Tempting the Ringmaster (A Big Top Romance)

by Aleah Barley

  Whoever had rented the fairgrounds wasn’t just putting on a show. They were living there as well. Men, women, and children scurrying back and forth about their daily routine; cooking food over mobile stoves and open pit fires, hanging up wet laundry, and hurrying to put together something in the middle of the fairgrounds—miles of heavy fabric and long steel beams.

  Dogs of every size, shape, and possible description raced across the ground. Wiry terriers were digging under a rust covered Toyota and a matched pair of golden retrievers was fighting over a bone. A fluffy cream-colored mutt attached itself to Graham’s foot, needle sharp teeth digging into his polished shoes. He gave a quick shake of his leg.

  Nothing happened. He tried again.

  “Careful, Gilly,” A gravelly voice came from the shadows. “That thing’s a monster. You’re not careful, it’ll take your arm off.”

  Straightening slightly, Graham took a cautious step sideways. The dog on his foot couldn’t be more than ten pounds, and half of that was fur. Peering into the fading light, he picked out an elderly man leaning back against a trailer fingering a packet of cigarettes with gnarled digits.

  The man was wearing faded navy coveralls coated in grease and manure. Silvery hair surrounded his head like a pale halo, but his apparent age didn’t make him any weaker. One look was all it took to know that this man was a survivor. All knuckle.

  “You got a good look, Gilly?” The old man’s motions were stiff, slipping the cigarettes into his back pocket. “Seen all the crazies? The freaks?” He took a wheezy breath and nodded towards the road. “Go on then, back to your friends, tell ‘em all about it. Tell ‘em the show starts the day after tomorrow. Friday evening. Six o’clock sharp.”

  Graham felt like he’d suddenly been dropped into the middle of a conversation without all the relevant information. “We weren’t properly introduced,” He held out a hand. “My name’s Graham. Graham Tyler.”

  “Gilly, rube, louse.” The man gave a halfhearted wave. “Take your pick. Just be glad that you ran into me first. The others aren’t so friendly.”

  He let out a groan as he doubled at the waist, bending down to remove the animal from Graham’s shoe. The thing let out an angry growl—surprisingly large coming from such a little body—and the guy flinched.

  “Hell,” he muttered, straightening up. “Looks like you’re going to be here awhile.”

  Graham had pacified Fallujah—twice—and he had the scars to prove it. Now, he’d been taken captive by a poodle. He bit his lip to keep from laughing at the absurdity. “I’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Lucky you,” He snorted angrily. “I’m supposed to be lifting the king pole any minute now. Jonah’s luck plaguing us the way it has. I’ll probably be up all night anyway.”

  Hands started patting his coveralls searching for something, probably the cigarettes he’d put away a few minutes earlier.

  “I’d better get you over to the boss—“ Bleary eyes narrowed, his gaze focusing on something just behind Graham. “Ah, hell. These clowns.”

  Graham turned slightly, opening up his stance to see what the old man was talking about. Two men looking like extras from some absurdist dark comedy; one couldn’t be more than five foot, the other was impossibly tall.

  The short man had delicate features and a slim build. Wiry muscles stood out underneath his burnt orange vest and electric blue cargo pants.

  The larger man didn’t share his friend’s outrageous dress sense, but then he didn’t need bright clothes to draw attention to himself.

  Not when he was roughly the size of a mountain.

  The shorter man raised his hands to rest solidly on his hips. “What do you have here, Frank?”

  An angry snort from the old man at Graham’s side, “None of your business, Aldridge.”

  “Looks like someone who doesn’t belong,” Aldridge clucked his tongue. The man’s voice was surprisingly deep, given his size, “a stranger here on jump night? What are people going to think?”

  “They’ll mind their own business. Just like you should.” Frank moved forward, hands balling into fists at his side. “You’re supposed to be setting up the living quarters, preparing for the show tomorrow. You and Mikhail. Belle said—“

  “’Belle said.’ ‘Belle said.’” The little man hopped up and down, his shaved head bobbing like something out of a fractured fairytale. Rumplestiltskin if he’d fallen into a bucket of neon paint. “I’m sick and tired of hearing what, ‘Belle said.’ Why don’t you speak for yourself, Frank?”

