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TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
About the Author
Coming Next Month
1
NATALIE BRIGHTON hadn’t planned on darkness arriving so soon. One minute the sun was a burning spotlight over the tops of the mountains, the next the world was all shadowed cliffs and the dark smudges of trees against the rock.
She hunched over the steering wheel, guiding the car up the twisting mountain road, the engine whining as it strained up the steep grade. If John Sartain was as rich and successful as everyone said, why had he built a house way up here on the back side of nowhere?
Not house, she corrected herself. Castle.
Artist John Sartain, apparently determined to add to his already eccentric reputation, had built a replica of a Scottish castle in the mountains of Colorado. In one article Natalie had read about her new boss, Sartain had explained he needed isolation to paint. But a gossip rag she’d also read had speculated the remote location allowed him to pursue his more scandalous activities away from the eyes of nosy reporters.
As to the nature of those activities…Natalie shifted in her seat and reminded herself that the conjectures of rumormongers were not to be believed. Just because some reporter had dubbed John Sartain “The Satyr” didn’t mean he attended orgies or had his own dungeon or engaged in S & M.
She shivered as she remembered the pictures she’d seen in his newest calendar of just such scenes. The evocative, erotic paintings had aroused her, even as she’d told herself she should be shocked.
Apparently no one was shocked by how much money Sartain’s art was making. His work appeared on everything from calendars and T-shirts to playing cards and rock CDs. He was a one-man money machine.
And she’d been hired to make sure the machine kept running smoothly. Not exactly something for which her previous work with the Cirque du Paris and six months of vocational school had prepared her, but Sartain’s agent, Douglas Tanner, had thought her capable of the job. And she’d been eager for this chance to succeed at something outside the claustrophobic world of traveling performers. In the Cirque du Paris, Natalie’s life had been directed by others, her worth measured by their opinion of her.
Here in the mountains of Colorado, her future was in her own hands—a frightening and thrilling thought.
She steered the car around yet another S-curve and the castle loomed into sight. Floodlights shone on the red granite facade and half a dozen diamond-paned windows glittered with the golden glow of electric light.
Natalie stopped the car under the portico and waited for her heart rate to return to normal after that harrowing drive up the mountain. If she’d made it this far, meeting the Satyr would be a piece of cake.
The front door opened, but rather than some liveried butler or servant, a short man in a gray business suit emerged. “Hello, Doug.” Natalie climbed out of the car and greeted the agent. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I wanted to wait and introduce you to Sartain.” He followed her around to the trunk of the car and hefted out two suitcases. “How was your drive?”
“A little hairy after it got dark.” She lifted out a third suitcase. “I didn’t see a lot of other traffic.”
“No, there’s not much up here.” He led the way into the castle. “You see now why the job comes with an apartment. Making the commute every day would be impossible. Especially after winter sets in.”
He left the luggage in the large front hallway. “I’ll show you to your apartment later, but first I’d like you to meet Sartain.”
“He’s been your client for years and you don’t call him by his first name?” she asked.
“He prefers Sartain.” Doug shrugged. “It’s how he signs his paintings, how everyone always addresses him.”
“Maybe he thinks John is too plain for a celebrated artist.” After all, didn’t her own mother insist on being addressed as Madame Gigi wherever she went? As if plain old Ms. Brighton was too mundane for an artiste.
“What does Sartain think of this idea of having a business manager?” Natalie asked as she followed Doug past a wide, sweeping staircase and into a large, high-ceilinged room.
“Oh, he agrees it’s necessary. Trying to oversee the business side of things himself has seriously cut into his productivity.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Frankly, he needs someone to instill a little discipline in his life.”
She pinched her lips together. She knew plenty about discipline. At Cirque du Paris, the performers were reminded over and over again that the show, and in many cases, their very lives, depended on strict mental and physical discipline and self-control. A dictate Natalie had rebelled against once too often, and her mistake had cost her her career.
“This is the main salon,” Doug said, with a sweeping gesture that took in the room.
Natalie looked around at the heavy carved mahogany armchairs and settee, all covered in red-and-gold brocade. Red velvet drapes trimmed in gold fringe covered the windows, and a crimson-and-gold Turkish carpet cushioned the floor. A pair of stone gargoyles leered from the massive mahogany mantle over the fireplace, and the walls were crowded with framed artwork. Clam-shell-shaped sconces cast eerie shadows over the scene. “Not exactly homey, is it?” she said.
Doug laughed. “This is mainly for show. There are more informal rooms upstairs. In addition to Sartain’s living quarters and your apartment, there are apartments for a cook and the housekeeping staff. Try to make yourself comfortable and I’ll see if I can convince Sartain to tear himself away from his work and meet his new business manager.”
When Doug had left her, she focused her attention on the paintings lining the walls of the room. Apparently Sartain was a collector as well as a painter. In her spare time between performances, she had toured art museums all over the world—she recognized a Toulouse Lautrec, a Warhol and a Picasso on the walls around her. She was no expert, but she would wager they were real.
She stopped before a painting in the farthest corner of the room. The eleven-by-seventeen-inch canvas depicted two lovers in a romantic embrace. Romantic, that is, except for the whip the woman held coyly behind her back, and the lash marks across the man’s muscled shoulders. The man was naked except for a leather dog collar around his throat. The woman was wrapped in a diaphanous robe that left little to the imagination. Her body was lush in the style of Italian renaissance paintings, and the whole scene was rendered in rich shades of gold, red and pink.
