Bound in Blue (6 page)

They made their way behind the curtain, to
the dank, windowless staging area. Jason clutched his notes, his
Cirque papers that gave him an official, legitimate reason to be
here, even though he’d caned and fucked the shit out of Sara last
night. Never doing the local-pleasures thing again, no, because
Sara with the eternal blue eyes was part of the goddamn act he’d
come here to recruit.

The translator led him to the man first.
Baat-something-or-other. She pitched into a lengthy introduction,
and was midway through it when Sara turned from her gym bag and saw
him. Her eyes went wide and immediately flew to her partner. She
gave the barest shake of her head. Jason understood the message.
Pretend we’ve never met.

It was difficult but he managed as best he
could. The translator was still prattling on in Mongolian to the
man, gesturing, her voice rising and falling. Jason didn’t have the
first idea what the woman said about him. “
Cirque du Monde
,”
he heard in the midst of it. “
Paris.
”

“Tell them the offer is immediate,” he said,
cutting in. “They could come right away, train at headquarters, and
be placed in a show after the Exhibition in a couple months.”

The translator only spoke to the man, and he
didn’t seem impressed with what he was hearing. Sara stood behind
him, off to the side. She looked shell-shocked. Traumatized. Jason
stared at her, trying to express without words that everything
would be okay. He assumed from her behavior that this partner must
be her lover, maybe even her husband. He wouldn’t judge and he
wouldn’t get her in any more trouble than he already had. He wished
he could touch her again, though, fuck her, give her pain, give her
joy. They’d had such a wonderful scene together, such a connection.
At least now he understood why she’d been so insistent about
leaving.
One time. One night.

The translator prodded him. He’d been so lost
in memories that he’d missed her comment. Sara’s partner glowered
at him.

“They do not wish to come to Paris,” the
translator repeated in her clipped voice. “They prefer to perform
here.”

What?
They didn’t wish to come to
Paris? The man hadn’t even asked Sara, and anyway, no wasn’t an
option. They had to come. “Did you explain about the
state-of-the-art facilities?” he asked. “About the excellent
benefits and salaries? About the beautiful theaters?” He cast a
pointed look around the sagging tent.

With a terse smile, the translator addressed
the man again. He shook his head and went off on a long spiel that
didn’t need translating. He wasn’t feeling the whole Cirque du
Monde thing.

Jason met Sara’s eyes. He couldn’t understand
why she wouldn’t speak up. Was she afraid of her partner? Or afraid
that Jason would expose what they’d done together?

With one last scowl at Jason, the man took
Sara’s arm and led her away into the night. Halfway across the
dirty, graveled lot, she tried to turn around, but he nudged her
forward with a sharp word. Jason almost lost his shit. If they were
in Paris he would have said something, or done something, but this
rough-edged town probably wasn’t the place to start an
international incident.

He wanted to, though. He wanted to beat
Baat-de-baklava or whatever into the ground and kidnap Sara and put
her on a plane. He wanted to rescue her from her lug of a partner
and take her to the Cirque, and make her the star she was born to
be. They could find her a new act, a new partner. Michel Lemaitre
would take care of everything.

Jason wanted to do that, but he could only
stand, powerless, as Sara and the other man walked away.

Back at his hotel room, Jason paced and
fumed, and sulked over the previously-arousing leather cuffs.
Stupid. He was so
stupid.
Of course a gorgeous woman like
Sara would already be in a relationship. He didn’t know why it
bothered him so much, that she could be so open and submissive to
him when she was already with someone else.

Well, he knew why it bothered him. Because he
was strung too tight. Because he liked the people in his life to be
well-behaved and perfect. He wanted Sara to be well-behaved and
perfect because some part of him still thought she was his
slave.

But she wasn’t his slave—she never had
been—and he didn’t even know if he could get her to Paris now. What
a clusterfuck. It was nearly eleven, with a long, cold Mongolian
night staring him in the face. He spent a half hour trying to get
onto the hotel Wi-Fi so he could bring Michel Lemaitre up to
date.

