“No, please.” He touched my forearm. His fingers brushed over the skin in a brief caress, making my hair stand on end as though he’d infused his touch with an electrical current. “Wait.”
When I sat back down, he folded his hands in his lap. I tried to relax, but my shoulders felt tethered to my ears. I crossed my arms over my bare midsection, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious about my costume. It was quite modest compared to what many of the dancers in our troupe wore, but even so, it had taken me a while to get comfortable with showing so much skin. And I knew for a fact that Jordan had never seen me in anything even remotely as sexy as my Gypsy garb.
We weren’t traditional Middle Eastern belly dancers; we were Romani, a Gypsy troupe traveling by caravan—a modern-day version of the caravan, at any rate, in our trailers and RVs that we decorated like Gypsy wagons once we set up camp wherever we were performing. Most of us were Romani in name only. Even Marek was only part Romani on his father’s side, but he looked it through and through. He made sure his Gypsy followers looked the part, too. And because of the perceived authenticity we presented, our group was in high demand at historical reenactment fairs like these.
I should have felt honored to be a part of it all.
“Stop staring at me. You’re making me nervous.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just a little blown away at finding you.” He reached up and touched a bead on the end of one of the myriad of tiny braids woven through my hair. “You look so… so different, but—” He lowered his hand and softly cleared his throat. “But you’re still you. After all this time.”
An overwhelming desire to weep washed over me and I clamped my jaws together, resisting the wail that seemed to be working its way up the back of my throat. How could he possibly know how badly I needed to hear those words? It mattered little that I couldn’t act on them—my past had to stay in the past— because lately, I had begun to believe I had disappeared altogether. That the Savannah I’d once been had faded to black.
Now here was Jordan Ransome, the guy I’d crushed on relentlessly from the time I was old enough to understand why I felt lightheaded around him. I was too young for him; I knew that. But some things simply don’t matter to the heart. When I was ten and he was fifteen, I sat in the huge sycamore tree in our front yard in the afternoons, knowing he’d pass by on his way home from school. I wasn’t sure he ever even knew I was up there. He got a car his junior year, a beastly old clunker that he’d worked on in his driveway the whole summer before. I knew this because the Ransome family lived only five houses down from us. I’d listen for it—you could hear it coming at least a block away—and if I didn’t have time to make it up into my tree, I’d dash out to the mailbox in hopes he’d happen to glance over and notice me. I never knew if he did or not. I was always too afraid to look at him as he drove by.
His senior year, he nearly broke my heart. I finally worked up the courage to wave at him as he drove by. For the first few weeks, he smiled and waved back, sometimes even calling out a loud “Hello, Savannah Clark!” But that October, a girl showed up in his passenger seat… and she didn’t go away. Jordan often drove around with friends in his car, even girls, and there were a few who seemed perhaps a little more than friends, but nothing that ever blossomed into anything long term or significant.
This time, it was different. This time, it was always just Jordan and that girl. Sometimes, he drove by without even noticing me perched on a low branch, waving at him like a lovesick puppy.
I was almost relieved when he went away to college the next year. I couldn’t bear to see him with her every day. But I missed him, just the same.
“Savannah?” His voice was quiet, pulling me out of my reverie. “Are you okay? I mean, is he—Marek—okay?”
I knew instinctively what he was asking. I also thought I knew what he wanted to hear. “I’m fine. He’s a great guy.” I lifted my gaze to the stage where I performed six shows a day, six days a week, six weeks at a time. It didn’t slip my notice that three sixes was considered the mark of the devil where I came from. “And you can’t call me that. I’m Savah here.”
Jordan frowned at that statement, but he didn’t ask for clarification. Instead, he said, “You seem… I don’t know. Maybe a little worried about him? And he seems kinda—”
Straightening, I pushed my shoulders back a little, lifting my chin, too. I met Jordan’s concerned gaze, forcing the resolve into my tone and posture as I cut him off. “He’s my boss, Jordan. He’s protective of us girls. We often have to fend off unsolicited and unwanted attention from audience members who imbibe too much or who read too much into our performances.”
