FEAR OF FALLING
Cindi Myers

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

About the Author

Coming Next Month

1

NATALIE BRIGHTON hadn’t planned on darkness arriving so soon. One minute the sun was a burning spotlight over the tops of the mountains, the next the world was all shadowed cliffs and the dark smudges of trees against the rock.

She hunched over the steering wheel, guiding the car up the twisting mountain road, the engine whining as it strained up the steep grade. If John Sartain was as rich and successful as everyone said, why had he built a house way up here on the back side of nowhere?

Not house, she corrected herself. Castle.

Artist John Sartain, apparently determined to add to his already eccentric reputation, had built a replica of a Scottish castle in the mountains of Colorado. In one article Natalie had read about her new boss, Sartain had explained he needed isolation to paint. But a gossip rag she’d also read had speculated the remote location allowed him to pursue his more scandalous activities away from the eyes of nosy reporters.

As to the nature of those activities…Natalie shifted in her seat and reminded herself that the conjectures of rumormongers were not to be believed. Just because some reporter had dubbed John Sartain “The Satyr” didn’t mean he attended orgies or had his own dungeon or engaged in S & M.

She shivered as she remembered the pictures she’d seen in his newest calendar of just such scenes. The evocative, erotic paintings had aroused her, even as she’d told herself she should be shocked.

Apparently no one was shocked by how much money Sartain’s art was making. His work appeared on everything from calendars and T-shirts to playing cards and rock CDs. He was a one-man money machine.

And she’d been hired to make sure the machine kept running smoothly. Not exactly something for which her previous work with the Cirque du Paris and six months of vocational school had prepared her, but Sartain’s agent, Douglas Tanner, had thought her capable of the job. And she’d been eager for this chance to succeed at something outside the claustrophobic world of traveling performers. In the Cirque du Paris, Natalie’s life had been directed by others, her worth measured by their opinion of her.

Here in the mountains of Colorado, her future was in her own hands—a frightening and thrilling thought.

She steered the car around yet another S-curve and the castle loomed into sight. Floodlights shone on the red granite facade and half a dozen diamond-paned windows glittered with the golden glow of electric light.

Natalie stopped the car under the portico and waited for her heart rate to return to normal after that harrowing drive up the mountain. If she’d made it this far, meeting the Satyr would be a piece of cake.

The front door opened, but rather than some liveried butler or servant, a short man in a gray business suit emerged. “Hello, Doug.” Natalie climbed out of the car and greeted the agent. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I wanted to wait and introduce you to Sartain.” He followed her around to the trunk of the car and hefted out two suitcases. “How was your drive?”

“A little hairy after it got dark.” She lifted out a third suitcase. “I didn’t see a lot of other traffic.”

“No, there’s not much up here.” He led the way into the castle. “You see now why the job comes with an apartment. Making the commute every day would be impossible. Especially after winter sets in.”

He left the luggage in the large front hallway. “I’ll show you to your apartment later, but first I’d like you to meet Sartain.”

“He’s been your client for years and you don’t call him by his first name?” she asked.

“He prefers Sartain.” Doug shrugged. “It’s how he signs his paintings, how everyone always addresses him.”

“Maybe he thinks John is too plain for a celebrated artist.” After all, didn’t her own mother insist on being addressed as Madame Gigi wherever she went? As if plain old Ms. Brighton was too mundane for an artiste.

“What does Sartain think of this idea of having a business manager?” Natalie asked as she followed Doug past a wide, sweeping staircase and into a large, high-ceilinged room.

“Oh, he agrees it’s necessary. Trying to oversee the business side of things himself has seriously cut into his productivity.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Frankly, he needs someone to instill a little discipline in his life.”

She pinched her lips together. She knew plenty about discipline. At Cirque du Paris, the performers were reminded over and over again that the show, and in many cases, their very lives, depended on strict mental and physical discipline and self-control. A dictate Natalie had rebelled against once too often, and her mistake had cost her her career.

“This is the main salon,” Doug said, with a sweeping gesture that took in the room.

Natalie looked around at the heavy carved mahogany armchairs and settee, all covered in red-and-gold brocade. Red velvet drapes trimmed in gold fringe covered the windows, and a crimson-and-gold Turkish carpet cushioned the floor. A pair of stone gargoyles leered from the massive mahogany mantle over the fireplace, and the walls were crowded with framed artwork. Clam-shell-shaped sconces cast eerie shadows over the scene. “Not exactly homey, is it?” she said.

Doug laughed. “This is mainly for show. There are more informal rooms upstairs. In addition to Sartain’s living quarters and your apartment, there are apartments for a cook and the housekeeping staff. Try to make yourself comfortable and I’ll see if I can convince Sartain to tear himself away from his work and meet his new business manager.”

When Doug had left her, she focused her attention on the paintings lining the walls of the room. Apparently Sartain was a collector as well as a painter. In her spare time between performances, she had toured art museums all over the world—she recognized a Toulouse Lautrec, a Warhol and a Picasso on the walls around her. She was no expert, but she would wager they were real.

She stopped before a painting in the farthest corner of the room. The eleven-by-seventeen-inch canvas depicted two lovers in a romantic embrace. Romantic, that is, except for the whip the woman held coyly behind her back, and the lash marks across the man’s muscled shoulders. The man was naked except for a leather dog collar around his throat. The woman was wrapped in a diaphanous robe that left little to the imagination. Her body was lush in the style of Italian renaissance paintings, and the whole scene was rendered in rich shades of gold, red and pink.

But it was the expression on the lovers’ faces that commanded attention—a look of such devotion and longing it made Natalie ache, heat pooling between her legs at the idea that she and a man might look at each other that way.

“Do you like it?”

She started and turned to see a tall man crossing the room toward her. He was dressed all in black—dark jeans and a paint-stained cotton shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms. His thick brown hair was swept back from a high forehead, as if he’d absently run his hands through it. Hardly the picture of the menacing deviant some of the stories she’d read had made him out to be.

However, there was a dark sensuality in the assessing way his gaze swept over her. As if he was looking beyond the surface to what lay deep within. She folded her arms across her chest and suppressed a shiver.

“I’m Sartain. You must be Ms. Brighton.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sartain.” She extended her hand.

“Just Sartain—Natalie.” His velvety voice caressed the syllables of her name. He took her hand and held it, not shaking it, merely holding it, the heat of his skin seeping into her.

Alarmed, she wondered if he was going to kiss it. If he did, she wasn’t sure whether she would melt or laugh.

Get a grip, she told herself. You’re twenty-six, not some teenage ingenue. And honestly, wasn’t the castle and this dark and mysterious lord-of-the-manor routine a little over the top?

The thought helped her relax, and when he finally released her she was able to meet his heated gaze with a cool one of her own.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Do you like the painting?”

“Isn’t that a dangerous question for an artist to ask? What if you don’t like my answer?”

“You’re going to be managing my business, which is, essentially, my art. If you don’t like my work, I’d just as soon know now.”

She turned to the painting once more. “Yes. I like your work. There’s something very real and…evocative about your paintings, even if they depict fantasies.”

His laughter made her turn to look at him again. She caught her breath. Smiling, his face was transformed, from merely handsome to gorgeous.

“But how do you know they’re fantasies?” he asked. “Perhaps I paint from life.”

He looked amused, but the seductive purr of his voice sent heat curling through her once more. Did John Sartain know what it was like to feel the lash of a whip across his naked shoulders? Had he looked at a woman with the kind of longing he’d portrayed in the painting?

What would it be like to be that woman—the one who wielded the whip—and the object of his desire?

She shoved the disturbing thoughts aside. “I don’t care where you get your inspiration,” she said, walking toward the center of the room. “My job, as I understand it, is to organize the rest of your life so that you have plenty of time to create.”

“You’re been listening to Douglas, haven’t you?”

“Mr. Tanner has been talking to me about the job.” She looked back at Sartain. She might as well begin by being honest about her qualifications. “He told you I’ve never done anything like this before, didn’t he?”

“He said you had some training from some secretarial college or something.”

