Perilous Pleasures

by Patricia Watters

"No!" Stefan Janacek turned and stalked out of the pavilion, followed by the older man, who Joanna could see was terribly distraught. It was only then, while she stood looking after them, that she became aware of the hard pounding of her heart...

  And of Karl Porter's voice saying, "An exceptional man don't you agree? But then, the Romany are rather impressive people, passionate people, I understand."

  Joanna eyed Karl with disdain. "I find that kind of act ostentatious."

  "It's what the audience wants," Karl said. "They don't come to watch routine acts presented by—" he trailed a finger along her jaw "—spiritless performers. They want danger." He smiled a slow, cunning smile. "Stefan Janacek and his cats will give them exactly what they want. The threat of death at any moment."

  Joanna bit back a scathing retort. "Excuse me," she said. "I have work to do." She turned and stalked around the big cage, feeling Karl's eyes on her as she crossed the vast space beneath the canvas covering of the pavilion to where Otto stood talking to Gene.

  Gene walked up to meet her. "What did Porter say to you?" he asked.

  Joanna glanced to where Karl stood watching her, and replied, "He was praising the glory of his latest acquisition. He's obsessed with danger."

  "Then we'll put more danger in our act," Gene said.

  "What do you propose we do? Fly without trapezes?"

  Gene leveled sober eyes on her. "No. Without nets."

  Joanna looked at Otto, who appeared indifferent to the suggestion, then at Gene. Certainly he wasn't serious? They'd agreed never to drop the nets. Seeing the determination on Gene's face, she felt a nagging uneasiness. "You're talking like a fool. Even if I were to agree, which I won't, you know that one out of every twenty passes sends you to the net."

  "Gene's a gambler," Otto said, smiling at his younger brother. "He'll gamble the twentieth pass won't come during a performance when the nets are down."

  Gene looked at Otto. "I'm willing to chance the odds."

  "Well, I'm not." Joanna turned to Otto. "Talk sense into him. He's your brother."

  Otto shrugged. "He may be right. Your double somersault's routine now, and Gene's in better form than he's ever been."

  Uneasy with the mind-set of both men, Joanna propped her hands on her hips, and said, "We've never considered working without nets and I don't want any part of it."

  Otto patted her arm. "Don't worry. Our next performance will be with nets, as usual."

  "As usual?" Gene arched a brow. "Except we'll just be one of many secondary acts that follow the gypsy king and his damn cats!"

  "Calm down and let's check ropes," Otto said, "or we won't be flying at all."

  While Gene and Otto checked the rigging, Joanna headed for her dressing wagon. But when she saw Karl standing between her and her destination, she cut through the tent housing the menagerie to avoid him. As she entered, a pall of odors hung like a heavy blanket: the musky odor of horses, the pungent stench of chimps, the sweet fragrance of fresh straw. But now, mingled with the familiar odors, was the heady scent of big cats. She walked down a corridor lined by cages. Behind heavy bars, tigers paced, ears back, faces twisted, teeth bared with snarls. Gooseflesh rose on her arms as she became aware, for the first time, of the immense size and power of the restless animals behind the bars.

  She paused by a small cage in which a tiger cub lay curled in the straw, playing with its tail. Seeing Joanna, the cub sat, stared at her with wide amber eyes, and ambled over to poke its muzzle between the bars. Joanna curled her fingers through the bars and tickled him under the chin. "You cute little thing," she cooed, captivated by the furry cub, who was clearly enjoying the attention. "Why, you are positively the cutest little creature I have ever seen," she said in a sing-song voice as she stroked the cub's soft muzzle...

  "People place too high a value on cuteness," a deep voice startled her, "a superficial trait that should not be praised in man or beast unless accompanied by character."

  Joanna turned and looked into a pair of compelling green eyes that held an air of romantic mystery, heavy-lidded eyes that spoke to her of warm caresses and forbidden pleasures. Her pulse quickened. She was unprepared for the shock of sensuality that emanated from the man. Her gaze moved down the straight line of his nose to rest on his lips, lips that held their own hidden promise. "You imply that your cub is without character," she said. Without warning, the cub nipped her hand, and she jerked it away.