He flinched, actually jerked back just the tiniest bit, but I saw it. Like I’d hit him.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Your boss? He’s a little… um… touchy-feely for a boss, wouldn’t you say?”
His expression revealed nothing, and his tone was even-keeled, but I’d spent the last three years living with a man of subtle nuances, at least in private. If I misread even a pause in his communication, Marek was capable of erupting. So although Jordan tried to mask what he was feeling, my ears picked up on the spaces between the words, the unspoken meaning behind his careful statement.
“Does he call all the dancers ‘mine,’ like he does you?” Like a dog with a bone, Jordan was.
“He’s the Gypsy King,” I said with a shrug, hoping he’d let it go. “It’s all part of what we do here.”
“So it’s an act.” He waved a hand in the direction of the curtained door where Marek had staked his claim on me earlier. “All that was just him keeping in character?”
I opened my mouth to lie, but my throat was dry and the words were slow in coming.
“And the little boy? Was he in character too?”
This time, I flinched. So he had seen him.
“Calling you “Mama” was just an act?” Jordan’s voice hadn’t changed, but he crossed his arms like a protective barrier over his chest.
The thought of Killian with his squishy little-boy face, dirty hands, and rounded belly, his squeaky voice singing silly songs into the night with me, made the knot that had been forming in my stomach begin to unravel.
“Killian is my son.” I stared at the curtained opening, willing him to burst through the fabric and race around the rows of hay bales to throw himself into my arms.
“And Marek?” Understanding had stripped the bottom of his words out, and now his voice rang hollow, resigned.
I kept my gaze averted. “Killian is also his son.” I spoke in little more than a whisper, not because I was ashamed or afraid for myself, but because I sensed Jordan needed to hear the words in as gentle a manner as I could give them.
“But Marek is not your—husband?”
“No.”
“I see.”
I expected Jordan to leave then. Now that his five minutes were up and he had a quiver full of ammunition to use against me, I expected him to walk away. But he didn’t. From the corner of my eye, I saw his shoulders drop, his arms un-cross, as he leaned forward so his elbows rested on his knees. So I waited, my breath stuck as if I had a cotton ball or two in my lungs.
Finally, he spoke. “Your parents would love to see you, Savannah.”
“Savah,” I corrected. “And no, they would not.” I wanted to snap my fingers in his face, to gesture dramatically at the scene around me, to make him really see the artificial Gypsy stage where I used my body to entertain the masses—to make my living. I resisted the urge to stand up and swivel my hips in front of him, to shake my bejeweled bosom at him until he went cross-eyed. “No,” I said again, resisting the urge to ask him how they were. “They would not love to see me.”
He was silent again, staring down at his hands, his fingers laced together between his knees. I, too, studied his hands, noting the flecks of multi-colored paint clinging to the cuticles around his short nails. I thought he might be trying to figure out what to say to convince me I was wrong.
“I need to get back to Killian.” I started to rise, but Jordan reached out and took my hand, gently pulling me back down.
“They would love to see you, Savannah. The real you. Not the act.”
I shook my head again. “Stop calling me that! You don’t get it, Jordan. This is the real me. I am Savah! I am Salome of the Seven Veils. I am the property of The Gypsy King. I am someone Pastor Clark and the lovely Beatrice would no longer recognize.”
“I recognized you.” His comeback was quick, almost harsh with impatience.
“And now you’re trying to tell me that what you see isn’t the real me? It’s been almost three years since I left, Jordan. Things change. People change. I’ve changed.” I pulled my hand from his, immediately missing the press of his palm against mine. Standing quickly, putting distance between us, I twirled slowly, seductively, thrusting one hip forward in a provocative gesture. “I am the Gypsy dancer.”
Jordan stood too, stepping forward, reaching for me again. Every part of me tensed, ready to bolt, but aching to let him touch me…
“Savah. I see your admirer is back.”
