Untamed by Nora Roberts

to Keane Prescott and to the evening they had spent together. Jo remembered it all, from the quick passion of the kiss in the rain to the calmness of his voice when he had said good-night. It was odd, she mused, that whenever she began to talk to him, she forgot he was the owner, forgot he was Frank’s son. Always she was forced to remind herself of their positions.
    Deep in thought, Jo slipped into tights and a leotard. It was true, she admitted, that she had failed to keep their relationship from becoming personal. She found it difficult to corral her urge to laugh with him, to share a joke, to open for him the doorway to the magic of the circus. If he could feel it, she thought, he would understand. Though she could admit her interest in him privately, she could not find a clear reason for his apparent interest in her.
    Why me?
she wondered with a shake of her head. Turning, she opened her wardrobe closet and studied herself in the full-length glass on the back of the door. There she saw a woman of slightly less-than-average height with a body lacking the generous curves of Duffy’s showgirls. The legs, she decided, were not bad. They were long and well-shaped with slim thighs. The hips were narrow, more, she thought with a pout, like a boy’s than a woman’s; and the bustline was sadly inadequate. She knew many women in the troupe with more appeal and a dozen with more experience.
    Jo could see nothing in the mirror that would attract a sophisticated Chicago attorney. She did not note the honesty that shone from the exotically shaped green eyes or the strength in her chin or the full promise of her mouth. She saw the touch of gypsy in the tawny complexion and raven hair but remained unaware of the appeal that came from the hint of something wild and untamed just under the surface. The plain black leotard showed her firm, lithe body to perfection, but Jo thought nothing of the smooth satiny sheen of her skin. She was frowning as she pulled her hair back and began to braid it.
    He must know dozens of women, she thought as her hands worked to confine her thick mane of hair. He probably takes a different one to dinner every night. They wear beautiful clothes and expensive perfume, she mused, torturing herself with the thought. They have names like Laura and Patricia, and they have low, sophisticated laughs. Jo lifted a brow at the reflection in the mirror and gave a light, low laugh. She wrinkled her brow at the hollowness of the sound. They discuss mutual friends, the Wallaces or the Jamesons, over candlelight and Beaujolais. And when he takes the most beautiful one home, they listen to Chopin and drink brandy in front of the fire. Then they make love. Jo felt an odd tightening in her stomach but pursued the fantasy to the finish. The lovely lady is experienced, passionate and worldly. Her skin is soft and white. When he leaves, she is not devastated but mature. She doesn’t even care if he loves her or not.
    Jo stared at the woman in the glass and saw her cheeks were wet. On a cry of frustration, she slammed the door shut.
What’s wrong with me?
she demanded, brushing all traces of tears from her face. I haven’t been myself for days! I need to shake myself out of this—this . . . whatever it is that I’m in. Slipping on gymnastic shoes and tossing a robe over her arm, Jo hustled from the trailer.
    She moved carefully, avoiding puddles and any further speculation on Keane Prescott’s romantic life. Before she was halfway across the lot, she saw Rose. From the expression on her face, Jo could see she was in a temper.
    â€œHello, Rose,” she said, strategically stepping aside as the snake charmer splashed through a puddle.
    â€œHe’s hopeless,” Rose tossed back. “I tell you,” she continued, stopping and wagging a finger at Jo, “I’m through this time. Why should I waste my time?”
    â€œYou’ve certainly been patient,” Jo agreed,