“It’s a vocational school. I trained in office management.” Not the most glamorous career in the world, but then, some people thought show business was glamorous. She knew otherwise.

“He also told me you were an acrobat with the circus.”

She frowned. “The Cirque du Paris is more than a circus. The members are one of the elite groups of performers in the world, combining dance and acrobatics with drama, music and costume for one-of-a-kind productions.”

“If it’s so wonderful, then why are you no longer with the group?”

She ignored the edge of sarcasm in his voice and looked down, at her clenched fists. Here was a truth that was harder to face. “There was an accident. I fell.” She raised her head. “I wasn’t able to perform anymore. So I went to school.”

“And lucked into this job.”

“Mr. Tanner is a friend of my family. He thought I would do a good job for you.”

His eyes met hers, assessing. “Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?”

She silently cursed the hot flush that rose to her cheeks, even as she continued to meet his gaze, unblinking. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “You’re entitled to your secrets. Just as I’m entitled to mine.”

Which immediately made her wonder what secrets he was keeping. As perhaps he’d wanted her to. John Sartain struck her as someone who was well versed in playing psychological games with both friend and foe. The idea was both intimidating and exhilarating. She’d accepted this job, in part, because she needed a new challenge. Sartain was nothing if not challenging.

“Sorry I took so long, I had to make a phone call.” Doug rushed into the room. He stopped a few feet away and looked from one to the other. “Are you two getting to know each other?”

Natalie turned her attention to the agent. “I’ve been telling Mr. Sartain a little about my background.”

“Natalie is exactly what we need,” Doug said to Sartain. “Someone who’s accustomed to keeping a schedule, handling details and dealing with the public. Not to mention someone who’s used to dealing with artistic temperaments.”

“Why not just come out and tell her I can be a bastard when the work isn’t going well?” Sartain frowned at her. “Or has he already warned you? Doug has a high regard for the product—and the money it brings—but not so much patience with the creator.”

“And Sartain likes to pretend he knows what other people are thinking.” Doug steered her toward the door. “Natalie will have plenty of time to learn your personality quirks,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m sure she’s dealt with more difficult men than you in her time.”

“But none more interesting, I’m sure. Good night, Natalie. Welcome to the Satyr’s castle.”

His laughter followed them out of the room. She shivered and hugged herself. “He knows people call him the Satyr?” she asked.

“I suspect he encourages it,” Doug said. They stopped in the foyer to collect her suitcases. “It adds to his reputation. And a man like Sartain lives and dies on the basis of his reputation.” Doug led the way up the wide staircase. “Are you sorry you agreed to take the job, now that you’ve met him?”

“No. Why would I be sorry?”

“He can be difficult to deal with at times, but nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.” At the top of the stairs they started down a long hallway. “Your apartment is in the east wing, away from Sartain’s living quarters. The business office is downstairs, in the back, so you’ll have privacy up here.”

She hurried to keep up with him. “Is that why you hired me? Because I could handle Sartain?”

He glanced at her, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve dealt with your mother all these years, haven’t you?”

She laughed. “Yes, I suppose Gigi could be described as difficult.” Natalie’s mother was one of the key supporting players in the Cirque du Paris troupe, though she carried herself like a superstar. One of the chief disappointments of her life was that her daughter had not shared her ambition.

“This is your apartment.” Doug took a key from his pocket and opened the door.

Like the main salon below, this room was done in shades of red and gold, from the wine-colored carpet to the crimson-and-gold patterned drapes on the floor-to-ceiling windows. A maroon leather sofa heaped with velvet pillows faced a fireplace of gold-veined marble, and a cherrywood table filled the dining area. “It looks like the setting for one of Sartain’s paintings,” she said.

Doug laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right.” He handed her the key. “If you want to change anything, feel free.”

She trailed a hand along the back of the sofa. “I’ll leave it like this for now.” There was something sensuous about the warm tones of the room. After years spent in the utilitarian backstage world of the Cirque du Paris, she craved a little luxury.

“So tell me what you think of Sartain.” Doug said.

“I’m not sure I know what to think of him. I couldn’t decide if he was mocking me or flirting with me.”

“Probably a little of both. Most people, when they first meet him, are either attracted to him, or afraid of him.”

She shook her head. “I’m not afraid of him.” As for attracted…there was something compelling, not so much about the man, but about what he represented—passions within herself she had never dared to explore.

“A friendly word of warning—don’t take any of his moods to heart. He can be charming at times—seductive, even. And you may have heard, he has something of a reputation with women.”

The agent’s expression was so serious she had to laugh. “Are you worried he’ll try to seduce me?”

“It’s happened before. Just remember he means nothing by it. You shouldn’t take his flirtation any more seriously than his occasional fits of pique.”

She met the agent’s eyes. “If you’re worried I’ll leave the first time he frowns at me or throws an artistic temper tantrum, don’t. I didn’t come here to quit.”

“Why did you come here?” Doug crossed his arms over his chest and fixed her with a level gaze. “Not that I’m not glad to have you, but I am a little surprised you accepted my offer. I’d have thought after all those years of traveling with the Cirque du Paris, you’d want to move to a city with lots of activity and people your own age, not be stuck out here in an eccentric artist’s castle.”

“I’ve never much liked crowds.” She’d have been lost in a city, where it was too easy to hide behind anonymity, to spend every day seeing dozens of people and knowing none of them, to remain aloof and cool as she’d been from the crowds who came to see her perform.

The castle, and John Sartain, had sounded exotic and exciting, yet an intimate enough atmosphere for her first foray into the “real” world of office work and meeting new people. Here was a chance to learn to relate to a small circle of people with backgrounds different from her own. A chance to find out what she was like away from the discipline and self-control that had ruled her life. To take off the performer’s mask and discover the woman within.

SARTAIN RETURNED to his studio and picked up his brush, but he stood still before the easel, his thoughts on Natalie. When he’d given in to Doug’s badgering and agreed to hire the daughter of a friend of his, Sartain hadn’t expected this woman whose eyes reflected the pain and determination he so often felt himself. The recognition unnerved him, as if he’d caught a glimpse in the mirror in an unguarded moment.

When he’d first spotted her, he’d almost turned on his heels and retreated to his studio. It wasn’t so much that she was beautiful—though she was, with that fall of black hair reaching to the middle of her back and the lithe body she carried with a dancer’s grace. No, more than her beauty, it was Natalie Brighton’s intensity that made him catch his breath, an energy, like barely suppressed passion, that radiated from her. If he painted her, he would show her with a light around her that radiated from within—a fire that burned, so that he could almost feel the heat.

In any case, the last thing he needed in his life right now was someone whose intensity matched his own. Hadn’t the idea been to find some dispassionate, businesslike manager to keep him on the straight and narrow?

Curiosity had won over caution and he’d remained fixed in place, watching her while she studied his painting like a professor searching for flaws. He usually feigned indifference to what strangers thought of his work, but he wanted to know what she would say about the painting, which he’d titled The Lovers’ Lash.

But when he’d asked his question she’d turned and looked him in the eye, and he was captured, like a moth held fast by a collector’s pin.

She’d called the painting evocative. As good a description as any of what he intended to accomplish with his work. One thing about sex—everyone had an opinion about it. The controversy his paintings sometimes generated hadn’t hurt his career one bit.

So what did Ms. Brighton think about sex? Doug had described her as a sheltered innocent, but her dancer’s body and the fire in her eyes hinted at a woman with appetites that might well match his own. It would be interesting to find out which image—the innocent or the temptress—was true.

She’d looked startled when he’d referred to himself by the spurious nickname the press had saddled him with. It served his purposes to feed their rumors of salacious goings-on at his castle. When people thought they already knew a juicy story about you, they didn’t spend much time prying into the truth.

So what was the truth about Natalie Brighton? Why had she left the Cirque du Paris? Her fall hadn’t left her permanently disabled, as far as he could tell. Something else had sent her here, to a place designed as a retreat from the world.

He should know. He’d been hiding here for years.

2

NATALIE WOKE the next morning to the staccato beat of rain on her bedroom window. She opened her eyes and stared at the red velvet draperies and red brocade bedspread of the room. What had compelled John Sartain to decorate his home in early bordello?