  Stefan Janacek took her hand and looked where the cub had nipped. "There's nothing with less character than a spoiled cub, and nothing harder to train," he said. "If he's not stroked on demand—" his thumb idly stroked the top of her hand "—he pouts like an obstinate child."

  Joanna twisted her hand from his grip. "Certainly a spoiled cub is no challenge for the king of the gypsies," she parried.

  His eyes sharpened. "It's hard enough to convince a playful cub that man is to be feared," he arched a dark brow, "or woman, as the case may be."

  "And you resent the women who visit your precious menagerie?" Joanna clipped.

  His gaze unwavering, Stefan Janacek said in a sober voice, "I resent anyone who spoils my cubs. When a cub strikes, and the hand's withdrawn, the cub learns quickly that he can bluff."

  "And the king of the gypsies will not be bluffed," Joanna quipped.

  An ironic smile tugged at his lips. "Try me."

  Joanna looked at the man. He was so sure of himself, so incredibly arrogant. There was even something arrogant about the way his unruly black hair did as it pleased. It wasn't difficult to understand why this cocky cur of a man would appeal to a weasel like Karl Porter.

  Annoyed that she had no clever comeback, she turned and stalked out of the menagerie, her heart tripping a staccato beat, tension curling inside like a tight spring. She couldn't explain her intense reaction to the man, or her bizarre desire to press her palm against his broad chest and feel the muscular strength she knew would be there. All she knew was, Stefan Janacek was a dangerous man to be around.

  ***

  Tekla de Josefoski Janacek clamped her small pipe between her teeth and drew on it. A golden sheen lit her face and shone in her dark eyes, and a plume of blue smoke curled toward the arched ceiling of her wagon. She looked across the gold-trimmed tea set at her grandson. "You tell this Karl Porter I not tolerate wagon at far end of grounds with garbage wagon," she said. "Because we Romany and he gorgio he think he can do so."

  Stefan looked at the matriarch of the family. A small woman with a face lined by years of wind and weather, she wore her peppery hair coiled at her neck, and from her ears dangled great gold loops. "I'll talk to him, Mamio," he said.

  Bracelets jingling with her wagging finger, Tekla said, "You not make good bargain. You need Rom wife to make bargain with gorgio. I always make bargain for your papa since he marry gorgio." She set the pipe on a carved wooden pipe stand. "You also tell this gorgio that Kitta need new costume or she be juggling more than juggling pins."

  Stefan chuckled at his grandmother's reference to his sister's ample bosom. It seemed all gypsy women had large breasts. He'd become aware of that at an early age, deciding it was because the Romany had so many children that they needed huge breasts to feed them all. But gorgio women had small breasts that could fit in a man's hand.

  The door swept open and Stefan's mother stepped inside. Helen Janacek nodded with respect to her mother-in-law, then addressed Stephen. "Walter said Rafat turned on you again. Why do you keep that cat when you know how unpredictable he is?"

  Stefan looked at his mother, a gorgio, aware of how much younger she appeared than the romni, with her fair skin and ash-brown hair. Noting the line of disapproval to her lips, he replied, "Rafat is intelligent and alert, one of those rare animals that comes once in a trainer's lifetime. He'll make a fine performer. He just needs more time."

  "Your father also insisted that an unruly cat would be a fine performer," she said, "and you know what happened. You're being a fool."

  "I'm being practical,"
Stefan replied. "Rafat cost too much for me to give up without trying. He's just not used to the other cats yet."

  "He's been with them six months! You've never had such an unpredictable animal. Have you already forgotten that he almost stripped you of your masculinity!"

  Stefan offered his mother an ironic smile. "Rafat and I have an understanding now. He leaves me intact and I leave him intact. Besides, Tony is always nearby."

  "I don't like that Tony," Tekla interceded. "Not good for Rom to have gorgio assistant. Your papa also have gorgio assistant and you see what happen."

  Stefan looked at his mother. Although her face was impassive, he knew she'd taken to heart her mother-in-law's pointed statement. The fact was, Helen Janacek, a non-gypsy, was tolerated, but would never be accepted by the mother of her dead husband.

