Untamed (15 page)

“Oh.” Jo's fingers traveled to the wound automatically. “It's fine. There's barely any scarring.”

“Good.” The word was short and followed by silence. For a moment Jo felt her courage fail her.

“Keane,” she began, then forced herself to meet his eyes directly. “I want to apologize for the horrible way I behaved after the accident.”

“I told you once before,” he said coolly, “I don't care for apologies.”

“Please.” Jo swallowed her pride and touched his arm. “I've been saving this one for a very long time. I didn't mean those things I said,” she added quickly. “I hope you'll forgive me.” It wasn't the eloquent apology she had planned, but it was all she could manage. His expression never altered.

“There's nothing to forgive.”

“Keane, please.” Jo grabbed his arm again as he turned to go. “Don't leave me feeling as if you don't forgive me. I know I said dreadful things. You have every right to be furious, but couldn't you—can't we be friends again?”

Something flickered over his face. Lifting his hand, he touched the back of it to her cheek. “You have a habit of disconcerting me, Jovilette.” He dropped his hand, then thrust it into his pocket. “I've left something for you with Duffy. Be happy.” He walked away from her while she dealt with the finality of his tone. He was walking out of her life. She watched him until he disappeared.

Jo had thought she would feel something, but there was nothing; no pain, no tears, no desperation. She had not known a human being could be so empty and still live.

“Jo.” Duffy lumbered up to her, then held out a thick envelope. “Keane left this for you.” Then he moved past her, anxious to see that all straggling towners were nudged on their way.

Jo felt all emotions had been stripped away. Absently, she glanced at the envelope as she walked to her trailer. Without enthusiasm, she stepped inside, then tore it open. She remained standing as she pulled out the contents. It took her several moments to decipher the legal jargon. She read the group of papers through twice before sitting down.

He's given it to me, she thought. Still she could not comprehend the magnitude of it.
He's given me the circus.

Chapter Twelve

O'Hare Airport was an army of people and a cacophony of sound. Nearly losing herself in the chaos of it, Jo struggled through the masses and competed for a cab. At first she had merely gawked at the snow like a towner seeing his first sword swallower. Then, though she shivered inside the corduroy coat she had bought for the trip, she began to enjoy it. It was beautiful as it lay over the city, and it helped to turn her mind from the purpose of her journey. Never had she been north so late in the year. Chicago in November was a sensational sight.

She had learned, after the initial shock had worn off, that Keane had not only given her the circus but a responsibility as well. Almost immediately there had been contracts to negotiate. She had been tossed into a sea of paperwork, forced to rely heavily on Duffy's experience as she tried to regain her balance. As the season had come to a close, Jo had attempted a dozen times to call Chicago. Each time, she had hung up before Keane's number could be dialed. It would be, she had decided, more appropriate to see him in person. Her trip had been postponed a few weeks due to Jamie and Rose's wedding.

It was there, as she had stood as maid of honor, that Jo had realized what she must do. There was only one thing she truly wanted, and that was to be with Keane. Watching Rose's face as their vows had been exchanged, Jo had recalled her unflagging determination to win the man she loved.

And will I stay here?
Jo had demanded of herself thousands of miles away from him. No. Her heart had begun to thud as she had mapped out a plan. She would go to Chicago to see him. She would not be turned away. He had wanted her once; she would make him want her again. She would not live out her life without at least some small portion of it being part of his. He didn't have to love her. It was enough that she loved him.

And so, shivering against the unfamiliar cold, Jo scrambled into a cab and headed across town. She brushed her hair free of snow with chilled fingers, thinking how idiotic she had been to forget to buy a hat and gloves. What if he isn't home? she thought suddenly. What if he's gone to Europe or Japan or California? Panic made her giddy, and she pushed it down. He has to be home. It's Sunday, and he's sitting at home reading or going over a brief—or entertaining a woman, she thought, appalled. I should stop and call. I should tell the driver to take me back to the airport. Closing her eyes, Jo fought to regain her calm. She took long, deep breaths and stared at the buildings and sidewalks. Gradually, she felt the tiny gurgle of hysteria dissipate.

I won't be afraid,
she told herself and tried to believe it. I won't be afraid. But Jovilette, the woman who reclined on a living rug of lions, was very much afraid. What if he rejected her? I won't let him reject me, she told herself with a confident lift of her chin.
I'll seduce him.
She pressed her fingers to her temples.
I wouldn't know how to begin.
I've got to tell the driver to turn around.

But before she could form the words, the cab pulled up to a curb. With the precision of a robot, Jo paid the fare, overtipping in her agitation, and climbed out.