A very upscale bordello, she amended as she brushed her teeth and readied for her first day at work. After a breakfast of coffee and bagels she found in the amply stocked apartment kitchen, she made her way downstairs and followed the sound of a ringing telephone and the click of a computer keyboard to what had to be the offices of Sartain Enterprises.

“May I help you?” A tall blonde rose from a desk in the center of the room, her tone frosty. “Are you looking for someone?”

“I’m Natalie Brighton, the new business manager.” Natalie looked around the room, one wall of which was lined with filing cabinets and the rest furnished with every piece of modern office equipment she could imagine. Other than the blonde, no other employees were present.

The blonde stepped out from behind the desk, not the slightest bit of warmth seeping into her expression. “My name is Laura Clayton. I’m Sartain’s personal assistant.”

The flat tone of Laura’s voice, coupled with the way she wrinkled her nose as if she’d smelled something foul, clued Natalie into the fact that Ms. Clayton was less than thrilled with her presence. She’d met her type before—dancers who saw every new member of the company as a threat invading their territory. Thanks to her mother’s example, Natalie knew how to handle women like her. She swept past her into the office. “I didn’t know Mr. Sartain had a personal assistant,” she said.

Laura’s pale cheeks reddened, but she forged on, her tone taking on a slightly nasal whine. “Mr. Sartain has relied on my help for months now,” she said. “I don’t see why Mr. Tanner thought we needed anyone else.”

“Obviously he and Mr. Sartain agreed that you do.” She gave the other woman a cool look. Laura’s shirt was too tight, her blouse too low-cut and her hair too bleached. That said nothing, of course, about her capabilities as an office assistant, but it did make Natalie wonder why she’d been hired. She’d have thought Sartain, as an artist, would have better taste.

And if she could read my thoughts, she’d realize that I can be bitchier than her any day. After all, I learned from the best.

“Why don’t you start by showing me around the offices?” Natalie said, adopting a businesslike tone. “Then we can take a look at the rest of the castle.”

Laura opened her mouth as if to make another cutting remark, but apparently thought better of it. “This is the main office. My desk is over there, but there’s a private room for you.”

She was explaining the multi-line phone system when the door to the offices burst open, slamming back against the wall.

“Laura, where the hell is that cadmium yellow I ordered two days ago?” Sartain bellowed. He glanced at Natalie, but didn’t acknowledge her, focusing once more on Laura. “How am I supposed to finish this commission in time when I don’t have the damn paint I need? Is it too much to ask that when I order something it be delivered on time?”

Laura hunched her shoulders and her voice assumed a simpering quality that made Natalie’s ears hurt. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Sartain. I’ll call right away and have them trace the order.”

“I don’t give a damn about the order. I need that paint now! Find some, if you have to drive into Denver and get it yourself.”

“Yes, Mr. Sartain. I’ll certainly do that.” She scurried away.

Sartain turned to Natalie. “What are you staring at?” He gestured after the other woman. “Go help her find that paint.”

Natalie shook her head. “Oh, I think one person can handle that job all right.”

“I didn’t ask you what you thought!” Sartain roared. “I’m not paying you to think.” He stepped toward her, his voice menacing. “Find. Me. That. Paint.”

She brought her hands up between them and began clapping. “Bravo. You do that very well. And if I hadn’t already seen dozens of better tantrums I might even be intimidated.”

The muscles of his jaw bulged as he ground his teeth together, and the pulse at his temple pounded. Natalie’s heart sped up, though she held her ground and forced herself to remain calm. How she responded to this outburst would set the tone for all such future interactions. She intended to maintain the upper hand.

Sartain took a step back, and when he spoke again his voice was softer, though still with an edge of menace. “I don’t frighten you?”

She shook her head. “No. And despite what you think, the world won’t end if you have to wait until tomorrow for a tube of cadmium yellow.”

“How can you say that? I have a painting to complete that is due at the printer’s next week. I’m not some machine. I can’t turn talent on and off according to a schedule. I can’t be expected…”

As his voice rose he began to flail his arms, in full rant mode. Natalie folded her arms across her chest and nodded, waiting for him to wind down. There was something impressive about his passion for the subject, something almost sexual about the way his eyes dilated and his breathing deepened, the muscles of his arms and shoulders knotting beneath his plain dark cotton shirt.

As he was winding down, she noticed Laura hovering in the doorway. “Yes, Laura, what did you find out?” she asked.

Laura’s gaze darted to Sartain, then back to Natalie. “I tracked the shipment and it should arrive this afternoon. But there’s a store in Denver that has it in stock. I could drive in and get it.”

“And by the time you got back, the other shipment would probably have been delivered,” Natalie pointed out.

Sartain studied her. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

Natalie shrugged. “You could show me your castle.”

He blinked. “You want me to play tour guide?”

“Or you could return to your studio and practice for your next outburst.”

Amusement edged out anger in his eyes, though his expression remained stern. “Perhaps you can give me some pointers while I show you around.”

He turned and started out of the room, but Natalie put a hand out to stop him. “First, you need to apologize to Laura for shouting at her and thank her for tracking the shipment.”

His eyes widened. “You want me to do what?”

“You need to apologize to Laura and thank her for tracking the shipment.”

His jaw tightened and for a moment she feared he would launch into another tantrum. Instead, he shook his head and turned to Laura. “Thank you for tracking down the shipment,” he said, with more feeling than Natalie had expected. “And I apologize for making you the target of my wrath.” He shifted his gaze to Natalie. “Next time, my business manager will be the one to answer to me.”

This time, Natalie followed him from the office. He said nothing until they were in the hallway leading to the main salon. “I suppose you’re proud of yourself, scolding me like a schoolboy in front of my secretary.”

“She told me she was your personal assistant.”

“She prefers that title.” His lips quirked up in a partial smile. “Given the opportunity, I believe she’d like to place the emphasis on personal.”

Natalie glared at him. “Do you expect me to be impressed that some bimbo is throwing herself at you?”

He stopped abruptly, so that she stumbled into him. She braced her hands against his chest, aware of the taut muscle beneath the thin fabric of the shirt, and pulled back as if burned.

“What does impress you?” he asked. “What kind of man impresses you?”

She frowned. “I don’t think that’s really any concern of yours.”

“No, but I’m curious.” He closed the gap between them. “You were very cool and collected in the office just now, but I sense something more beneath the surface. Feelings a great deal…warmer.”

She raised her eyes to meet his, silently warning him to back off. “Doug warned me you like to pretend you know what people are thinking. In my case, you’re wrong.” She’d had years of practice at keeping her passions tamped down. There was no reason that should change around John Sartain, a man who seemed not to know the meaning of self-control.

She wanted to slap the smile from his face, even as her body responded to the invitation in his eyes. From the articles she’d read and the few minutes she’d spent in his company, he came across as someone who was both exasperating and fascinating. He was handsome, intelligent, talented, powerful and entirely unpredictable. The combination was almost irresistible to a woman who had spent her life in a world where every routine was choreographed down to when to take a breath.

“I like that you won’t answer all my questions,” he said. “I never know these days if people are agreeing with me because they truly share my opinions, or because they want to stay on the good side of a very rich man. But you don’t leave any doubt as to your opinion of me.”

“I didn’t say anything about you,” she protested. “I only refused to answer a personal question.”

“You said everything I need to know with your eyes and the way you hold your head. In fact, your whole body is communicating what you think of me.” He laughed. “You think I’m a spoiled, selfish, intemperate hedonist.”

Give the man an A for perceptiveness. But how much of a stretch had it been, anyway? “As far as I can tell, you go out of your way to promote that image of yourself—as the satyr your detractors call you.”

He nodded, then turned away. “Come, I’ll show you my studio. Maybe you’ll see another side of me there.”

He led her through a maze of hallways to a massive space at the very back of the castle, in a wing opposite the offices. A wall of windows along the south side flooded the studio with light, and the sharp aromas of oil paint and turpentine permeated the room. Canvases in various stages of completion lined the walls, competing for space with framed posters, oversize art books and discarded pallets.