  “I think you should walk away,” Frank said, raising his voice so that everyone in the gathering crowd could hear him.

  The crowd was rough; none of the women, no children, just hard faced men, with sweat in their eyes and dirt on their pants. Graham recognized the thin-lipped expression on their faces. He’d seen it enough times at the local bars around closing time; back in the city where everything was just a little harder, a little meaner.

  They were looking for a fight.

  An angry snort from Aldridge, the self-appointed leader of the pack, “That a fact? There was a time you would have taken on any jumped-up Gilly that disturbed unloading. You used to be something, back when the old man was alive—“

  “The old man’s dead.” Frank slumped forward slightly, suddenly frail. “That’s the point, isn’t it? This is Belle’s show now, so you’d better start paying attention to what she has to say.”

  “This is Belle’s show,” There was a nod of acknowledgment, “for now. Who knows how long that’s going to be the case? You should be nicer to me, Frank. Someday I might just be gaffer.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  Their words had the bitter edge of a familiar argument like the two men were retreading familiar ground. Graham didn’t need to hear it. He cleared his throat, “I should be going.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Gilly-Boy,” There was a dark glint in Aldridge’s eyes. His lips curled up into a wild hyena smile, the look of a predator who’d caught the scent of fresh game. “You never should have come.”

  It was unsettling. Graham was six foot four in bare feet with broad shoulders. In the SEALS, his nickname had been Wild Dog, and he’d earned it the hard way. These days he kept in shape lifting weights at his cousin’s gym and swimming in the lake behind his house.

  Most of the people who thought they could fight him were stupid, drunk, or both, but the petite man in front of him looked completely sober.

  Graham shifted forward onto the balls of his feet, suddenly all too aware of the gun resting on his hip. Over a pound of glistening, deadly, steel. A needless precaution according to the previous chief of police—a man who’d made do with a shotgun locked in the trunk of his patrol car for his entire career—but Graham had gotten used to carrying a gun when he was working overseas.

  The weapon could stop the situation any time. Nine-millimeter rounds meant it could stop a charging bear.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t pull his gun on a crowd of unarmed civilians. Not without risking innocent bystanders.

  The men had completely surrounded him, forming a wall of strong bodies. There was no place to go, nowhere to run. Cool snickers and hard smiles filled the air. Any minute fists would start flying. Graham had learned how to fight in college bars and learned how to fight dirty with the SEALS. But there were too many of them, and he had no one to watch his back. His heavy jacket would afford some protection, but nothing short of a miracle would save him from a broken rib.

  The only question was whether dancing at the Winter Social would be merely painful or completely impossible.

  The first punch was a solid right to the jaw that came too fast for Graham to see who had hit him. The second shot broke his nose. Graham threw out a wild punch, his lips tipping up into a wild grin as he felt his hands connect with someone’s body.

  Someone grunted. Another man groaned. Graham wasn’t aiming—there wasn’t time—all he could do was swing his fists and hope to connect with
one of the men surrounding him; the circle growing narrower as they all joined in.

  Another minute and he’d be done for, a minute after that and he’d be pulling out his gun to shoot wildly into the crowd.

  He tumbled backward, slamming down onto his knees. Years spent sparring in practice rings and fighting men one or two at time in bars hadn’t prepared him for this.

  Nothing could prepare him for this.

  “Enough,” The crack of a woman’s voice rang above the crowd. Silence. A petite woman in a shapeless brown coat pushed her way through the circle. “Don’t you people have jobs to do?”

  The question didn’t even need to be asked. The men were already melting away, disappearing into the autumn afternoon as quietly as they’d arrived.