Long after the cab had pulled away, she stood staring up at the massive glass-girdled building. Snow waltzed around her, sprinkling her hair and shoulders. A jostle from a rushing pedestrian broke the spell. She picked up her suitcases and hurried through the front door of the apartment buildings.

The lobby was enormous, with smoked glass walls and a deep shag carpet. Not knowing she should give her name at the desk, Jo wandered toward the elevators, innocently avoiding detection by merging with a group of tenants. Once inside the car, Jo pushed the button for the penthouse with a nerveless forefinger. The chatter of those in the elevator with her registered only as a distant humming. She never noticed when the car stopped for their departure.

When it stopped a second time and the doors slid open, she stared at the empty space for ten full seconds. Only as the automatic doors began to close did she snap out of her daze. Pushing them open again, she stepped through and into the hall. Her legs were wobbly, but she forced them to move forward in the direction of the penthouse. Panic sped up and down her spine until she set down her bags and leaned her brow against Keane's door. She urged air in and out of her lungs. She remembered that Rachael Loring had called her a fighter. Jo swallowed, lifted her chin and knocked. The wait was mercifully brief before Keane opened the door. She saw surprise light his eyes as he stared at her.

Her hair was dusted with snow as it lay over the shoulders of her coat. Her face glowed with the cold, and her eyes were bright, nearly feverish with her struggle for calm. Only once did her mouth tremble before she spoke.

“Hello, Keane.”

He only stared, his eyes running over her in disbelief. He was leaner, she thought as she studied his face. As she filled herself with the sight of him, she saw he wore a sweatshirt and jeans. His feet were bare. He hadn't shaved, and her hand itched to test the roughness of his beard.

“What are you doing here?” Jo felt a resurgence of panic. His tone was harsh, and he had not answered her smile. She strained for poise.

“May I come in?” she asked, her smile cracking.

“What?” He seemed distracted by the question. His brows lowered into a frown.

“May I come in?” she repeated, barely defeating the urge to turn tail and run.

“Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry.” Running a hand through his hair, Keane stepped back and gestured her inside.

Instantly, Jo's shoes sank into the luxurious pile of the buffcolored carpet. For a moment she allowed herself to gaze around the room, using the time for the additional purpose of regaining her composure. It was an open, sweeping room with sharp, contrasting colors. There was a deep brown sectional sofa with a chrome and glass coffee table. There were high-backed chairs in soft creams and vivid slashes of blue in chunky floor pillows. There were paintings, one she thought she recognized as a Picasso, and a sculpture she was certain was a Rodin.

On the far right of the room there was an elevation of two steps. Just beyond was a huge expanse of glass that featured a spreading view of Chicago. Jo moved toward it with undisguised curiosity. Now, inexplicably, fear had lessened. She found that once she had stepped over the threshold she had committed herself. She was no longer afraid.

“It's wonderful,” she said, turning back to him. “How marvelous to have a whole city at your feet every day. You must feel like a king.”

“I've never thought of it that way.” With half the room between them, he studied her. She looked small and fragile with the bustling city at her back.

“I would,” she said, and now her smile came easily. “I'd stand at the window and feel regal and pompous.”

At last she saw his lips soften and curve. “Jovilette,” he said quietly. “What are you doing in my world?”

“I needed to talk to you,” she answered simply. “I had to come here to do it.”

He moved to her then, but slowly, with his eyes on hers. “It must be important.”

“I thought so.”

His brow lifted, then he shrugged. “Well, then, we'll talk. But first, let's have your coat.”

Jo's cold fingers fumbled with the buttons and caused Keane to frown again. “Good heavens, you're frozen.” He captured her hands between his and swore. “Where are your gloves?” he demanded like an irate parent. “It must be all of twelve degrees outside.”

“I forgot to buy any,” Jo told him as she dealt with the heavenly feeling of his hands restoring warmth to hers.

“Idiot. Don't you know better than to come to Chicago in November without gloves?”

“No.” Jo responded to his anger with a cheerful smile. “I've never been to Chicago in November before. It's wonderful.”

His eyes lifted from her hands to her face. He watched her for a long moment, then she heard him sigh. “I'd nearly convinced myself I could be cured.”

Jo's eyes clouded with concern. “Have you been ill?”

Keane laughed with a shake of his head, then he pushed away the question and became brisk again. “Here, let's have your coat. I'll get you some coffee.”

“You needn't bother,” she began as he undid the buttons on the coat himself and drew it from her shoulders.

“I'd feel better if I was certain your circulation was restored.” He paused and looked down at her as he laid her coat over his arm. She wore a green angora sweater with pearl buttons and a gray skirt in thin wool. The soft fabric draped softly at her breasts and over her hips and thighs. Her shoes were dainty and impractical sling-back heels.

