Fear of Falling. Cindi Myers
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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