Marek. In the few moments I’d been distracted enough to take my eyes off the path, he’d returned. His long legs carried him quickly to my side. He placed both hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him so our eyes met. Although he held my gaze, he spoke to Jordan. “Do you like what you see? She is very beautiful, is she not? But she is not available. Not to you, anyway.” He leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth, slowly, deliberately, until I turned my face away, wrenching my mouth from his. He laughed deep in his throat and took my chin in a firm grip, the other hand still wrapped around the curve of my shoulder. But his fingers gouged into my back where Jordan couldn’t see, and I knew he’d leave bruises. And because Marek was always careful, I knew my costumes would cover them. “Savah, my treasure, say ‘goodbye’ to Mr. Lover Boy. We must prepare for our next performance.”
He didn’t let me say goodbye. He spun me away and practically pushed me along in front of him. Over his shoulder to Jordan, Marek added, “I would ask you to come back to see us again soon, but…” He let the unfinished sentence fade away.
“Wait. Stop!” Jordan leapt over a hay bale and landed in front of us, blocking our way. “This is insane, man. Seriously? I mean, the first time… Fine. You were staying in character. I get it.” His cheeks were flushed, and I could see the same color creeping up his neck above his shirt collar. “But enough already. You’re in between shows now, and all I want to do is talk.”
“You are a persistent little man. Like a buzzing mosquito.” Marek waved his fingers in front of Jordan’s face and then made a quick fist, as though catching—and crushing—a bug mid-flight. Jordan jerked his head back out of reflex, but he didn’t back off.
“You’re okay with this guy… corralling you?” He was speaking to me, but he kept his gaze locked on Marek’s face. “Come on, you two. Cut the act. It’s getting ugly.”
“Act? Who told you what you see here is an act?” Marek asked before turning narrowed eyes on me. “Did you tell him this absurdity, Savah?”
His fingers once again dug into my back; this time, it was so hard I had to clear my throat to mask the grunt of pain that escaped my lips.
“She said no such thing, Marek, or whatever your real name is.” Jordan took a step closer, his head tilted back just a little so he could still look Marek in the eye. He was about six inches shorter, and not nearly as broad, and I knew Marek could—and would—take care of Jordan with one hand tied behind his back if pressed. I’d seen him do it one time before. “This is the twenty-first century, and you can’t treat a person like that. It doesn’t work that way in this day and age, my friend.”
“Look around you, my friend.” Marek made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “This is the Renaissance Period. A time of new discoveries, of beauty and art, of love and passion. We do not live by your twenty-first century constraints in this day and age.”
I cringed inwardly at Marek’s mockery. Oh please, oh please, just go! Leave now before this turns into something else, I wanted to cry out.
Jordan’s eyes moved quickly over my face, urgent, seeking the truth. “You can’t let him treat you like this.”
“He is right,” I murmured, audibly this time, but I spoke softly so Marek wouldn’t think I was usurping his authority. Jordan would dig his own grave if he didn’t stop antagonizing him and leave. Now. I slipped back into character, complete with slight accent. “We have a performance to do, so I must go. Thank you for your kind compliments of my dancing, sir, but it is time for you to leave.” I pleaded with my eyes, hoping he wouldn’t push the whole ‘old friend’ thing. Marek would not be happy about that. I tugged free from Marek’s slightly loosened grip and escaped them both.
Ducking through the curtain, I was just in time to snatch up a shrieking Killian, who was running in large circles, flapping his arms like a big, clumsy bird. He wrapped his arms around my neck and pecked aggressively at my cheek, squawking non-stop. My laughter eased some of the tension in my shoulders, and I set him down where he resumed flapping. “I’m a crow, Mama!” His r-sounds still came out like w-sounds when he was in a hurry. Sometimes, he got his tongue around the r-sound, but it came with much effort, his little lips working hard to help shape the sound. “I’m Crow-boy! Caw! Caw!” And he was off again.