An easel in the middle of the room drew her eye. She walked over to it and bit back a smile when she saw the subject matter of the work—American Gothic with whips and chains. The stern father wore black leather instead of overalls, and carried a devil’s trident, while the somber woman wore a dog collar and studded wrist cuffs and a black leather bustier.

“It’s a commissioned piece for a CD cover.” Sartain joined her in front of the easel. “I’ve done a whole series of them based on classic paintings.”

“It’s amusing. Quite like the original.” The resemblance was really uncanny.

“I try to stay true to the original work in the details. For instance, the old barn in the background, and the position of the subject’s hands. Here, let me show you.” He leaned over and shuffled through a stack of canvases and pulled out what Natalie at first thought was the original American Gothic.

“I did this copy as a study before I painted my original work,” he said.

“Do you often do that? Copy originals?”

He put the canvas back in the stack. “Sometimes. Part of my training was copying original work. But I prefer my own ideas.”

He took her elbow and guided her to another easel in the corner of the room, this one covered by a drape. He removed the drape and she found herself face to face with a portrait of a half-naked woman eating a cherry from a man’s hand. The body of the man was in shadows to the left of the picture. Golden light flowed from an overhead window onto the woman’s face and the bunch of cherries. The lush fruit might have just been picked from the tree, and the tip of the woman’s tongue darted out toward the delicacy, thepassion on her face speaking of a hunger for far more than the fruit.

Natalie’s breath quickened and heat washed over her as she studied the woman’s face. She had never in her life allowed herself to express such open wanting for anything. She felt the loss all the more keenly now.

Sartain’s hand rested heavy on her shoulder. She knew she should shrug him away, but she could not. The warm, human contact was strangely comforting, reminding her she was in a different world now—a world where she might explore all the emotions and desires she’d denied herself for so long.

“I’d like to paint you like that some day,” he said, his voice a soft caress beside her ear.

The meaning behind the words pulled her from her stupor, and she startled. “Wh-what do you mean?”

His gaze held hers, his expression without judgment or guile. “You’d make an interesting subject for a portrait. You have a very expressive face, yet there’s such a strong sense of holding back.”

She moved away from him and forced a sharp laugh. “There you go psychoanalyzing me again. Did you want to be a therapist before you became an artist?”

“I never wanted to do anything but create art. But I’ve learned a lot from the hours I’ve spent with my models.”

Remembering some of the rumors about the Satyr and the women he painted, she bit back a tart remark about the sort of things he’d learned. “I’m not interested in posing for you.”

“Most women are very flattered when I tell them I want to paint them.” He picked up a brush and tapped it against his hand. “Some people even see it as a way of making themselves immortal—their essence captured for all to see, for centuries to come.”

She rolled her eyes. “How poetic. How many times did you rehearse that line before you tried it out on some gullible female?”

“Do you think it’s a line?”

“Your reputation is well known. I assume they don’t call you the Satyr for no reason.”

He set the brush aside. “I’m a man who enjoys beautiful women. And they enjoy me.” His eyes met hers again. “You would enjoy me, I promise.”

Her heart fluttered, and heat rose to her face as she struggled to keep her composure. “Are you propositioning me? Your business manager?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No.” Yes. Maybe. She couldn’t deny her strong attraction to this man, and the chance he presented to explore so many things that had been forbidden to her in her old life.

But he was her boss. Not the person to do her exploring with. “That would be unprofessional,” she said. “As would my posing as your model.” She nodded toward the easel.

He shrugged and turned to cover the painting once more. “This isn’t IBM. You’re living here as well as working here. You can expect a certain informality at times.”

Did he really consider having her pose—most likely naked, judging from the paintings she’d seen—to be merely informal?

He turned to her again. “Despite what you think, I can be a professional, especially when it comes to my work.”

The question was, could she remain a professional around this man who stirred so many feelings she wasn’t sure it was wise to explore?

All her life, her mother and those who had trained her at the Cirque du Paris had berated her for her rebellious nature. When she would race across the back lot before a performance, Gigi would command her to walk to conserve her energy for the show. When she tried to incorporate a new move into her act, the choreographer would lecture her on the need to do everything exactly as scripted, for the safety of the other performers and herself.

When she had risked a love affair with a member of the crew who set up the tents for each show, her mother had raged about her throwing her life away for a man, and had had her lover fired from the show.

In time, Natalie had learned to restrain her wilder impulses. But now, she was free to indulge herself as never before. Except that the world outside show business had its rules, too: She wasn’t supposed to get involved with the man who hired her. She wasn’t supposed to feel so drawn to a man she’d only just met. She wasn’t supposed to want these things, and yet she did.

Maybe all the more so because they were forbidden.

SARTAIN WAS a man who enjoyed puzzles, and his new business manager presented him with an intriguing one: how had a woman who had been a member of one of the elite performing troops in the world ended up in his employ? Why would she want the job, and why had his agent, a meticulous businessman, hired her?

Of course, considering how she had handled his fit of anger this morning, perhaps Doug knew more than Sartain gave him credit for. Natalie’s refusal to wilt in the face of his fury had startled him out of his rage. Her courage—or foolishness, depending upon one’s point of view—captured his imagination.

She pretended to be indifferent to him as a man, but he sensed a heat between them he wanted to explore further. How much of her resistance was due to ideas about proper behavior between employer and employee and how much was because of some inhibition within herself?

With the idea of exploring the question further, he continued the tour of the castle, taking her quickly through the public rooms and down to what one writer had dubbed “evidence of Sartain’s wickedly twisted outlook.”

“This is the dungeon,” he said, swinging back an iron gate at the bottom of a narrow flight of stairs.

Natalie let out a shaky laugh. “A dungeon? You’re kidding.”

“I wanted an authentic castle. That includes a dungeon.” He flipped a switch and electric torches fastened along the walls flickered yellow light onto a macabre scene: a man clamped in stocks, another on a rack, a third chained to the wall.

Natalie gasped, and recoiled at the sight. He put his hand on her shoulder to steady her. This was why he’d set the scene this way, wasn’t it? To shock people? To distract them from probing too deeply into his private life? Reporters who visited the castle and saw the dungeon left convinced that the more scandalous rumors about him were true and didn’t bother to question anything else.

The tension in her shoulders eased and she turned to stare at him. “Mannequins?”

He nodded. “Without people in the scene, it was just another room with a lot of rusty chains.”

“That’s a very odd way of looking at it.”

“People have said I have an odd way of looking at a lot of things.”

She moved to stand in front of the rack. “Where did you find this?”

“From a place that makes props for movies and haunted houses.” He stood beside her and ran his hand along the metal wheel that, when turned, forced the opposite ends of the frame farther apart. “It’s supposed to be an authentic copy. I used it in a painting once—a commissioned piece for a collector.” Last he’d heard, the painting was hanging at a very exclusive S & M club in Los Angeles.

He felt her eyes on him and shifted to meet her gaze. “Why do you paint the scenes you do?” she asked. “What is the attraction of bondage and sadomasochism and all that?”

“Other than the fact that it’s set me apart from other artists and made me a lot of money?”

“I doubt that’s reason enough for an artist to keep working in one area for so long. Doesn’t creativity require more to feed it than the promise of a big paycheck?”

“Don’t tell Doug that. The man relates everything to money.”

“That’s because he’s not an artist. So what is it about this…this kinky stuff, that interests you?”

He lifted a loose manacle and fastened it around his wrist.

Natalie gasped. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry. I have a key.” He admired the fit of the metal around his wrist. “Art explores emotion. When I paint, I want to elicit some emotion from people. And some emotion from myself.” His eyes met hers, daring her to look away. “Take, for instance, bondage. People resist the idea of being tied up. Of having their freedom taken from them. But the restraints offer another kind of freedom. There’s freedom in surrendering completely to another. Freedom in not having to be in control, in allowing yourself to enjoy an experience totally without having to be in charge of what happens next.”

She swallowed, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

“Perhaps.” He took an ornate iron key from a peg at the end of the rack and fitted it into the lock. When he was free once more he took a step toward her.

“What about…the other? S & M? Pain as pleasure?” Her mouth twisted in an expression of distaste.

