Page 7 of Illusionist
“How'd you know?—”
“The playing cards sticking out of your pocket. The chalk dust on your fingers.” Her gaze drops to my hands, then drags back up slowly enough to set my skin on fire.
“You've got me at a disadvantage then.”
“Good.” She pushes off the wall, closing the distance between us until I can count her freckles in the dim light. “I like having the upper hand. So who would I talk to about joining?” Shecrosses her arms beneath her breasts, and I have to force my gaze back to her face. “About work.”
“Work.” The word comes out flat. “What kind of work?”
“What do you think?” She gestures at herself—the corset, the costume beneath that leather jacket. “I'm not exactly dressed for selling popcorn.”
“What's your act?”
“Escape artist.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My eyes narrow before I can stop them. Of all the fucking things she could have said. Weeks I’ve spent perfecting my craft, dislocating joints to master angles no one else would attempt. And now this woman appears out of nowhere, built like every filthy fantasy I've ever had, telling me she does exactly what I've spent ages attempting to master.
What kind of cosmic joke is this?
“Escape artist,” I repeat, tasting the bitterness of it.
“Problem?” Her chin lifts, defensive. “Let me guess... You think girls can't handle the real tricks. Probably assume I do basic rope ties and handcuffs for the perverts in the back row.”
“I didn't say that.”
“Your face did.”
Fuck, she's observant. Too observant. I school my expression, but the damage is done. She's already seen the flash of—what? Jealousy? Territorialism over an act I don't even own?
The truth is uglier. I want to grab her by those perfect hips and press her against this booth until she forgets about performing anywhere except my bed. Want to find out if she's as flexible as escape artists need to be. Want to test exactly how well she can get out of restraints when I'm the one putting them on her.
“Elias makes the final call on new acts.” The words taste like surrender. I should tell her we’re not hiring. Should protectmy place in the show, keep this green-eyed threat far from our stages.
But my cock’s already making decisions my brain should be vetoing.
“Elias,” she repeats. “Is he the ringmaster?”
“Among other things.”
“And you could introduce me?”
“I could.” I step closer, near enough to feel her body heat. “But I'll need more than justescape artist. We’ve got standards here.”
“You won't find better than me.” She steps into my space, close enough that her breasts brush my chest with each breath. “I can slip any lock, untie any knot, escape any box you put me in.”
The double meaning isn't lost on me. My cock stirs, already half-hard from proximity alone. “Big words.”
“I back them up.” Her hand rises between us, fingertips grazing my shirt. “Want me to prove it?”
The challenge in her voice makes my blood sing. She's baiting me, this green-eyed stranger who walked into my carnival like she owns it. Part of me wants to call her bluff, see exactly what those nimble fingers can do.
“Why'd you leave your last carnival?”
The question stops her cold. Whatever she expected, it wasn't that. Her hand drops, and for the first time since she turned those eyes on me, uncertainty flickers across her face.
“Does it matter?”
“Everything matters.” I catch her wrist before she can step back, my thumb finding her pulse. It races beneath my touch. “We're not some traveling flea market where performers drift in and out. This is family. Blood or not, we protect our own.”