  Stefan glanced through the window and saw the women he'd met in the menagerie earlier. She was a feisty chit. Most women when chastised at the cub's cage moved on. This one had not. She had spirit. He liked that in a woman. She was with two men, and they seemed to be having an argument. As he stared at her, she looked up and caught him watching. She held his gaze for a few moments then returned to her discussion with the men.

  Stefan!" his grandmother's voice startled him. "You forget gorgio woman. She no good for you. You find nice romni."

  Stefan gave his grandmother a black-hearted smile. "You know what they say about forbidden fruit just out of reach. It's always sweeter, and more desired."

  "You see what happened to Josef with gorgio wife. He living in house like trapped animal. Is bad luck for Rom to settle... to stop moving."

  Stefan considered his brother, Josef, who lived in Birmingham with his gorgio wife. Josef dared do the unthinkable as far as their grandmother was concerned. "If Josef is caged, he doesn't know it," he said. "He and Barbara seem very happy." His gaze returned to the woman. The sight of her shapely feminine curves when wearing tights earlier had caught his notice. Yet, she seemed even more desirable in the indigo tailor-made she was wearing, with its tight-fitting jersey bodice that hugged her trim breasts and pinched in at her small waist. She twirled a matching parasol against her shoulder as she stood with the men, and even though she looked disturbed about whatever they were discussing, her hand moved gracefully as she spoke.

  Then her eyes flared and her hand shot up with splayed fingers. She was mad as a hornet about something. He wanted to capture that restless hand and hold it. He could imagine those tapered fingers exploring his body.

  "Forget that one, Stefan, she bring bad luck," Tekla said in a dark, ominous voice. Stefan turned and saw his grandmother watching the woman, forewarning in her eyes. "I feel it here—" she pressed her fingers between her breasts "—and here—" she pressed her fingers to a spot between her brows. "She cause you great pain. This I know."

  Stefan heard the grave, mysterious tone in his grandmother's voice and knew her words were not idle warnings, but a prophecy that came from deep within her soul. He shifted uneasily as he studied his grandmother's troubled face. Be it intuition or premonition, he'd learned long ago that when Tekla de Josefoski Janacek made a prediction, it most often came to be.

  ***

  Karl Porter intercepted Stefan as he was crossing the midway. "What do you have planned for your opening performance?" he asked.

  "A mixed ring," Stefan replied. "Four tigers and six lions. I'll have the pyramid, some rolls and leaps, the fiery ring, and the leopard walking on the mirrored globe."

  "I'm looking forward to that," Porter said, as they entered the exhibition pavilion. "I understand leopards are totally unpredictable, the most difficult of all big cats to train."

  "No question about that," Stefan agreed. "A variation in routine can send them into fits of anger. But so far, my leopard hasn't let me down."

  Karl looked at him, curious. "Didn't you have a spotted leopard in your act?"

  Stefan reflected on the beautifully-marked cat that repeatedly turned on him without warning. "I sold him to the Chicago zoo. One of my handlers had been prodding him to move him around the cage, and any trainer who wants to live never prods a cat. Eventually the day of reckoning will come when the cat turns on its trainer for revenge."

  Porter's eyes shone. "I hope your animals aren't too predictable," he said. "People don't come to see overgrown house cats. They come to see the threat of death at any moment. I'm counting on your act being the most terrifying Porter Brothers has ever had."

  "Don't worry," Stefan said. "I have a big male lion who's the most formidable animal I've ever faced. He recently fought off five lions and two tigers and came out with only a few scrapes." He looked up, distracted by voices. The woman from the menagerie stood poised on a platform, her hand on the trapeze. "Who's the woman?" he asked, following her graceful movement as she swung in a wide arc and returned to the platform.

  Karl Porter's smile faded. "Joanna Livingston. One of the Flying Marquis."

  Which explained her enmity in the menagerie, Stefan mused. Hers was the act his replaced. She also occupied the stateroom across the passageway from him. He'd seen her name plate on the door. "The men with her. Is one her husband?" he asked, watching her let go of the bar, turn two somersaults, and be caught by one of the men.

  "No," replied Porter.

  Stefan watched her return gracefully to the platform. "She's good."

  "She's also poison," Porter said. "Stick to your cats, Janacek. Their claws are retractable."

  Stefan caught the malice in Porter's tone. Whatever Joanna Livingston had done, Porter despised her for it. He made a mental note, then looked toward the woman again.