“I’m interested in exploring sexuality from a lot of different angles. The endorphins released as a response to pain can be related to the endorphins induced by pleasurable experiences. Different people respond to different things—fetishes, being dominant or submissive, role-playing. They’re all ways for people to get out of themselves, away from the things that limit them, to something purer.”

Her breathing grew more irregular, her eyes dilating. They were playing a dangerous game here, a kind of foreplay he enjoyed perhaps more than he should. She could stop him anytime, but he would take this as far as she let him. He wanted a glimpse at the core of the woman. Was she the innocent girl Doug had described, or a woman who felt the pull of attraction the way he did? He stepped closer still, reaching for her, even as he prepared for her to push him away.

The lights flickered, then went out, plunging them into the darkness of the blind. Natalie’s scream pierced the silence. He reached to comfort her, but she wasn’t there.

3

SARTAIN FOUND Natalie huddled against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She flinched when he touched her, but didn’t try to run away. “What is it?” he asked, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. Her fingers were icy, and he could feel her trembling.

“I—I’m afraid of the dark,” she said. “I know it’s silly, but I can’t help it, I—”

“It’s all right.” He released her hand but kept his arm around her as he felt along the wall until he came to a niche that held a candle. He located the lighter next to it, and flicked it open.

She began to relax as soon as the candle was lit. “What happened?” she asked. “Why did the lights go out?”

“Probably the storm we’re having. Lightning could have struck a transformer, or a tree could have fallen on the lines.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Enough that we keep candles in every room.”

“Why candles? Why not a flashlight?”

“Flashlight batteries corrode if left too long unused.” He looked around at the shadows cast by the candle across the stone walls. “Besides, the candlelight adds a certain atmosphere, don’t you think?”

“Damn your atmosphere. Just get me out of here.”

“In a moment.” He turned to look into her eyes. They were black in the dim light, the pupils enlarged. She’d stopped shaking, her body warm against his. All his better judgment told him to move away and lead her to the door, but then, when had he ever let judgment rule his decisions? He was a man used to indulging his passion and right now he wanted to know if Natalie felt the heat simmering between them.

Slowly, half prepared for her to slap him away, he bent toward her, and covered her lips with his own.

She stiffened, and he held still, not pressing his advantage, waiting for her to decide how far this would go. Then her breath, like a whisper, escaped in the slightest sigh, and she relaxed against him, her eyes closed, her lips parted.

He pulled her closer still, the pressure of his lips on hers increasing. Her mouth was soft and sensuous; the velvet feel of it sent desire surging through him.

Her lips parted farther and he plunged his tongue between them, tasting a faint sweetness. She gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin, and he shut his eyes, surrendering to the hot wanting that engulfed him. Every nerve was alive to the feel of her, the sweep of her tongue across his teeth, the points of her breasts pressed against his chest, the tiny moans of pleasure escaping from her throat.

Light flashed behind his closed eyes, and he opened them to see that power had been restored. Once more the electric torches flickered in their sconces.

Natalie pulled away. He resisted the urge to hold her and reluctantly released her. She pressed back against the wall, one hand to her lips, confusion warring with accusation in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said, her voice breathy.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” He had expected her to, up until the moment her mouth opened to him, and he felt her body melt into his. He had the sense that Natalie was a woman who was used to denying herself, and that her brief surrender to him both horrified and fascinated her.

She looked away. “I wasn’t myself. I was upset. I—”

“Shhh.” He brushed her hair back from her forehead. She trembled at his touch, but didn’t push him away. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

“Of course I do.” She straightened and fixed him with a stern look. “I work for you. What just happened between us—”

“It was a kiss. You don’t have to be afraid to say it.”

Her cheeks were a deep pink, and he sensed her struggle to continue to meet his gaze. “It was highly unprofessional behavior,” she said.

He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s okay to do something simply because it feels right.” Kissing Natalie had felt more right than anything he’d done in a long while.

She shook her head. “I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t?” He grinned. “Then I’ll do my best to teach you.”

Her expression hardened and she marched past him, out the door. Her high heels sounded a sharp retort as she hurried up the stairs.

He followed at a slower pace, still on edge from that amazing kiss. Something was definitely going on between the two of them and though he’d never admit it out loud, this sudden and intense connection had left him every bit as unsettled as she was.

NATALIE STOPPED in the hallway outside the suite of offices and tried to regain her composure. Her lips still burned with the feel of Sartain’s mouth on hers and the memory of the fierce desire he’d raised in her left her shaking.

Was it the man himself or only the situation in which they’d found themselves that had affected her this way? She’d been shocked at her first sight of the dungeon—as he’d no doubt intended. Then she’d recognized the black humor of the moment—the juvenile fun of scaring oneself that made haunted houses and horror movies so popular.

She’d wondered about the connection between Sartain’s appreciation for the dungeon and his rumored sexual proclivities, and had been bold enough to ask him about it. His answer had stirred her more than she cared to admit. All his talk of the freedom to be gained by surrender spoke to her own longing to rebel against the restrictions she’d operated under all her life. Self-control and mastery over her own body had kept her safe when she was performing on the high trapeze, but how often had it held her back from the pure joy of her art?

Then the lights had flickered and the familiar terror had overtaken her. Vertigo made her head swim, as if she was falling, and a scream tore from her throat before she could bite it back. Part of her mind knew she was in no danger but that part held no sway over the fear that had been a fixture in her life since her accident.

She’d welcomed Sartain’s arms around her, so solid and comforting. His strength and calmness wrapped around her like a blanket. Then on the heels of her retreating panic came fierce desire, the need to revel in everything that made her feel so alive.

For a moment, in Sartain’s arms, she had glimpsed the ecstasy of abandon, every bit as exhilarating as her first leap into space from the trapeze tower.

And then the lights had flickered on, reminding her of the danger of falling, and she’d drawn back, shocked at her behavior, and at Sartain’s.

She tried to remain angry with him, to convince herself he’d taken advantage of her when she was in a vulnerable position. But the memory of the pull between them, of the powerful attraction that was almost outside of their control, dulled her rage. Sartain was a man with a known appetite for women, and she was a woman who hadn’t been with a man in a very long time. That alone was probably a powerful enough combination to create sparks.

“Natalie, I’ve been looking for you.”

Doug’s appearance at the end of the hallway startled her. She straightened her shoulders and pasted a smile on her face. “Hello, Doug. Sartain was just showing me the castle.”

Doug glanced past her, his expression gloomy. “He showed you the dungeon?”

She laughed, though the sound was forced and brittle even to her own ears. “He enjoys playing the eccentric, doesn’t he?”

Doug moved closer, frown lines etched deep on his forehead. “Are you all right? He didn’t try anything, did he?”

She shook her head, avoiding meeting Doug’s gaze. “Of course not.” Sartain hadn’t had to try very hard. She’d welcomed the kiss, welcomed the chance to explore the feelings he kindled in her. Never mind that doing so was wrong. She’d spent so many years always doing what was right, and what had that gotten her? Not love or happiness or any of the things she really wanted in life.

Doug gave her a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “If he does, you tell me. I’ll make sure he behaves. I’ve already warned him you’re not one of his models. You deserve his respect.”

And why is that? she thought silently, but refrained from saying as much. For as long as she could remember, Doug had tended to be overprotective of her, to the consternation of Gigi. “You’re my agent,” Natalie’s mother would say. “Why would you concern yourself with my little girl?”

Why indeed? Natalie had often wondered. In the end, she’d decided that Doug, who had never married, and who had no children of his own, saw her as someone on whom he could spend any stray paternal feelings.

However, she was certainly old enough now not to need his misplaced protection. “I can handle Sartain,” she said firmly. “I’m sure he won’t give me any problems.”

Whatever feelings she had for her boss, they were no doubt fueled by the novelty of her situation, a reaction to the unaccustomed freedom of living on her own for the first time ever. She’d soon get her feelings under control and behave in a more professional manner.

As for Sartain, she was sure he would soon find some model or other woman upon which to focus his attention. Someone who viewed his darker passions with more than curiosity.

