Her Gypsy Prince

Her Gypsy Prince Crystal Green To sheltered Elizabeth Dupres, the tanned, shirtless daredevil high atop the Ferris wheel looked like a swashbuckling pirate–handsome, debonair…basically a tempting load of trouble! A good girl like her was meant to follow in her mother's footsteps. She shouldn't want the thrill-a-minute life of the carnival–or the embrace of a gypsy prince like Carlo Fuentes.But she did.And for the first time, Elizabeth decided to risk everything she'd ever been for the woman she could become in Carlo's arms… “Looking for someone?” Carlo was resting against the metal gates. He had one leg kicked over the other, casual as can be, as he rested his hands on his lean hips. The grin on his face told her he knew she’d been following him. She decided not to admit she’d been dying to see him. “It’s dark here.” “Very.” The tone of his voice made her aware of every breath he took, every unsaid thing that vibrated between them. He slipped off her sunglasses, ever so slowly, and Elizabeth just about fell to pieces. His feral expression sent a zing through her, heating places that had never been tantalized before. Was she doing the same thing to him? Unthinkable. But then for a split second she saw what she’d been wishing for in his silver-blue eyes. Longing. Dear Reader, Four special women shatter the barricades they’ve built around their dreams, in Silhouette Romance this month. Be it openly defying the life role set out for them or realizing their life’s ambition, these independent ladies represent the type of aspirational heroines we’re looking for in Silhouette Romance. Myrna Mackenzie launches our newest trilogy, SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE, with Much Ado About Matchmaking (SR #1786) in which a woman who doesn’t think she’s special or beautiful enough for the worldly hero finally gets the courage to listen to her heart. The Texan’s Suite Romance (SR #1787) rounds out Judy Christenberry’s LONE STAR BRIDES continuity and features a woman who knows Mr. Right when she meets him but now must help him heal enough to let love back into his lonely life. When her screenplay is made into a movie set on her family’s ranch, one woman thinks she’s fulfilled all her dreams…until she meets one very handsome stuntman. Watch this drama unfold in Lights, Action…Family! (SR #1788)—the concluding romance in Patricia Thayer’s LOVE AT THE GOODTIME CAF? miniseries. Finally, Crystal Green wraps up the BLOSSOM COUNTY FAIR series with Her Gypsy Prince (SR #1789) in which a sheltered woman bucks her family’s wishes to pursue a forbidden love. And be sure to come back next month when Elizabeth Harbison puts a modern spin on Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew. Happy reading, Ann Leslie Tuttle Associate Senior Editor Her Gypsy Prince Crystal Green Blossom Country Fair www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) To the RWA San Diego chapter, a group of incredibly talented and supportive writers. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have met Teresa, who conceived of this premise; Jill, who helped flesh it out; and Judy, who is an awesome critique partner and continuity leader. Thank you, all! Books by Crystal Green Silhouette Romance Her Gypsy Prince #1789 Silhouette Special Edition Beloved Bachelor Dad #1374 * (#litres_trial_promo)The Pregnant Bride #1440 * (#litres_trial_promo)His Arch Enemy’s Daughter #1455 * (#litres_trial_promo)The Stranger She Married #1498 * (#litres_trial_promo)There Goes the Bride #1522 Her Montana Millionaire #1574 * (#litres_trial_promo)The Black Sheep Heir #1587 The Millionaire’s Secret Baby #1668 A Tycoon in Texas #1670 Silhouette Bombshell The Huntress #28 Silhouette Books Double Destiny CRYSTAL GREEN lives near Las Vegas, Nevada, where she writes for Silhouette Special Edition and Silhouette Bombshell, as well as Harlequin Blaze. She loves to read, overanalyze movies, do yoga and write about her travels and obsessions on her Web site, www.crystal-green.com. There, you can read about her trips on Route 66 as well as visits to Japan and Italy. She’d love to hear from her readers by e-mail at [email protected] (http://[email protected]). And don’t forget that Web site! THE BLOSSOM BEE The Buzz About Town By Harriet Hearsay Wondering what the best show in town is? But don’t you know? Try the carnival at this year’s fair, though I’m not talking about thrill rides or hoochie-cooch dancer revues. All you have to do is camp yourself right outside the carnival’s gates, where the Committee for Moral Behavior, led by our own Bitsy Dupres, is picketing its little heart out. With the way the temperature has been headed here in Blossom (up, up, up!), you’re sure to see some fireworks