Kiss an Angel(67)

There was a certain truth to what he was saying. The paper tube in her hand was a foot long, and she held it with her arm extended, but every time he cracked the whip, slicing off the end of the tub, she winced. She couldn’t help it.

“Maybe I’ll open my eyes tomorrow.”

“You’re going into the ring in three days. You’d better do it before then.”

Daisy’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Sheba’s voice, caustic and accusatory. The circus owner stood off to the side near the place where one of Alex’s whips lay coiled on the ground. Her arms were crossed and her unbound hair gleamed hellfire in the sunlight.

“You should be used to this by now.” She bent-over and snatched up one of the six-inch tubes lying on the ground. Those were the real targets Daisy was supposed to hold in the performance, but so far Alex hadn’t been able to bully her into practicing with anything shorter than a foot.

Sheba rolled the small, cigar-shaped tube between her fingers, then walked over to stand next to Daisy. “Move out of the way.”

Daisy backed off.

Sheba regarded Alex with the glint of challenge in her eyes. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” Turning in profile to him, she brushed her hair behind her shoulders and placed the tube between her lips.

For a moment Alex did nothing, and Daisy felt as if an entire history passed between him and the circus owner, a history of which Daisy knew nothing. Sheba almost seemed to be daring him, but daring him to do what? So suddenly that she barely saw the motion, Alex drew back his arm and flicked his wrist.

Crack! The whip popped just inches from Sheba’s face, and the end of the tube flew off.

Sheba didn’t move. She stood there as serenely as a guest at a garden party while Alex cracked the whip again and again, each time sending another piece of the tube flying. Inch by inch, he destroyed it until only a stub was left between Sheba’s lips.

She removed it, bent down to pick up a fresh one, and held it out to Daisy. “Now let’s see you do it.”

Daisy knew a challenge when she heard one, but these people had been raised to court danger. Whatever amount of courage she’d been born with, she’d used up when she’d faced down Tater. “Maybe later.”

Alex sighed and tossed down his whip. “Sheba, this isn’t going to work. I’ll keep doing the act by myself.”

“Is this what it’s come down to, Alex? Five generations of circus in your blood, and you’ve given the Markov name to someone who doesn’t have the guts to go into the ring with you.”

Her green eyes darkened with scorn as she regarded Daisy. “No one’s asking you to walk the high wire or ride bareback. All you have to do is stand there. But you can’t even manage that, can you?”

“It’s—I’m sorry, but I’m just not good at this kind of thing.”

“What are you good at?”

Alex stepped forward. “That’s not fair. Daisy’s been taking care of the menagerie, even though she doesn’t have to work there anymore, and the animals are in the best condition they’ve been in in years.”

“Bully for her.” Daisy felt the impact of Sheba’s eyes as sharply as the crack of the whip. “Do you know anything about the Markov family?”

“Alex doesn’t say too much about his past.” He didn’t say much about his present, either. Whenever she tried to ask him about his life away from the circus, he changed the subject. She gathered that he’d been to college and that the icon he wore was a family piece, but little else.

“Leave it alone, Sheba,” he warned.

Sheba walked past him, keeping her gaze firmly fixed on Daisy. “The Markovs are one of the most famous circus families in history. Alex’s mother was the greatest bareback rider of her time. Alex might have been a champion equestrian, too, if he hadn’t grown so tall as a youngster.”

“Daisy doesn’t care about this,” he said.

“Yes, I do. Tell me, Sheba.”

“His mother’s family goes back five generations to Russia where the Markovs performed for the czars. The interesting thing about the Markovs is that the family traces most of its history through its women. No matter who they’ve married, they’ve kept the Markov name and passed it on to their children. But the Markov men have been great performers, too, masters of the bullwhip and some of the finest horsemen the circus has ever known.”

Alex began stuffing the paper tubes in an old canvas bag. “Come on, Daisy. I’ve had enough for the day.”

Sheba’s expression grew bitter. “The Markov men have always honored tradition and chosen their wives carefully. At least until Alex came along.” She paused, her eyes icy with contempt. “You’re not fit to stand in his shadow, Daisy, let alone carry the Markov name.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her bearing so dignified she made her shabby surroundings seem regal.

Daisy felt vaguely nauseated. “She’s right, Alex. I’m not good at any of this.”

“Nonsense.” He coiled the whips and looped them over his shoulder. “Sheba regards circus tradition the way some people regard religion. Don’t pay any attention.”

Daisy stared at the bag of small paper tubes. Numbly, she reached down and picked one of them up.

“What are you doing?”