  The fading light flickered in front of Graham’s face. Everything was spinning. A fairy appeared. Wide forest green eyes, mahogany hair curling down across porcelain cheeks, lips red and juicy like ripe strawberries waiting to be drawn into his mouth, suckled, and devoured. Her outfit was dark, shapeless, a drab brown shroud, but he didn’t need to see underneath her clothes to know that her body would be perfect, just like her heart shaped face.

  All fairies were perfect.

  For a moment, he wondered what she’d taste like… Sweetness and light.

  The world went dark.

  Chapter Two

  What the hell was going on? Belle’s lips pursed and her nostrils flared.

  She swung around, pacing the length of her tiny vintage Airstream. Two steps took her past the entryway and the open bathroom door. Another step into the living room, padding across the thick Oriental rug that her father had dragged from a dumpster and cut down to size with its scarlet threads and golden swirls. Half a stride more and her foot banged against the combination stove-refrigerator that made up her kitchen.

  Spinning, she took four short steps back to the bedroom alcove to look at the unconscious man sprawled out across her sky blue sheets.

  The clowns were unhappy, that was a fact, but she’d never thought that they’d take their anger out on an innocent bystander or—worse—that other members of the circus would join them. It hadn’t just been the clowns circling the man’s prone body. There had been others; acrobats, strong men, and tumblers; even the roustabouts, the brute force of the circus, who strained to carry heavy boxes and assemble complicated machinery on little food and less sleep.

  “Maybe we should call an ambulance,” Dorothy Cobb said sagely. The horse trainer was the closest thing to a doctor that the circus had.

  Bumps, bruises, broken bones, and a couple nasty cases of flu. Belle had seen her treat it all by dipping into her faded blue knapsack. Now the woman’s broad face was creased into a frown, her displeasure palpable in the cramped trailer.

  “Passing out’s a tricky thing. He could regain consciousness any minute, or he could never wake up.”

  “Calling an ambulance means getting involved with the police.” Belle didn’t think there were open warrants on any of her people, but being part of the circus was a hard life. The men who weren’t born into it were usually running from something; bad luck, alimony payments, or worse. “You said he could wake up any minute. We’ll give it an hour.”

  “And if he’s still not awake?”

  Belle squeezed her eyes shut, wishing that Dorothy hadn’t asked the question, hoping that the other woman would take it back. No such luck.

  The man on the bed had to wake up. The other possibility was too horrible even to contemplate. If he didn’t wake up within an hour then he really would need to go to the hospital, and she would have to decide what to do next. Call an ambulance to transport him to the hospital in relative comfort or dump him on the nearest street corner.

  “You should go.” Her eyes flickered open, her gaze settling on the woman across from her.

  Dorothy had been with the circus for years, working the horses with her husband. Between her steady demeanor, strong doughy body, and straightforward advice, Belle had always thought of her as the mother she’d never had. If something went wrong, there was no reason for Dorothy to get in trouble with the authorities.

  Dorothy nodded slowly, “You’ll call if you need something.” A short pause while the woman gathered up her supplies, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. “No, you won’t.” A sigh, “There’s a cold cloth on the bedside table. You might try wiping down his forehead. It always did wonders for your dear old dad when he’d passed out.”

  “Uh huh.” Barnaby Black had only ever passed out from too much alcohol. “Thanks for the advice.”

  Belle slumped back against the wall, allowing Dorothy room to pass. A second later the other woman was gone. It was just Belle and the man on the bed.

  Outside the air was full of loud noises and sharp smells, all the hustle and bustle of a small circus setting up their tents and trailers one more time. Inside the world was silent, still. The only noises were the faint barking of dogs that carried through the window and the ragged inhalation as the man on the bed took a breath.

  Arms extended, she twisted toward the ground, stretching in the cramped space. She reached out one finger to poke the man on the bed. Nothing happened. Another poke. Nada.

  Belle let out a deep sigh. Picking up the damp washcloth, she knelt on the side of the bed and brushed sweaty blonde locks away from his face to get a better look at him.

  “Damn,” she muttered in surprise as she revealed a strong forehead, sharp cheekbones, and a purple bruise developing underneath one eye.