AFTER LEAVING the dungeon, Sartain went to the orangery on the second floor. He hadn’t even known what this was until he’d spotted it on the plans for the castle. The architect had explained to him that the most ostentatious castles had these indoor solariums where tropical plants and even orange trees flourished year-round. At hideous expense, of course. It was one more way for the lord of the manor to show off his wealth.

Privately, Sartain had thought it a foolish conceit, but since he was working on establishing himself as a true eccentric, he’d ordered the architect to include every detail of a proper castle, including the orangery.

Doug found him bouncing a tennis ball off the brick floor and catching it. The mindless rhythm of the activity often stimulated his creativity. “I came to talk to you about the donation for the Young Artists’ Endowment Fund benefit,” Doug said without preamble.

Sartain caught the ball and held it, then greeted his agent. Doug Tanner had been with him since he was a penniless art student. He was a pain in the ass sometimes, but he’d been a first-rate agent, and those were rare enough in this business for Sartain to put up with Doug’s occasionally overbearing manner.

“I told them I’d donate something. No problem.”

“They don’t want one of your own works. They want something from your collection.”

He scowled. “What do you mean they don’t want something from my own works?”

“It’s the marketing angle for this year’s auction. Giving the public a glimpse into the artists’ own personal collections or something like that.” Doug folded him arms across his chest. “Besides, your stuff is a little too…edgy for them. After all, this is a Young Artists’ Endowment.”

“And my paintings are every adolescent male’s fantasies.” He began bouncing the ball again. “Fine. What should we send them?”

“You decide. Whatever it is, it will be worth a lot of money to them. You’ve built up quite a collection.”

“Thanks to you.” Doug was a renowned collector in his own right and he’d often advised Sartain on purchases.

Doug stepped around an arrangement of palm trees and stood beside Sartain. “I passed Natalie in the hall just now. She looked upset.”

“I don’t know what about.”

Doug glanced at him. “I thought maybe you’d said something to her. I was hoping you wouldn’t run her off the first day.”

“She’s not going to leave. She’s too tough for that.”

“How do you know?”

“She actually had me apologizing for an outburst this morning.” He held the ball and glared at Doug. “I never apologize.”

“Then I’m impressed. She might civilize you yet.”

“I’m more interested in making her a little less civilized. Less uptight, anyway.” He tossed the ball across the room. It landed at the base of a lime tree and sent a rain of leaves to the floor. “How did you happen to pick her for the job? There must be hundreds of business-school graduates you could have hired.”

“Her mother is an old family friend. I did it to help her, and also because I knew after years of dealing with Gigi, she’d know how to cope with you.”

“You make it sound like I’m a dog who needs to be trained.”

Doug smirked. “Your words, not mine.” His expression sobered. “You’re going to behave yourself with her, aren’t you, John? She’s not one of your models or actresses.”

“What, is she a virgin?” He laughed at Doug’s stern expression. “Natalie is an interesting person. If we’re going to be working together, I intend to get to know her better. How much better is entirely up to her.”

“She’s led a sheltered life,” Doug said. “She grew up with the performing company. She’s traveled all over the world, but she hasn’t really seen or done anything outside of the show.”

“All the more reason for me to share my reality with her. It could be a very eye-opening experience.” For both of them.

NATALIE PUSHED OPEN the door to the offices and found Laura waiting on the other side. “I’m glad you’re back,” Laura said. “I’ve been waiting to apologize for my behavior toward you earlier.” She stared at the floor, and shifted from foot to foot. “I guess I’m not very good at hiding my feelings. I was disappointed that I didn’t get your job, but now, after the way you handled Sartain this morning, I see why Doug hired you.”

The secretary’s new-found humbleness caught Natalie off guard, but she managed to nod. “Apology accepted.” She cleared her throat, composing her next words carefully. “It could be, too, that neither Doug nor Sartain wanted to give up a good assistant. I have almost no secretarial skills. The things they hired me for—writing catalog copy and press releases, negotiating with printers and shippers, and doing damage control with the press—will free you to focus more on managing Sartain’s schedule, taking care of supply orders and things like that. Can you show me what you’re working on this morning?”

“Sure.” Laura raised her head, smiling now. “The Young Artists’ Endowment Fund has asked for a donation for their charity auction.” She led the way to her desk and pulled up a file on the computer. “We’re sending a painting, so I have to find out which painting, then arrange for shipping and follow up to make sure we receive the proper paperwork for tax purposes.”

“Does Sartain often donate to charities?”

“Sometimes. He has a few causes he supports.” She glanced at Natalie. “He’s really a very generous man. What you saw before—that outburst—that’s just because his art is so important to him.”

Did she detect a note of adoration in Laura’s voice? Maybe her earlier ice princess routine was merely a cover for a serious crush on their employer. But was Sartain really generous? Not as self-centered as she’d thought?

“How was your tour of the castle?” Laura asked.

“It was all right.” Natalie was careful to keep her expression neutral. “It’s an impressive place.”

“Did he show you the dungeon?”

She started. Had someone seen them going in there, and perhaps wondered why they’d lingered so long? But Laura’s expression showed only mild curiosity.

“I take it it’s a regular stop on the tour.” Natalie made a face. “We were there when the lights went out.”

“There was a huge crash of thunder and they went out. Fortunately, the computers are on battery backup, so we didn’t lose anything.”

“Are there frequent power outages here?”

Laura shrugged. “Sometimes. When it storms. The electric co-op usually gets things up and running again quickly.”

“That’s good to know.” Natalie suppressed a shudder. She’d have to be sure to have a flashlight and candles within easy reach in her room. And maybe she’d refill the tranquilizers the doctor had prescribed. She didn’t like to take them, but sometimes that was the only way to keep the panic at bay.

“It’s almost lunchtime,” Laura said. “Would you like to eat together?”

Natalie checked her watch and was surprised to see it was a quarter to twelve. “I didn’t even think about lunch. I don’t guess you go out to eat much here, do you?”

Laura shook her head. “We don’t have to. The castle has a cook. And we have a covered patio with a gorgeous view.” She led the way to the combination break room/kitchen. “The cook keeps salad and sandwich fixings in here. And if you want anything special, you can call in an order to the kitchen and someone will deliver it here at lunchtime.”

“The perks of being wealthy,” Natalie said.

“The perks of working for someone who’s wealthy.” Laura opened the refrigerator and studied the contents. “How does salad sound? There’s chicken caesar today.”

“That sounds great,” Natalie said. She followed Laura out to a sheltered patio. The rain had stopped, and the clouds had parted to reveal a breathtaking view of a sun-washed valley framed by snow-capped peaks. “It looks like a postcard,” Natalie said.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Laura pulled two chairs up to a wrought-iron table and gestured for Natalie to sit. “I’ve seen deer and elk in the valley. And in the fall the aspens are spectacular.”

“Do you live here at the castle, too?” Natalie asked as Laura split the salad between two plates.

Laura shook her head. “Not in the castle like you. I’m in what I guess was meant to be a gardener’s cottage, at the back of the property. It’s tiny, but private.”

“How long have you worked for Sartain?” Natalie asked.

“Five months. I heard through another artist that Sartain was looking for office help and I applied for the job before it was even advertised.”

“Does he often have temper tantrums like the one I witnessed this morning?”

Laura giggled. “Temper tantrums? That’s a good way to describe them, I guess.”

“Talented, wealthy men and two-year-olds often have about the same level of self-control, I’ve noticed.” An acclaimed Chinese acrobat had spent one season with the Cirque du Paris. Having been pampered and catered to in his homeland, he continually chafed under the company’s strict rules. No one had been sorry to see him depart at the end of that year’s tour.

“I’d say he loses his temper over something about once a week,” Laura said. “Usually I shrug it off. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s only because he’s so passionate about his work.”

There was that adoring note again. Natalie picked at her salad. “That doesn’t give him the right to take his frustrations out on you,” she said.

“I guess not.” Laura’s eyes met Natalie’s. “Thank you for standing up for me this morning. He’s never apologized to anyone before.”

“Part of my job is to see that he acts like an adult about these things.” She frowned. “I’m supposed to bring some discipline into his life.”

