And the man beside her? He was nothing less than a genius, and that excited her. He exuded an intensity, an electric energy that made her heart pound. No, not her heart. Her sex. The moment she met him, the moment he took her hand so many months ago in Italy, she had recognized him as a sexual creature and responded in kind.
Mr. Lemaitre was tall and muscular, his swarthy physicality as attractive to her as his piercing, ice-blue eyes. He was in his mid-40’s, seasoned, elegant and handsome, the type of man who commanded attention and knew what he was about. His features were prominent, finely carved, their aristocratic haughtiness softened by his head of unruly hair. Glossy black waves tumbled over his forehead and behind his ears, tapered and tamed to a neater arrangement in back.
It was an effort for him, she understood, this tame front. His exquisitely tailored suit, his styled hair, even his neatly manicured facial hair spoke of tamed impulses. Control. Nothing fascinated Valentina like an intriguing, complex man. Adei was charming and enthusiastic, but so much on the surface. So sweet.
Michel Lemaitre was not sweet. He was something else.
Mr. Lemaitre had stood and watched with no compunction as she enjoyed the pleasures of Adei’s agile mouth. She knew it was bad behavior to steal away and have sex with Adei, but as always, in the moment, desire won out over reason. Anyway, Mr. Lemaitre had seemed far from scandalized. Another reason she wanted to be here. Performers talked, and Cirque du Monde was known around the world for its culture of sexual abandon. Adei had answered her come-hither stare without a second thought.
“Oh, I’m so happy,” she burst out, skipping beside him. “This place is...magnifico.”
He dropped her hand so she could complete an exuberant pirouette. “I do not doubt you think so,” he said drily, “considering how you spent the last half hour.”
“Half hour? It was only twenty minutes.”
He raised a brow. “And before, in the showers?”
“Oh. That.” Perhaps he didn’t completely approve. “I told Mr. Beck that man was my father, but he isn’t really.”
“I rejoice to hear it.”
She couldn’t pin down his tone. Angry? Teasing? Bemused? “My father is home in Italy,” she said. “I met Lugo at a cafe and he wanted to come.”
“He wanted to come, or you compelled him to come?”
“He had nothing better to do. He’s very much a...what is the word? Slacker? Anyway, I think he’s leaving.”
She hoped he was leaving. Lugo’s avid, clumsy lovemaking had thrilled her at first. She loved big, brutish men who grunted and groped. Then again, she loved cultured, urbane men too. She slid a look at Signore Lemaitre, who was large and had dark hair like Lugo, but was so much more attractive. She wondered what it would be like to share a bed with him. She’d heard that the Cirque founder was omnisexual and intensely dominant.
Fascinating. A fascinating and intriguing man.
He paused, bringing her to a stop. “In here, if you please.”
He guided her through a set of double doors into an office complex. There was an outer waiting area with conference rooms and cubicles, and Cirque posters decorating the walls. She loved design and art, and the entire office sang with artistic energy. The area was flanked by a frosted glass wall and a door that read Michel Lemaitre, Cirque du Monde. She suppressed a frisson of excitement as he led her inside with a light touch on her back.
“Please have a seat.” He nudged her toward a worn leather arm chair facing his desk as he removed his suit jacket and hung it near the door. She looked around at the memento-laden shelves, at polished wood furniture that spoke of refinement, wealth, and success. These walls too were decorated with photographs of Cirque performers in rehearsals and shows. She recognized some of them. They were the trailblazers, the outstanding ones. She hoped she would earn a place on his wall one day. He only had to give her a job to do. She would perform the hell out of it, whatever he wanted. Valentina was an adrenaline junkie who loved challenges. She lived for the high of performance, for that soaring feeling of expressing herself. Please, she thought, turning her eyes back to him. Please let me express myself here.
His gaze locked on hers across his desk and for a moment she felt frightened by the depth of his scrutiny, not that she had anything to hide. She lived in the open, true to herself as much as society allowed. She hoped he would respect that. “Well,” she said, as silence spun out between them.
“Well,” he repeated with a slight quirk to his lips. “First, I must commend you. Your English is excellent. Much better than my Italian.”
She smiled at his compliment. “I have never had problems learning things.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I can help your Italian if you like.”
He tilted his head. Did he hide a smile? “I believe we’ll limp along just fine in English,” he said. “Miss Sancia—”
“You can call me Valentina,” she interrupted. “Or Tina. My friends sometimes call me Tina.”
“I am your employer, not your friend.”
His curt reminder both devastated her and turned her on. “Of course,” she said, sitting on her hands to keep them still.
He pushed a thick file forward across his desk. “Miss Sancia, do you know what this is?”
“My dossier?”
“Yes. Do you know what is inside?”
She bit her lip, thinking over his question. “Complimentary things, I hope. Any police reports...they are not to be believed. I did not vandalize that fountain, merely went wading in it because the water sparkled so beautifully that day.”
“Miss Sancia—”
“And I was only naked because, well, I had on my favorite dress and I didn’t want to ruin it. I was not even fully naked. Just mostly naked.”
“Miss Sancia—”
“And that other time, no matter what the report says, I did not force the Sicilian councilman’s sons into any inappropriate behavior.”
His blue eyes widened. “Sons? Plural?”
“Monsieur, I never would have. I merely—”
“There are no police reports,” he said, cutting her off. “Although we may continue this discussion at another time. This dossier contains my talent scout’s notes, photographs, and my own notes from our brief meeting last year. Do you remember?”
She nodded, wondering about the purpose of this conference. Was she not officially hired? Had he gone over her dossier and decided she was not, after all, a Cirque du Monde-caliber artist? She was beginning to regret stealing private time with the handsome gymnast. “About before, about the man who was...”
“Going down on you on my conference table?”
“Yes. It was a matter of impulsive urges.”
“Obviously.”
“The man—”
“His name is Adei. Please do not disappoint me by stammering out excuses. I admire your carnal enthusiasm. However, we are not in the habit of constant, promiscuous, and public sex here at our headquarters. The focus must be on training for roles and performances.”
“Of course,” she said.
“That is not to say we don’t satisfy our sexual urges at other times, in other, more appropriate locales,” he added. “But while you are here in the training facility, please refrain.”
“Yes, sir.” She tried to appear duly censured but couldn’t help looking at him sideways with a flirtatious smile. For a moment he gazed at her, a probing, prolonged study that wasn’t flirtatious in return. Then he shook himself and looked down at the folder on his desk.
“Anyway, about your file. You have probably realized by now that you’ve not been brought here to blend into the background of some existing cast. Like many who see you perform, I find myself compelled. Inspired.” He leaned back in his chair and fixed her with a look. “Do you know what it means to inspire a man like me?”
Valentina wasn’t one hundred percent sure she knew what it meant, but she acted on her best instincts, rising to her feet and crossing to k
neel before him. She could barely keep her excitement in check as she reached to unbuckle his belt.
“No.” His hands came over hers, stilling them. “No, my dear. Not that.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed. You begin to alarm me. Is there some...condition? If so, we’ll work with it as well as we can.”