between those carnival people and those good citizens…. Contents Chapter One (#ue9c25d39-3ff4-51bf-9c33-a9836273749c) Chapter Two (#uaa8c44db-01d7-541f-b922-1fdde0f6d222) Chapter Three (#uc4fee9d0-b788-5ced-8ede-9ee9ddc9e13b) Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One Careful, folks, ’cause trouble’s near— Get the carnies out of here! Elizabeth Dupres mumbled the Committee for Moral Behavior’s mantra, her mouth dry from Texas dust, her attention a million miles away from the Blossom County Fair’s carnival entrance as she followed the never-ending circle of the picket line. Adjusting her straw hat’s wide brim with one hand, she managed to shade herself from the overzealous burst of late-June morning sunshine. With her other hand, she clutched the yardstick she’d used to make her sign: “We love our children,” it said. Her simple declaration clashed with the other mottos: “No more swindles!” “Carnies are slime-licking fleas on the hide of humanity!” “Bad elements make for bad times ahead!” All the exclamation points and obnoxious neon-colored words swirled together in Elizabeth’s mind. What was she doing here with these people? As she rounded a bend near the carnival’s gates—which were flanked by two deputies and would be closed for another hour until opening time—Elizabeth stepped out of line, heading for a cooler that the committee kept stocked with iced beverages. She needed something to wash away the taste of this demonstration. Ever since the fair had opened, tempers had gone up degree by degree, day by day. The chants were getting uglier, more degrading. Sighing, she glanced toward the carnival itself. Beyond the gates, a different world bloomed. A waiting garden of color consisting of steel-fortified rides, the striped tents of the midway, the looming specter of the Funhouse in the distance. Above it all reigned the Ferris wheel, silent in its majesty. A man wearing faded jeans, work boots and no shirt started to climb it, most likely doing a safety check. With his back to her, his browned skin shone in the sun, emphasizing every line of sinew and muscle. His collar-length black hair, held back in a low ponytail that kept losing strands with every aggressive movement, hid his face from Elizabeth. She’d seen him around before, but hadn’t gotten a good look at his features. Intrigued, she watched the carny while absently reaching into the cooler and plucking out an icy bottle of grape soda. Knowing it was too early for sugary drinks, she opened it anyway, sipped, then held the chilly glass against her face, half hoping the gesture would hide her from the picketing. Mmmm, what a fine specimen of man, she thought, her heart skipping every time the carny moved to a higher position on the wheel, powerful arms bunching and straining. If only… Feeling watched, Elizabeth bristled, glancing away from him and toward her mother. Bitsy Dupres, head of the Committee for Moral Behavior. Even in the increasing heat of morning, she looked fresh and perfect, her blond hair held back in a classy chignon, her slim figure garbed in a pressed linen summer skirt-suit with pearls. Elizabeth conjured her sweetest smile. Just taking a break, Mom. She wished it could be for the rest of the year. Or maybe just for these last two weeks of the fair. Fondly, her mother smiled back, then returned to her self-appointed job as spiritual guardian of Blossom, Texas. Like the conductor of a symphony, she led the picketing townsfolk, conviction in every beat of their chant. Something wicked this way comes, Carnies, vagrants, cheaters, bums! Nice. Without a doubt, Elizabeth was here for her mom more than anything else. And, truth to tell, she did want what was best for the citizens—especially the children—of Blossom, too. Being a first-grade teacher forced a bit of protectiveness into her soul. She could understand how her own mother and all these other concerned members felt about keeping their town safe from outsiders. She just wished they all could exercise a little more mercy. There was no need to call them “bums,” for Heaven’s sake. A picketer left the line to join her. Spencer Cahill, son of the local Dairy Dream owner, the platinum-haired, blue-eyed dreamboat on every matchmaking mama’s wish list. “Mind grabbing me a soda, too?” he asked, his cheeks flushed pink. Elizabeth felt like telling him that, the last time she’d looked, he had two hands perfectly good for picking up a bottle. Maybe her expression said it for her. Spencer laughed. “Picketing makes you cranky, Bets.” “I outgrew that name when we graduated from high school,” Elizabeth said sweetly. Any woman who’d reached the age of twenty-three deserved a more dignified moniker. Besides, “Bets” was one step away from “Bitsy.” And