“Then I’m really glad I didn’t get your job. The artists I’ve met don’t believe in discipline.”

“Do you know many artists?”

Laura shrugged. “A few. None as famous as Sartain. It’s a real privilege to get to work with him, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

“Of course, our little office probably seems pretty tame to you. Doug told me you worked with the Cirque du Paris. I saw a show once. It was incredible. What did you do there?”

“I was a high-trapeze performer. Not a star, but last season I worked with another woman and two men on one of the highlight pieces.” Her picture had been featured on one of the posters. Gigi had been torn between maternal pride and professional jealousy. In her younger years, Gigi’s face and figure had appeared regularly in advertisements for the show, but that had been seasons ago.

She pulled herself from her reverie, aware that Laura had been talking to her. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked what you thought of Sartain.”

“He’s a very talented artist. I see why his work sells so well.”

“I meant what did you think of him as a man. Some women think he’s very sexy.”

“He’s very good-looking. I also think he knows it and uses that to his advantage.” More than looks, Sartain had an animal sensuality that was undeniably attractive.

“He and I used to be lovers, you know. When I first came here.”

“Oh?” Natalie shifted in her chair, an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. “Used to be?”

“We split up when he wanted me to do some things I wasn’t comfortable with.” Laura leaned forward, her voice low. “He’s into some very kinky stuff.”

“So I gathered from his paintings.” Heat washed over Natalie as she remembered their discussion in the dungeon. What did it say about her that she was more fascinated than appalled by his kinkier interests?

“He can be very charming,” Laura said. “When he came on to me, I was so flattered. That was before I realized he treats all women that way. None of us really mean anything to him.” Her voice was heavy with regret.

“I’m surprised you continued working for him if he treated you badly,” Natalie said.

“Oh, but he didn’t treat me badly. Not really. He was just being…Sartain.” Laura spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “And it’s still something, getting to see him every day, you know?”

No, she didn’t know. Why would a woman like Laura—beautiful and obviously accomplished—cling to a man who had rejected her? “I’m sure there are other men who would treat you much better,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure. And don’t think I’m still mooning over him like some silly schoolgirl.” Laura waved away the notion and attacked her salad once more. “I just think it’s important to have a role in supporting a great artist. It’s very gratifying, knowing I’m helping the world to know and appreciate his work.”

Was this woman for real? Natalie studied her coworker, but Laura’s expression seemed sincere enough. Maybe she was some kind of art groupie, like the young women who followed rock groups. “I’d say Sartain is very lucky to have someone so loyal on his staff,” she said.

“The work really is interesting,” Laura said. “You’ll see. Just don’t make the mistake I did and get involved with him personally.”

“Oh, of course not.” Natalie busied herself folding her napkin and sweeping up crumbs from the table. “I’m certainly not interested in Sartain as anything more than an employer,” she said. Liar.

But having an interest and acting on it were two different things. She knew too well the danger of abandoning oneself to desire.

4

BY FOCUSING on work, Natalie was able to put thoughts of her disturbing encounter with Sartain in the dungeon out of her mind. It helped that the artist himself stayed away from her. He spent long hours in his studio, finishing one commission and beginning another. Natalie was left to settle into her office and sort through the surprisingly complex workings of Sartain Enterprises.

In addition to privately commissioned work for collectors, Sartain had a lucrative sideline producing CD covers for various rock musicians. He also had his own line of T-shirts, calendars, playing cards and other items that were featured on a Web site and in a semi-annual catalog. A separate catalog was produced quarterly to showcase his fine art paintings and prints, which were handled exclusively by a gallery in Denver.

Friday, at the end of her first week on the job, Natalie was reviewing copy for the upcoming fine-art catalog when Laura hurried into her office. “He wants to see you,” she said.

“What?” Natalie looked up from the copy, momentarily dazed. “Who wants to see me?”

“Sartain. He wants you in his studio right away.”

She frowned, tempted to make him wait until she’d finished the task at hand. Then again, he was her boss. That entitled him to a more prompt response to his summons. She pushed back her chair. “Then I’d better go see what he wants.”

She hurried along the corridor and up the stairs to Sartain’s studio. Had he suddenly come up with an idea for a new project, or did he have something more personal to say to her?

She stopped outside the door to the studio and knocked.

“Come in!”

She pushed open the door and came face to face with a naked woman.

Not completely naked, she realized, when she’d somewhat recovered from the shock. The well-endowed blonde was draped in a diaphanous swath of coral silk which highlighted, rather than hid, her full breasts and the triangle of pale curls over her mons. She was reclining on the fainting couch, arms extended over her head, eyes fixed on Sartain with a look of raw wanting.

Natalie quickly looked away, a hot flush of embarrassment engulfing her. “Come in, Natalie,” Sartain said. “Monique, you can take a break now. Go downstairs and ask Laura to fix you some coffee.”

“Okay.” Monique pulled on a thick, floor-length robe and shoved her feet into a pair of red satin mules. She glanced at Natalie as she shuffled past, her expression bland.

“Come see my newest work.” Sartain beckoned Natalie to the easel.

The painting was still in its early stages, but the subject matter was clear: Monique was reclining on the couch as Natalie had seen, but Sartain had painted in two men with her, one black, one white. The black man’s head was bent over one of Monique’s breasts while the white man caressed her thigh.

The scene summoned a throbbing between Natalie’s own thighs. Once she had been part of a performance at the Cirque du Paris called “Menage.” She had been the centerpiece, the moving partner passed between two men who remain fixed on opposite trapeze towers. The costumes, lighting and music had all been designed with overtly sexual overtones, and the message had been of a woman both pleasured by and at the mercy of the two men.

As a performer, Natalie had reveled in the demands and the attention the piece had brought her. As a woman, she’d found herself aroused by the idea of not one, but two lovers wanting to please her. Of course, the feelings had never gone further than the privacy of her own room. One of her partners was gay, the other happily married.

But here was her private fantasy in rich color and bold lines on canvas.

“When someone stares like that and doesn’t say anything, I can’t decide if they hate the work or if they’re stunned by my genius.” Sartain’s words broke through her reverie.

“Oh, it’s…it’s beautiful.” She studied the painting more closely, searching for something specific to comment on, something about his technique or choice of colors, or anything other than the subject matter. Her gaze fixed on the white male again, and recognition shot through her. “That’s you!” she said, pointing to the figure.

He laughed. “A particular conceit of mine. And I save the cost of a model, using myself.” He pointed a paintbrush at the figure of the black man. “That’s me, too. My darker side, as it were.”

She glanced back at him, sure he expected her to laugh at his joke, but unable to see the mirth of the situation. Remembering the look on Monique’s face, she wondered if the two of them were lovers. It wouldn’t be surprising, considering his reputation.

She tried to ignore the tightness in her chest that made it hard to breathe. His personal life was none of her concern, so she shouldn’t waste her time speculating about it. “Laura said you wanted to see me,” she said.

“Yes.” He turned away and began cleaning the paintbrush. “I’ll be attending the Young Artists’ Endowment Fund auction Saturday night and I want you to accompany me.”

She blinked. “Me? Why?”

The sharp tang of turpentine stung her nose as he wiped the brush clean on a rag. He turned to face her again. “Because I don’t want to go alone. Because it will give us a chance to know each other better.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to socialize.”

“Why not? Do you find me repulsive?”

“No, of course not.” She flushed. “I mean, you’re my employer. I think we should keep things between us on a professional level.”

“Ah. That again. So was that a professional kiss we shared in the dungeon?”

Damn her inability to keep from blushing around him! “A gentleman wouldn’t bring that up again.”

“Whatever led you to believe I’m a gentleman?” His tone was teasing. Before she could think of an answer, his expression sobered. “In any case, this is not a social invitation. I want you to come to the auction with me so that you’ll have the opportunity to meet some of the major players in the local art world. You’ll need to know them if you want to do a good job as my business manager.”

She couldn’t say no now, could she? First, he’d unsettled her by reminding her of the physical attraction between them, then he’d pleaded business concerns to force her to accompany him.

