
My daughter is saving herself for marriage. Lani used to toss out the statement as dinner conversation to amuse her friends while Daisy swallowed her embarrassment and pretended to laugh right along with the rest of them. Lani had finally stopped her public announcements when Daisy had turned twenty-three for fear her friends would think she’d raised a freak.
Kiss an Angel Page 3