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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.”