Michel,

The trapeze act was spectacular.
Unfortunately, they didn’t want to come. Or rather, he didn’t want
to come. I’m still hoping to speak to the woman again, because I
think she might be convinced. She’s talented, real Cirque
material.

Also, I may have accidentally done a BDSM
scene with her and fucked her to pieces. Do you think this will be
a problem?

He deleted the last part and sent it, and
then collapsed on the bed. At some point, he drifted off, because
he woke to a tapping on the door.

He flew to unlock it, his fingers fumbling
with the unfamiliar deadbolt.
Please be Sara.
“Hold on a
second,” he said. “Don’t go.”

He glanced at the clock. It was almost two in
the morning. He opened the door and there she was, his beautiful
slave girl. His trapezist with the eternal eyes, now red from
crying. He almost kissed her, almost pulled her into a crushing
hug, but then he remembered he had to work with her now.
Professionally.

“Thank God you’re here,” he said instead,
drawing her inside. “Thank God you came.” Then, “Does he know
you’re here?”

Her face crumpled and she covered her eyes.
“No. And I don’t know if I should be here.”

“It’s okay, Sara,” Jason said, pushing her
hair back from her face. “It’s really okay.”

“Last night...when me and you...” She cried
harder. “I didn’t know you were here to see the act, and to offer
us the job. When I saw you backstage, I felt so embarrassed. I’m
sorry I went with you last night. That I slept with you and left
you.”

She shrank away from him every time he
reached out, or he would have taken her in his arms. “Please stop
apologizing,” he said. “I wish you weren’t in a relationship, but I
wouldn’t give last night back for anything. Really, there are no
hard feelings. I’m more worried about you and your lover. What will
he do if he finds out about…you and me?”

She sniffled and swiped at her cheeks. “My
lover?”

“Your partner? What’s his name?” He made a
pitiful stab at the conglomeration of syllables, but Sara cut him
off before he could finish.

“Baat? Baat isn’t my lover.” She made a
disgusted sound. “He’s just my trapeze partner. We’ve known each
other a long time, and we live together to save money. So he’ll
know if I leave and he’ll try to stop me. I only need to get there,
you see? And then he’ll probably come.”

Now it was Jason shaking his head in
confusion. “What? Get where?”

“To Paris,” she cried. “To Cirque du Monde.
Baat won’t come, but I want to go.” Her voice shook with emotion,
or perhaps fear. “Is it possible for me to come without him? Do you
still want me after…after what went on last night?”

Jason fell silent, confused by the idea of
how he could possibly not want her. Especially now that he really
couldn’t have her again.

“The past is the past,” he made himself say.
“See, if you’d only let me finish when I started to tell you where
I worked.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize again. I mean it. Let’s
start over, okay? So, you want to come to Paris?”

“Yes! If I go, perhaps he’ll come too.
Otherwise we’ll both stay here forever, and this isn’t the life I
want.”

Her gaze pleaded with him to understand, but
he understood completely. She’d learned flawless English. She’d
taken a job at a sex club to raise extra money. She’d had a plan to
escape her current situation, and thank God, he could help her with
that.

“I have the money you gave me,” she said,
reaching in her bag. “And my passport. Is it enough to get there? I
can pay the rest back later, out of my earnings.”

Jason tucked the currency back in her bag,
and trapped her shaking hand. “Cirque du Monde will pay for
everything. They’ll handle the visas and work permits, all that. If
you’re anxious to go, we can swing by your place and get your
things, and leave as soon as tomorrow.”

She shook her head, bursting into tears
again. “No, see? We can’t get my things. Baat won’t let me go. I
had to sneak away.”

Jason stared at her. Again, the words
“international incident” pinged in his brain. But she was a grown
woman with money and a passport, and a job offer. Well, presumably
she had a job offer, even if Baat wasn’t coming. Jason would pay to
keep her in Paris himself, if it came to that. But he didn’t think
it would come to that.

“Are there any legal reasons you can’t go? A
contract with Baat, or Circus Mongolia?”

She shook her head. “No, there’s
nothing.”

“So it’s the whole
lure-your-partner-to-Paris-by-stealing-away-in-the-night gambit?”
he asked. “You’re sure about this? It’s a long trip.”