  ***

  Hands tightening on the bar, Joanna hurled herself from the platform. As she soared upward she felt the wind on her face, sifting through her hair, sweeping her body, and savored the freedom of flying. Hearing Otto's clap, she released the bar and tucked her body into a tight coil, spinning two complete turns, and precisely at her count of three, unfolding. Instantly, hands smacked her wrists and snatched her from weightless freedom. And the moment was gone.

  Returning to the platform, she waited while Gene completed his two-and-a-half. Hearing voices below, she looked down and saw Stefan Janacek watching her as he stood talking to Karl. She could imagine the lies Karl was telling him.

  She looked up to catch Otto's signal, gripped the bar and swung out. When she let go of the trapeze and twisted in space, Otto caught her wrists, but the catch was clumsy. Otto's hands tightened on her forearms. "Your timing's off," he said as they sailed in an arc.

  "I'm fine now," Joanna replied, her grip inching down to settle against the balls of Otto's hands. On returning to her perch, she saw that Stefan Janacek was still watching. Determined to ignore the man, she concentrated on Otto, caught his cue and swung out. Again, the pass was clumsy. By the third faltering pass Otto said, while swinging in a wide arc, "You're through for today. Your timing's shot to hell. Get ready, I'm dropping you."

  "Not now!"

  "You know the rules." Otto released her and she plunged to the net below, bouncing high before breaking her rebound with bent legs. Angry and humiliated, she marched across the webbing in springy strides, grabbed the framework holding the net and somersaulted over the edge. Gene dropped to the net and turned a somersault beside her. "What the hell is going on?" he clipped. "You're coming out of your tucks too late."

  Moments later, Otto tumbled off the net. "You'd better snap out of whatever your problem is or I don't want to be on the catching end."

  Joanna looked to where Stefan Janacek stood watching her.

  Gene followed the direction of her gaze. "So that's it. Janacek."

  Joanna grabbed a towel to mop her brow. "Just what is that supposed to mean?"

  "You know damn well what it means," Gene snapped. "When you're on the bars, keep your mind on what's going on up there, not on what, or who's down here."

  Joanna glanced at Stefan Janacek, who continued watching them, then glared at Gene and sai
d, "I refuse to defend a minor offset in timing. Everyone is entitled to an occasional off-day." Swirling her cloak around her shoulders, she headed for the midway.

  Gene called after her, "Don't forget, you're on for the interview this afternoon."

  "I wouldn't miss it for anything," Joanna called back, acutely aware of the green eyes following her, and of the fact that the haughty gypsy behind those eyes would be the other party at the newspaper interview.

  Three hours later, dressed in a white costume trimmed in sequins, Joanna stood in front of a white horse with plumes in it's ornate headpiece while acknowledging a small gathering. At the entrance to the pavilion, she saw Stefan Janacek approaching. What caught her attention was the expanse of broad bare chest exposed beneath his hussar vest as he walked toward them. She'd expected him to wear work clothes. Then she realized Karl would have insisted he look as he did on the placard. When he caught her watching, she looked up at Royal Dobbs, advance man for the show, who sat atop the horse.

  After addressing the reporters, Dobbs said, "We have two of Porter Brother's star performers: queen of the air, Joanna Livingston of the Flying Marquis, and king of the gypsies, Stefan Janacek, whose act featuring lions, tigers and a black leopard is new to Porter Brothers.

  While attention centered on Dobbs, Joanna studied Stefan's face. With his dark hair and green eyes, he was without doubt the most exotic-looking man she'd ever seen. And perhaps the handsomest. Her gaze meandered down his muscular chest to the dark trousers tucked inside tall black boots and back to his face. Heat settled in her cheeks as she saw the amusement in his eyes and realized she'd been ogling the man.

  "I say there... Miss Livingston?" She looked at a reporter who was addressing her. Perhaps for the second time? "Is it true the Flying Marquis plan to perform without nets?"

  "You must have been talking to Gene Marquis," Joanna replied. "Gene has visions of grandeur. I have visions of staying alive. If we fly together, it will be over a net."

  Another reporter asked, "How does the queen of the air feel about sharing accolades with the king of the gypsies?"