Master's Flame (Cirque Masters) Read online

  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.”

  “A condition?” she asked, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

  “A medical condition which requires you to have sex at least once an hour? Be honest, my dear. There will be no repercussions, and we will make allowances as we may.”

  “No, there’s no medical condition.” She straightened, wishing there was a way she could instantaneously be sitting back in her chair. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood what you were asking.”

  “That seems patently clear. When I want sex from my partners, I am very direct about it.” He indicated that she should go sit down. “If I am not demanding sex from you, you may rest assured it is not desired.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, miserably. His cool tone wasn’t mocking, but Valentina nonetheless felt mocked. “I do have a bit of a condition. I am too...enthusiastic. Too impulsive and passionate, not just with sex, but everything.”

  “These are excellent problems to have, in my opinion. Before I knew you were called La Vampa, I sensed you had a bit more fire than everyone else. I need your fire, Miss Sancia.”

  She stared at his broad, classically handsome face, his generous mouth. “You can have my fire, signore. As much as you want.”

  “What if I want all of it?”

  Did he mean—? She rose to go to him again.

  “No.” He held up a hand. “I do not mean that. I mean that we are to mount a new production here in Paris. New cast, new performances, new blood. I have conceived a show about the elements, but it needs a central symbol. A flame, a fire, an explosion of life to anchor the rest of the acts. You understand? The show needs a spirit to drive it. You have this spirit and I want to use it to delight Paris audiences. The production will be named Cirque Élémental.”

  “But...” She wasn’t sure what he asked. “I’m an acrobat, a banquine flyer. I don’t have an act to last an entire show.”

  “Not an entire show. There will be other acts, but you’ll be the show’s figurehead, the vision on the poster. We’ll create an entire production with ten or fifteen other acts. Dance, lights, costumes, humor and pathos, feats of strength and agility. You know...circus.”

  The steady tone of his voice never altered, but some deeper challenge in his gaze excited her almost beyond bearing. At the same time, he’d made it clear he wanted her artistry, not her sexual advances. He hadn’t wanted her on her knees before him. Very sad.

  “I will do whatever you like, Mr. Lemaitre. Simply tell me.” She gave him a look, one she hoped communicated that she was his vessel to use, artistically or otherwise. “Whatever you want from me, sir, I am yours.”

  Chapter Two: Vesuvius

  Valentina squirmed on the massage table as Priya dug relentless knuckles into her latissimus dorsi muscles. It was the end of November, six weeks since she’d arrived at the Cirque, six weeks since Mr. Lemaitre took her to his office and told her he needed her spark. No, not her spark. Her fire. Since that day, she’d been burning to please him, training hard and working with Adei and Jason Beck to develop an artful and intense hand-balancing act. Unfortunately, since that day, she hadn’t seen him once.

  The Cirque was building a venue in Brussels, so Mr. Lemaitre was needed elsewhere. During his absence, new acts for Élémental arrived from all corners of the globe. Valentina liked practicing her hand-to-hand act with Adei. He was alternately her pedestal, her trampoline, her stairs. He lifted her, supported her, threw her in the air and caught her. He held her motionless while she balanced on his upstretched arms. He was strong and steady for the most part, and when he wasn’t, she let him have it. They were no longer lovers.

  She had a regrettable habit of getting bored fast.

  Because of that, Valentina spent most of her nights at Le Citadel, the Cirque’s secret sex club. Jason had taken her the first time, along with his fiancée, Sara, who was Mr. Lemaitre’s daughter. Valentina liked Sara because she was beautiful and exotic, with light blue eyes just like Mr. Lemaitre’s, but she wasn’t sure Sara liked her. Valentina never would have flirted with Jason if she knew he and Sara were engaged to be married. Even after Valentina apologized, Sara had given her baleful looks.

  Valentina had a way of alienating people even though she tried to be warm and exuberant. Jason called it “recklessness” and he didn’t like it. He warned Valentina that he would monitor her activities at the Citadel, and bar her from the club if she couldn’t control herself. People laughed and embraced at the Citadel, kissed and flirted and fucked right in the open if they felt like it. In the back rooms, men and women played more serious games. Dominance and submission. Power exchange. Mr. Lemaitre had his own private dungeon built of stone and steel, where people bowed before him and called him Le Maître, a variation of his surname that meant “The Master.” Valentina heard all this secondhand since Jason wouldn’t let her go to Mr. Lemaitre’s back room, or any of the back rooms.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Not until he approves it. Those are the rules.”