She nodded, touching her lips. “I’m sure I
want to go.”

Jason thought she looked awfully conflicted
for someone whose mind was made up. “What about tonight? Where will
you stay?” He couldn’t hold back the words, although he tried to.
“Would you like to stay here? As my guest, of course. We don’t have
to...”
Attack each other. Fuck each other to pieces. Fall into
our true roles—Master and slave.
Her hair was still damp from a
shower, her face free of the vampy makeup she’d worn at the sex
club. She smelled like flowers and looked like innocence.

Oh God. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t
play with her again. Professionalism. Boundaries. They’d be working
together in Paris since he was in charge of new act development.
Even as a coach, he’d never slept with his charges.

“You look exhausted,” he said, getting up to
cross to his suitcase. “Why don’t we finalize our plans in the
morning when you’re rested?” He handed her a bottle of water.
“Drink at least half of this, then lie down on the bed and close
your eyes.”

Damn it, that was his Dom voice. He didn’t
know how else to behave around her, but he had to figure it out.
Professionalism. Boundaries.

She gave a little sigh, a shiver revealing
just how exhausted she was. She drank the water as he’d told her,
then recapped the bottle, kicked off her shoes, and went into the
bathroom. When she returned, she stopped by the narrow bed. “I
don’t want to take up your space. Maybe I should just—”

“What did I tell you to do?”

She blinked at him, then answered quietly,
“You told me to lie down on the bed.”

She’s not your slave. You shouldn’t do
this to her.
But in his heart she was his. She cried out for
his control with her eyes, her body language. The air between them
changed, vibrated with longing and emotional resonance. Slowly,
with the grace of a slave, she climbed onto the bed and lay back.
Blood filled his cock even though this wasn’t a sexual moment. Her
obedience alone aroused him.

He pulled the blankets up to cover her.
“Close your eyes.”

She did as he asked, but her whole body was
tense. Jason left her and went to his computer, because if he
touched her, if he went anywhere near her, he’d lay waste to her
body.

Instead he composed another note.

Michel,

Sara (trapezist) is coming. She’s going to
need shelter, clothing, money right away.

Please have H.R. purchase another ticket for
the flight 23 May.

He knew the ticket would be in his inbox in
the morning, that Lemaitre would never fail an artist in need. His
boss might be angry the partner wasn’t coming, he might demand
explanations, but he’d let Sara come and prove herself.

And if she woke in the morning and changed
her mind? He’d have to convince her to go, explain that her destiny
lay elsewhere. She was an artist with great potential. She had no
business waitressing at a sex club for extra money, in a noisy,
dirty city in Mongolia. She belonged in Paris, under Michel
Lemaitre’s wing.

He turned back to the bed to catch her
watching him. He made a soft, chiding sound. “Why are you still
awake?”

She wrenched her eyes shut. Adorable,
obedient slave.

No, not your slave.

He crossed to the bed and shed his shirt, but
left his jeans on.
Professionalism. Self-control.

“Is it okay if I sleep next to you?” he
asked, sliding under the covers. “I won’t do anything, I
promise.”

Her eyes were still shut tight. “It’s okay if
you want to,” she said in a quivery voice. “If you want to do
something, because...”

“Because what?” he asked when she didn’t
finish her thought.
Boundaries, motherfucker!
“Come
here.”

She turned and pressed against his front, and
held onto his shoulders. It was like she was trying to burrow
inside his chest. “I can’t say it. I can’t explain.”

Both hunger and understanding surged within
him. Somehow, they were connected this way. “You don’t have to
explain. I feel it too. However, we’re going to be working together
in Paris. It would be better if we...if we...” He lost his train of
thought tracing the slender column of her neck.

She sighed and looked up into his eyes. Blue,
such a crazy, pale blue. “Better if we what?” she asked.

“Better if we keep a professional
distance.”

She was plastered against his front, every
inch of her pressed to every inch of him. When she moved her hips,
his cock ached in response. He tightened his fingers around her
neck. She could still breathe, but only because he let her.