  Lips made for kissing their way down a woman’s body were twisted upwards in a slight smile, revealing dimpled cheeks. The man was all-American, the football captain who’d only ever talked to her when his friends’ backs were turned, a small town hero who’d seduced her in the moonlight… Secure in the knowledge that she’d be gone with the circus before daybreak. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a face like a fallen angel; there was something about him—even unconscious—that looked like a hero from an old action movie.

  Considering the trouble he’d caused, the man probably wasn’t a hero. He was more like a villain. A larger than life character everyone admired and no one ever disagreed with; slick, quick, and thick as a bag of rocks.

  Bringing him into the trailer, she’d carried his feet. Ox-blood leather shoes and pressed blue slacks. Dorothy had been the one to loosen his jacket and check his pulse, although she hadn’t been willing to do much more after that. It had taken a minute and a half, less time than she’d spent checking out Petra’s sprained pinky finger two weeks earlier.

  “What the heck are you doing here?” Belle demanded, using a washcloth to wipe the sweat from the man’s brow.

  He didn’t answer, but unconscious men rarely did.

  His head turned slightly, warm lips brushing against the palm of her hand. The sensation was electrifying, sizzling all the way through her body. Was he waking up, or was the action just some reflex?

  Small droplets of water rolled down his face before pooling on his thick brown coat. A single drop moved further down, cold water connecting with his collarbone making him shudder against her hand.

  Belle forced herself to take a breath before leaning closer, balancing unsteadily on one hand, staring down at him, looking for any sign of life.

  Heavy eyelids flickered open. Long eyelashes, a shade lighter than his tanned skin, framed silver-blue eyes. Each breath was coming faster. Air being pulled through clenched teeth made an audible noise.

  “Who—“ His lips pursed, forming a perfect kissable ‘O.’ “Where am I?”

  So many small towns all piled up against each other. It took Belle a minute to tease out the one she wanted. “Whispering Springs, Michigan.”

  “Fools and idiots,” the man snarled, but the anger didn’t reach his eyes. Hands braced behind him, muscles strained, he forced himself into a sitting position, gasping for air. “The fairgrounds—you’re part of the show at the fairgrounds.”

  ‘The show.’ Bel
le’s teeth ground together. The Black Shadow Circus had been called a lot of things over the years—most of them unflattering—it had never been just a show. A thin smile passed over her lips. “Right.”

  He took a deep breath, slower this time. “Those men really did a number on my insides. You call the police?”

  This was the tricky part. Belle’s tongue darted out, moistening her lips. The man in front of her was a Gilly. Of course, he’d want to call the police after an assault.

  “I would have,” she chose her words carefully, attempting to stroke the man’s ego, “if you’d really been hurt. A big guy like you? You’re going to be fine.” The silence was suffocating. “Right?”

  “You—“ Pale blue eyes stared up at her, full of wonder and amazement. “You saved me.”

  “Not really.” Belle shifted nervously.

  Maybe the damage had been worse than she thought. Grabbing his hand, she shook it quickly. You could tell a lot about a man from his handshake, at least that’s what her father had always insisted. The man on her bed had a firm shake. His hand was dry. His finger’s long, capable. Definitely strong, but he didn’t feel the need to show off.

  Different. Not like the men who usually hung around the circus. Sexy. The thought had her heart beating faster, fluttering in her chest.

  “Belle—“ She sucked in a breath. “My name’s Belle.”

  “Belle. Beauty.” He gave her a slow nod, like his neck hurt. His lips pulled back into a wolfish grin. His eyes lowered slightly, their gaze deep and penetrating. Starting at her bare feet and moving upwards, caressing her jean clad legs, climbing upwards to linger on her mouth. “Does that make me the beast?”

  Great, Belle rolled her eyes, a comedian. Not a very good one either. Frankly, from the way his eyes sparkled and danced in the dim light, she’d expected better.

  “It’s Belle-Anne. You’re going to be fine.”

  “Better than fine.” His lips twitched up into a wicked grin. “At least, that’s what all the women in town say.”