“Is something wrong?”

“I've never seen you wear anything but a costume or jeans.”

“Oh.” Jo laughed and combed her fingers through her damp hair. “I expect I look different.”

“Yes, you do.” His voice was low, and there was a frown in his eyes. “Right now you look as if you've come from college for the holidays.” He touched the ends of her hair, then turned away. “Sit down. I'll get the coffee.”

A bit puzzled by his mercurial moods, Jo wandered about the room, finally ignoring a chair to kneel beside one of the pillows near the picture window. Though the carpet swallowed Keane's footsteps, she sensed his return.

“How wonderful to have a real winter, if just for the snow.” She turned a radiant face his way. “I've always wondered what Christmas is like with snow and icicles.” Images of snowflakes danced in her eyes. Seeing he carried two mugs of coffee, she rose and took one. “Thank you.”

“Are you warm enough?” he asked after a moment.

Jo nodded and sat in one of the two chairs opposite the sofa. The novelty of the city made her mission seem like a grand adventure. Keane sat beside her, and for a moment they drank in companionable silence.

“What did you want to talk to me about, Jo?”

Jo swallowed, ignoring the faint trembling in her chest. “A couple of things. The circus, for one.” She shifted in her chair until she faced him. “I didn't write because I felt it too important. I didn't phone for the same reason. Keane . . .” All her carefully thought-out speeches deserted her. “You can't just give something like that away. I can't take it from you.”

“Why not?” He shrugged and sipped his coffee. “We both know it's always been yours. A piece of paper doesn't change that one way or the other.”

“Keane, Frank left it to you.”

“And I gave it to you.”

Jo made a small sound of frustration. “Perhaps if I could pay you for it . . .”

“Someone asked me once what was the value of a dream or the price of a human spirit.” Jo shifted her eyes to his helplessly. “I didn't have an answer then. Do you have one now?”

She sighed and shook her head. “I don't know what to say to you. ‘Thank you' is far from adequate.”

“It's not necessary, either,” Keane told her. “I simply gave back what was yours in any case. What else was there, Jo? You said there were a couple of things.”

This was it, Jo's brain told her. Carefully, she set down the coffee and rose. Waiting for her stomach to settle, she walked a few feet out into the room, then turned. She allowed herself a deep breath before she met Keane's eyes.

“I want to be your mistress,” she said with absolute calm.

“What?”
Both Keane's face and voice registered utter shock.

Jo swallowed and repeated. “I want to be your mistress. That's still the right term, isn't it, or is it antiquated? Is
lover
right? I've never done this before.”

Slowly, Keane set his mug beside hers and rose. He did not move toward her but watched her with probing eyes. “Jo, you don't know what you're saying.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” she cut him off and nodded. “I might not have the terminology exactly right, but I do know what I mean, and I'm sure you do, too. I want to be with you,” she continued and took a step toward him. “I want you to make love to me. I want to live with you if you'll let me, or at least close by.”

“Jo, you're not talking sensibly.” Sharply, Keane broke into her speech. Turning away, he thrust his hands into his pockets and balled them into fists. “You don't know what you're asking.”

“Don't I appeal to you anymore?”

Keane whirled, infuriated with the trace of curiosity in her voice. “How can you ask me that?” he demanded. “Of course you appeal to me! I'm not dead or in the throes of senility!”

She moved closer to him. “Then if I want you, and you want me, why can't we be lovers?”

Keane swore violently and grabbed her shoulders. “Do you think I could have you for a winter and then blithely let you go? Do you think I could untangle myself at the start of the season and watch you stroll out of my life? Haven't you the sense to see what you do to me?” He shook her hard with the question, stealing any breath she might have used to answer him.

“You make me crazy!” Abruptly, he dragged her against him. His mouth bruised hers, his fingers dug into her flesh. Jo's head spun with confusion and pain and ecstasy. It seemed centuries since she had tasted his mouth on hers. She heard him groan as he tore himself away. He turned, leaving her to find her own balance as the room swayed. “What do I have to do to be rid of you?” His words came in furious undertones.

Jo blew out a breath. “I don't think kissing me like that is a very good start.”

“I'm aware of that,” he murmured. She watched the rise and fall of his shoulders. “I've been trying to avoid doing it since I opened the door.”

Quietly, Jo walked to him and put a hand on his arm. “You're tense,” she discovered and automatically sought to soothe the muscles. “I'm sorry if I'm going about this the wrong way. I thought telling you outright would be better than trying to seduce you. I don't think I'd be very good at that.”