Kiss an Angel(29)

Sis!

He smiled, the glint of challenge in his eyes. “Tracy and I have been getting to know each other.”

“I’m trying to talk your brother into hanging around for a while,” Tracy said. “My shift ends in an hour.”

Daisy knew if she didn’t put a stop to this sort of thing right away, he’d think he could get away with it for the next six months. She reached over and patted the waitress’s hand where she’d rested it on the edge of the table.

“You sweet, sweet girl. He’s been so self-conscious around women since his medical problem was diagnosed. But I keep telling him—with the wonders of antibiotics, those pesky little sexually transmitted diseases are hardly a problem for anybody anymore.”

Tracy’s smile faltered. She stared at Daisy, then at Alex, and her tanned skin seemed to take on a faintly gray hue. “My boss gets mad if I talk to the customers too long. See ya.” She hurried away from the table.

Alex’s coffee cup clattered onto his saucer.

Daisy met his gaze dead on. “Don’t mess with me, Alex. We took vows.”

“I don’t frigging believe this.”

“You’re a circumstanced man. And circumstanced men don’t flirt with waitresses. Please try to remember that.”

He yelled at her all the way back to the truck, throwing out words such as “immature,” “grasping,” and “conniving.” Only after they were under way, did he finally give it a rest.

They had traveled in silence for less than a mile when she heard something that sounded very much like a chuckle, but when she looked over at him, she saw the same stern face and unsmiling mouth she’d seen from the beginning. Since she knew Alex Markov’s dark Russian soul didn’t possess more than a shred of a sense of humor, she decided she was mistaken.



By late afternoon, she was bleary with fatigue. Only by pressing herself to the limit had she been able to finish cleaning the trailer, shower, fix herself something to eat, and still make it to the red wagon on time to take over at the ticket window. The job would have lasted even longer if Alex hadn’t cleaned up the wedding cake last night. Since she was the one who’d thrown it, his help had been unexpected.

It was Saturday, and she understood from overhearing brief snatches of conversation that the workmen were looking forward to getting their pay envelopes that night. Alex had told her that some of the workmen who handled the canvas and moved the equipment were alcoholics and drug addicts, since the circus’s low wages and poor working conditions didn’t attract the most stable employees. A few had been with the circus for years, simply because they didn’t have anywhere else to go. Others were adventurers attracted by the romance of the circus, but they generally didn’t last long.

Alex glanced up from the battered desk as she stepped into the trailer, and his mouth set in what she was beginning to believe was a perpetual scowl. “There’s a discrepancy in yesterday’s receipts.”

She’d been exceptionally careful as she’d made change, and she was certain she hadn’t made any mistakes. Coming around behind him, she gazed at the neatly printed figures. “Show me.”

He pointed toward the paper lying on the desk. “I’ve checked the ticket numbers against the receipts, and you’re short.

It took her only a moment to figure out what was wrong. “That discrepancy came from the complimentary tickets I gave out. There were only twelve or thirteen.”

“Complimentary tickets?”

“The families were so poor, Alex.”

“And you took it upon yourself to comp them?”

“I could hardly take their money.”

“Yes, you could, Daisy. And from now on you will. In most towns the circus is sponsored by a local organization. They handle comps unless something special comes up, in which case I handle it. But you don’t. Understand?”

“But—”

“Understand?”

She gave him a grudging nod.

“Good. If you think someone needs comping, you come to me, and I’ll take care of it.”

“All right.”

He stood and frowned. “Sheba’ll be back today, and she’ll see that you get a costume for spec. When she’s ready to fit you, I’ll send someone to take over the ticket window.”

“But I’m not a performer.”

“This is the circus, angel face. Everybody’s a performer.”

Her curiosity had grown about the mysterious Sheba whose name made her husband’s face cloud. “Brady said she was a famous trapeze artist.”

“Sheba’s the last of the Cardozas. Her family used to be to trapeze what the Wallendas are to high-wire acts.”

“But she doesn’t perform anymore?”

“She could. She’s only thirty-nine, and she keeps herself in top shape. But she’s no longer the best, so she retired.”

“She obviously takes it seriously.”

“Too seriously. Stay out of her way as much as you can.” He walked to the door. “Remember what I told you about the cash box. Keep your eye on it.”

“I remember.”

With a brusque nod, he disappeared.

She handled the ticket sales for the first performance without difficulty. Things quieted down after the show was under way, and she sat down on the trailer step to enjoy the evening breeze.