  But Mr. Lemaitre wasn’t around and Valentina was dying to know what went on behind those walls. She wondered what it would be like to be one of his slaves, to yield to his barely-leashed sexual power. She’d never considered such things, but she thought, with someone like Le Maître, she might enjoy it. She loved trying new things and he’d said that she inspired him...

  Speaking of which, she hoped she would inspire Mr. Lemaitre today. He was finally back in Paris to judge the progress of Élémental’s acts. She hoped he loved her work. In her fantasies, he loved it so much that he rushed over and took her in his arms and whispered, “I want you,” or something gruff and demanding like that. But what if he didn’t love her act? What if she fell or messed up? She moaned just thinking about it.

  Priya paused and frowned down at her. “What? I hurt you, girl?”

  “No, it’s okay. Don’t be gentle,” Valentina said. “We’re performing for Mr. Lemaitre today. I need to be really loose.”

  The masseuse’s dark brows snapped together. “From what I hear, you are already loose enough.”

  Valentina ignored her, concentrating instead on relaxing her muscles and joints. She began a mental exercise where she visualized herself in performance, imagining her body’s alignment, the placement of her limbs, even the graceful form of her fingers. Priya moved from her shoulders to her spine, digging her palms into the vertebrae and carefully realigning them. It felt so good that Valentina moaned again. “Priya, you’re a goddess. Don’t stop.”

  “Hush,” said the Indian woman.

  “Oh, yes. More. That feels so good.”

  Priya’s magic fingers massaged away all the tension and worry, until Valentina sailed on a sea of relaxation. A good masseuse could make you feel like a brand new person. Valentina’s moans rose with the increasing pressure of Priya’s fingers. Suddenly, the door flung open.

  Jason scowled at her, arms crossed over his chest. “Just checking.”

  Priya flashed him an irritated look. “Mr. Beck, I am almost done. She want to be loose. I’m making her loose.”

  Jason lounged against the door frame. “I think she’s already loose enough.”

  “What?” Valentina’s temper flared. “Priya made that same joke five minutes ago.”

  “You might ask yourself why.”

  “It’s insulting.”

  “Insulting or accurate? I could hear you moaning all the way down the hall.”

  Director and artist scowled at one another as Priya gave her a final pat down. “Go, you,” she said, helping Valentina up. “Do good for Mr. Lemaitre. You very loose and open now.”

  Valentina glared at Jason, daring him to make another comment, but he stayed silent as he led her ou
t of the physical therapy office and down the corridor toward the practice facility. The relaxation of the massage ebbed away, replaced by the usual tension she felt at Jason Beck’s side.

  He looked over at her. “Nervous?”

  “No. Yes.” She frowned. “Priya doesn’t like me. I’ve put in several requests for a male masseuse. They have stronger fingers.”

  He looked away to greet a passing coach, then back at her. “Males are called masseurs, and we don’t have any who are appropriate for you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We don’t have any that wouldn’t cave to your inevitable seduction.”

  Valentina set her teeth. “You know, I am tired of being made fun of. I am a single, healthy woman who enjoys physical pleasure and connection. I’m safe with sex.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “It’s not hurting anyone.”

  “Isn’t it? Adei just stopped moping over you last week, you almost ended Peter and Silas’s twelve-year gay relationship, and now you’ve got the Russian juggling troupe at each other’s throats.”

  “I didn’t realize they were all brothers. I didn’t know!” She thought a moment. “They are all very good in bed.”

  “Valentina,” he said in a tone of warning. He pulled her into the smaller practice studio and shook a finger under her nose. “I appreciate that you’re comfortable in your sexuality, but you’re here to work, not seduce the entire company. If you keep causing havoc Lemaitre will step in and you won’t like it when he does.”

  She jerked away and sprawled on the closest blue mat to stretch and warm up. Other performers did the same in various corners with other, nicer coaches. Because she was one of the production’s stars, she had to work with stern, exacting Jason, who scolded her all the time. Her sex life was none of his business, and as for her various partners’ interpersonal nonsense, that was no fault of hers.