“The dinner’s at seven, with the auction afterward. Dress is formal,” he continued, not waiting for her answer. “Did you bring something suitable with you?”

“Yes.” She crossed her arms over her chest, resigned now to doing this. “I’ll look forward to meeting some of your colleagues.”

“I don’t think of them as colleagues. I think of them as competition.” He turned back to the painting. “This is for the cover of an erotic novel,” he said. “A new venture for me. It could lead to a lucrative sideline.” He picked up a brush and added a bit of shading to the side of the female figure’s breast. “When you go back downstairs, send Monique up here again. I want to finish roughing this in while the light is still good.”

So she was dismissed. His sudden strictly professional attitude had her more off guard than his flirtatious persona. Was that his intention—to keep her constantly unsteady, vulnerable to giving up whatever it was he wanted from her?

Or was this another way to make her think about what she wanted from him? Like the woman in the painting and the role she’d played in “Menage,” would she dictate the terms of their relationship, or surrender to what she really wanted?

SARTAIN DABBED at the painting, but his thoughts were on Natalie. Her insistence on keeping things strictly business between them was prudent and wise—but he wasn’t a man accustomed to either quality in himself or in most of those with whom he associated.

It was why Doug had hired her, of course, to act as a brake on Sartain’s freewheeling approach to life. He doubted his agent had counted on how much Natalie’s cool and lovely exterior would fire Sartain’s passions. There was something within her that called to him, so that when he was with her he felt both more settled and more stirred up. The idea both intrigued and alarmed him. Superficial physical relationships were one thing, but he’d known within seconds of meeting her that Natalie would demand much more.

Pursuing a relationship with her was risky professionally and personally, but the danger added an edge to his attraction for her. He’d decided to start slowly—by inviting her to the auction. It was a professional function, one she could reasonably be expected to attend. But a night away from the castle and the formality of the office would give him the opportunity to see if she was open to exploring this chemistry between them further.

Monique returned and took her place on the sofa, careful to arrange the drape just so. As she settled back on the pillows, she yawned. “Tell me about that woman,” she said.

“Natalie? She’s the business manager Doug hired to keep me in line.”

“Looks to me as if you’d like her to be more than a manager.”

“I’m a man who’s interested in women, Monique. That doesn’t mean I want to take every one of them to bed.”

“You want her. I saw it in your eyes the minute she walked into the room.”

He dabbed his brush in umber paint and began shading along the back of the female figure’s thighs. “I want a lot of things, but even the Great Sartain doesn’t get all of them.”

She laughed. “You shouldn’t admit it. You’ll ruin your reputation.”

“What does it say about me that being too virtuous can ruin my reputation?”

“No one is going to believe you’re virtuous. A virtuous man wouldn’t paint the way you do.”

He stepped back to consider the work in progress. It was almost there. Maybe a little more curvature to the stomach…. “You don’t think there’s virtue in my honesty?”

“Honesty?” Monique arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“I paint the dark fantasies we all have. I’m just honest enough to admit to them.”

“Speaking of fantasies, I wouldn’t mind making this one come to life.” She arched her back, stretching like a cat. “I know a friend who might be interested in joining us.”

He shook his head. “The power of fantasy is that it isn’t poisoned by reality.”

“I’ll bet if Natalie was making the offer, you wouldn’t turn her down.”

“Don’t pout. It ruins the expression I’m trying to capture for the painting.”

“You didn’t answer my question. If Natalie proposed a threesome, would you take her up on the offer?”

He shook his head. “No. If Natalie invited me into her bed, I’d want her all to myself.”

“SO WHAT did he want?” Laura met Natalie at the door of the office when she returned from her visit to Sartain’s studio.

“He wants me to go with him to the Young Artists’ Endowment Fund auction tomorrow night.”

“He asked you out?” She followed Natalie to her desk.

“No. Of course not. This is business.” She picked up her calendar and pretended to study it, not seeing anything except Sartain’s face when he’d made his request. His expression had been intense as always, but unreadable. She set the calendar back on the desk. “He wants me to meet some of the players in the art world. I need to know them in order to do my job.”

“That’s what he says, but he wants something else from you.” Laura crossed her arms over her chest. “Believe me I know. The man never met a woman he didn’t want to know better. He knew you’d object to a real date, so he presented the idea in terms you’d accept.”

The fact that the same thought had occurred to Natalie didn’t make it any more palatable. “It is important for me to know the people Sartain does business with,” she said. “This dinner is part of my job, nothing more.”

“People will talk, you know,” Laura said. “Next thing you know, your picture will be on the cover of some tabloid as ‘eccentric artist John Sartain’s newest paramour.’”

“Paramour?” Natalie laughed at the old-fashioned-sounding word. “They’ll be disappointed to discover I’m only his business manager.”

“Any woman who appears in public with Sartain is going to be linked to him in some scandalous way. He encourages it, even.”

Natalie had no doubt of this. Sartain seemed to relish his role as a hedonist. How much of that was a manufactured image and how much the true man? “Is that what happened to you?” she asked. “Did your picture show up in the tabloids?”

Laura ducked her head. “No. But we weren’t together that long. And we were very discreet.” She looked at Natalie again. “But if you go out to a public function like this, the press will be there. They’ll see you.”

“They can print anything they like about me, but it doesn’t make it true.” Natalie sat behind her desk and booted up the computer, signaling an end to the conversation.

Laura didn’t take the hint. Instead, she sat in the chair across from the desk. “Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked. “Someone in the circus maybe?”

“No.” After her brief relationship with the construction-crew member, she had kept to herself. Life in the close confines of the Cirque du Paris was not conducive to romance. There was little privacy and the fallout from breakups affected the whole company.

“That’s too bad. You could have used him as an excuse to stay away from Sartain.”

“Do you really think the prospect of another man would deter him?” The artist struck her as someone who would relish a chance for competition.

“Probably not. But it would be something.” Laura leaned forward, her tone confiding. “So what do you think of Monique? She’s been his model for three months now. Longer than almost anyone else.”

Natalie was not in the mood to discuss Monique, or to gossip about Sartain’s supposed conquests any longer. “I really need to get to work,” she said. “I’m sure you do, too.”

When Laura left, Natalie tried to concentrate on the catalog copy once more. But the secretary’s questions had stirred up memories of her one ill-fated circus romance.

His name was Hal. He was blond and muscular, the kind of man who would elicit a second look from women of all ages. They had met secretly for a few weeks until Gigi had discovered them. She had lectured Natalie on the need for self-control. “You have a chance to be a star. You’d throw away that for a roll in the hay?”

“I can be a star and still have a life!”

“What if you get pregnant?”

“I’m not stupid. We use a condom.” Her face had burned at the very idea of having such a conversation with her mother.

“Condoms break. You’re proof of that.”

Natalie had seen then what this was really about. Her unknown father had gotten Gigi pregnant and left. Overnight, Gigi had been relegated from star performer to wardrobe assistant. Even after Natalie was born and Gigi returned to performing, she had never regained her former glory.

“You can’t do this to me!” Natalie had cried. “I can’t stand having you run my life anymore. I’ll leave the show.”

“And go where?” Gigi had asked. “With him to whatever pathetic job he can find?” She’d spat on the floor of the warehouse the troupe was using as a rehearsal hall. “Do you think he even wants you again now that he’s had you? He didn’t ask you to go with him, did he?”

Even blinded by anger, Natalie had seen the truth of Gigi’s words. The Cirque du Paris was the only world she knew, so she remained there, as Gigi had known she would. She had not rebelled again, focusing instead on performing, venting her passions in the demands of the complicated acrobatic routines which became her specialty.

In that way, leaving the circus now was almost a relief. Though she was giving up everything she’d worked for her whole life, here was her chance to explore a life away from her mother’s control.

The phone rang and she answered it. As if summoned by her thoughts, Gigi’s voice barked at her. “Something terrible has happened,” she announced with her usual drama.

Knowing Gigi, this could be anything from the loss of her favorite costume designer to a cancelled tour date. But Natalie’s days of being drawn into her mother’s hysterics were over. “What is it, Mother?” she asked calmly.

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