I let him go as I made my way to the food tent. I wasn’t hungry, but I needed to surround myself with people so Marek wouldn’t have the opportunity to corner me. Not yet. I needed some time to prepare first.
CHAPTER SIX
I didn’t see Jordan the rest of the day. I had no idea what Marek had said to him, but his upbeat mood kept me guessing and tense. Things had either gone the way he’d wanted them to—in that case, Jordan’s body lay at the bottom of the Santa Fe Lake with a millstone around his neck, or at the very least, he’d been escorted off the premises by Faire security—or they hadn’t, which meant Marek was taking his sweet time conjuring up ways to take out his anger on me after the crowds were gone and we were alone in our camper. I didn’t know which was worse. I just wanted Jordan as far away from us as possible.
But thinking those words made my chest ache.
Although we had performed our last show for the day, we couldn’t start pulling things off the stage until the park shut down. That gave us about an hour to wander the Faire, to check out the different wares, to stock up on food or drink for the evening. Everything was already deeply discounted for Faire participants, but at the end of the day, most of what hadn’t been sold was doled out among us for free or next to it, since everything had to be brought in fresh daily. Killian and I had some of our best moments during that last hour of the day. He usually napped in the afternoon and always awoke in a happy mood, energized and ready to show me the world through his toddler eyes.
Killian drew a crowd almost as easily as Marek, and, like Marek, his admirers delighted in the hugs and smiles he doled out. But that was where the similarities between the men in my life ended. Killian looked like me. His hair, uptilted green eyes, button nose, and his chicken neck—he got all those from me. His personality was mine, through and through. Predictable and loyal, he was cheerful ninety percent of the time as long as he didn’t need to eat or sleep, both of which he did with gusto. Bedtime was something he enjoyed, as though he’d wrung out all the goodness of the day and had no regrets about laying it to rest. But I saw no traces of Marek’s angular, Mediterranean features or his near-black curls, and Killian wasn’t exactly waifish, but he certainly would never be considered big-boned.
Part of me secretly relished the notion that Killian was more mine than his father’s. And truth be told, Marek didn’t make any effort to participate in Killian’s life on a personal level. Certainly, he made sure we were housed and fed, but he had his hands full—sometimes quite literally, I suspected—with making sure the rest of our troupe were housed and fed as well. I suspected Marek and Anyala
of a friends-with-benefits kind of relationship, but they were discreet enough that I could pretend I didn’t. I also knew he had the proverbial ‘woman in every port’ as well—we performed year-round at reenactments and events all around the country, never staying in one place for more than six to eight weeks at a time, except for the holidays.
From around Thanksgiving toward the end of January, those without anywhere to go shored up with us at an RV park in Chico near where Marek grew up. Our ragtag lot shared our holiday meals together, potluck style, everyone bringing something to the table. Sometimes we performed locally, but usually, we simply took the time off until the cash flow ran too low. Or until Marek got his second or third case of cabin fever and pulled up anchor in the middle of the night. That was something Marek loved to do—keep people guessing.
Nope, Killian was nothing like his daddy. I crouched down and pulled my little boy into a quick hug, blowing raspberries into his soft neck.
“Mama, Mama!” he cried out. “So silly!” When I relaxed my hold on him enough so he could step back, he took my cheeks in his hand and rubbed noses with me. Oh, but he was the joy of my life. I didn’t think I could bear living if anything ever happened to him, if he was ever taken from me, or if he ever left me.
Like I’d done to my own mother.
The thought came out of nowhere… but then again, not really. I’d been thinking about my parents nonstop since seeing Jordan.
Jordan Ransome. Why, of all people, did it have to be him? Anyone else I could have evaded, or convinced them they were mistaken about my identity. My mind kept circling back to that moment our eyes met, the way my skin tingled beneath his touch, the unspoken words between us. The way he’d flinched when I’d alluded to him possibly being an adoring fan who read too much into my dance moves.
I stood quickly, too quickly, and I stumbled, momentarily lightheaded.
“You all right, Savah?”
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