But it was the expression on the lovers’ faces that commanded attention—a look of such devotion and longing it made Natalie ache, heat pooling between her legs at the idea that she and a man might look at each other that way.
“Do you like it?”
She started and turned to see a tall man crossing the room toward her. He was dressed all in black—dark jeans and a paint-stained cotton shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms. His thick brown hair was swept back from a high forehead, as if he’d absently run his hands through it. Hardly the picture of the menacing deviant some of the stories she’d read had made him out to be.
However, there was a dark sensuality in the assessing way his gaze swept over her. As if he was looking beyond the surface to what lay deep within. She folded her arms across her chest and suppressed a shiver.
“I’m Sartain. You must be Ms. Brighton.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sartain.” She extended her hand.
“Just Sartain—Natalie.” His velvety voice caressed the syllables of her name. He took her hand and held it, not shaking it, merely holding it, the heat of his skin seeping into her.
Alarmed, she wondered if he was going to kiss it. If he did, she wasn’t sure whether she would melt or laugh.
Get a grip, she told herself. You’re twenty-six, not some teenage ingenue. And honestly, wasn’t the castle and this dark and mysterious lord-of-the-manor routine a little over the top?
The thought helped her relax, and when he finally released her she was able to meet his heated gaze with a cool one of her own.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Do you like the painting?”
“Isn’t that a dangerous question for an artist to ask? What if you don’t like my answer?”
“You’re going to be managing my business, which is, essentially, my art. If you don’t like my work, I’d just as soon know now.”
She turned to the painting once more. “Yes. I like your work. There’s something very real and…evocative about your paintings, even if they depict fantasies.”
His laughter made her turn to look at him again. She caught her breath. Smiling, his face was transformed, from merely handsome to gorgeous.
“But how do you know they’re fantasies?” he asked. “Perhaps I paint from life.”
He looked amused, but the seductive purr of his voice sent heat curling through her once more. Did John Sartain know what it was like to feel the lash of a whip across his naked shoulders? Had he looked at a woman with the kind of longing he’d portrayed in the painting?
What would it be like to be that woman—the one who wielded the whip—and the object of his desire?
She shoved the disturbing thoughts aside. “I don’t care where you get your inspiration,” she said, walking toward the center of the room. “My job, as I understand it, is to organize the rest of your life so that you have plenty of time to create.”
“You’re been listening to Douglas, haven’t you?”
“Mr. Tanner has been talking to me about the job.” She looked back at Sartain. She might as well begin by being honest about her qualifications. “He told you I’ve never done anything like this before, didn’t he?”
“He said you had some training from some secretarial college or something.”
“It’s a vocational school. I trained in office management.” Not the most glamorous career in the world, but then, some people thought show business was glamorous. She knew otherwise.
“He also told me you were an acrobat with the circus.”
She frowned. “The Cirque du Paris is more than a circus. The members are one of the elite groups of performers in the world, combining dance and acrobatics with drama, music and costume for one-of-a-kind productions.”
“If it’s so wonderful, then why are you no longer with the group?”
She ignored the edge of sarcasm in his voice and looked down, at her clenched fists. Here was a truth that was harder to face. “There was an accident. I fell.” She raised her head. “I wasn’t able to perform anymore. So I went to school.”
“And lucked into this job.”
“Mr. Tanner is a friend of my family. He thought I would do a good job for you.”
His eyes met hers, assessing. “Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?”
She silently cursed the hot flush that rose to her cheeks, even as she continued to meet his gaze, unblinking. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “You’re entitled to your secrets. Just as I’m entitled to mine.”
Which immediately made her wonder what secrets he was keeping. As perhaps he’d wanted her to. John Sartain struck her as someone who was well versed in playing psychological games with both friend and foe. The idea was both intimidating and exhilarating. She’d accepted this job, in part, because she needed a new challenge. Sartain was nothing if not challenging.
“Sorry I took so long, I had to make a phone call.” Doug rushed into the room. He stopped a few feet away and looked from one to the other. “Are you two getting to know each other?”
Natalie turned her attention to the agent. “I’ve been telling Mr. Sartain a little about my background.”
“Natalie is exactly what we need,” Doug said to Sartain. “Someone who’s accustomed to keeping a schedule, handling details and dealing with the public. Not to mention someone who’s used to dealing with artistic temperaments.”
“Why not just come out and tell her I can be a bastard when the work isn’t going well?” Sartain frowned at her. “Or has he already warned you? Doug has a high regard for the product—and the money it brings—but not so much patience with the creator.”
“And Sartain likes to pretend he knows what other people are thinking.” Doug steered her toward the door. “Natalie will have plenty of time to learn your personality quirks,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m sure she’s dealt with more difficult men than you in her time.”
“But none more interesting, I’m sure. Good night, Natalie. Welcome to the Satyr’s castle.”
His laughter followed them out of the room. She shivered and hugged herself. “He knows people call him the Satyr?” she asked.
“I suspect he encourages it,” Doug said. They stopped in the foyer to collect her suitcases. “It adds to his reputation. And a man like Sartain lives and dies on the basis of his reputation.” Doug led the way up the wide staircase. “Are you sorry you agreed to take the job, now that you’ve met him?”
“No. Why would I be sorry?”
“He can be difficult to deal with at times, but nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.” At the top of the stairs they started down a long hallway. “Your apartment is in the east wing, away from Sartain’s living quarters. The business office is downstairs, in the back, so you’ll have privacy up here.”
She hurried to keep up with him. “Is that why you hired me? Because I could handle Sartain?”
He glanced at her, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve dealt with your mother all these years, haven’t you?”
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.”