contrary to popular belief, Elizabeth wasn’t a version of her mom. As much as they loved each other, as much as their golden hair and dark blue eyes reflected each other, they were different. That’s what she told herself, anyway. “And,” added Elizabeth, encouraged by her wonderfully liberating train of thought, “I’m not cranky. I’m just…” She took a sip, wondering how much to say to Spencer. Oh, what the hey. “Why are we even out here?” “Because these carny creeps are trouble.” “Who’s more trouble?” she asked, casting a surreptitious glance toward the Ferris wheel man again. He was making his way to the center of the structure. “The carnival workers or the good citizens of Blossom? Seems like we’ve stirred up more trouble than these strangers could even think of doing.” Not that her mother enjoyed hearing this when Elizabeth brought it up. Spencer didn’t seem to like it, either. “See, now, that’s what the committee was afraid of. When those other carnies came to town, two years ago, they messed with everyone’s minds just as surely as it’s happening now. Only, back then, it was the Swindle.” Ah, yes, thought Elizabeth, running another gaze over the brawny carny as he tested the cars on the Ferris wheel. The Swindle. It had started when, during a previous fair, a gypsy fortune-teller predicted that certain townsfolk would see great wealth soon. Shortly thereafter, when the fair and its contracted carnival had left town, a salesman had moseyed into Blossom, schilling real-estate stock. Many of the people who had been privy to the fortune-teller’s good news had trustingly bought into the deal…and lost a lot of money. Turns out, the stock had been phony. Elizabeth knew this better than most people because her family had been one of the victims—not that anyone except their financial consultants knew. Her father, may the optimistic family man rest in peace, had wanted to pay off Elizabeth’s college loans in one fell swoop while setting him and Bitsy up for life. Not that they’d been bad off in the first place, but with Carlton Dupres, keeping his wife happy meant everything. Oddly enough, Bitsy had never demanded this much of him, but he’d squandered their savings anyway in the hopes of keeping up their appearances as the social leaders of Blossom. At any rate, just before Elizabeth’s father died, the fair board decided to ban another carnival from attaching itself to the annual fair in the future. Consequently, last year’s event had been a financial disaster, and the town suffered from this miscalculation even now. It was around the time of the ban that Bitsy started the Committee for Moral Behavior—CMB for short. A group that led the fight against unsavory enemies of the town, like the criminals that had pulled the Swindle. “Spencer,” she said, tearing her eyes away from the Ferris wheel worker, from the fantasy of something beautiful and exciting finding its way into Blossom, “we learned our lesson from the Swindle. There’s no reason to overreact now. The carnies have been here all month, and they’re not going to be forced out.” “What about the vandalism that’s been happening since they came into town?” Sure, some CMB members had reported stolen lawn ornaments this summer, but that had been due more to bored teenagers than carnies. More troubling, though, had been the rumors of serious sabotage within the carnival itself. This wasn’t so easily explained. But instead of arguing, Elizabeth set her still-full bottle on the sign-in table and wandered to the front gates, her yardstick sign propped on her shoulder. She greeted the deputies as the shadow of the Ferris wheel covered her, lending her a break from all the heat, the hatred. A breeze whipped her white sundress around her legs and she removed her hat, freeing her long hair from its confines and allowing it to tumble down her back. She fanned herself with the brim, once again locking her gaze on the wheel. With a start, she saw that the shirtless carny had positioned himself near the top, balancing there while holding on with one hand. Elizabeth’s breath caught in her chest. Was he some kind of crazy daredevil? As if sensing her question, he swung himself outward while still holding on, moving toward the next car in line for the safety check. A white smile flashed against his tanned skin. With his hair loosening itself from the ponytail band, he looked like a carefree pirate swashbuckling from a chandelier. Elizabeth froze, blood thudding in her veins, pounding at her chest. She couldn’t look away for the life of her. And as their gazes connected, he didn’t look away, either. It was as if he were the center of a steel sun, the beams flaring outward from his body, a world orbiting around him. Her world. She dropped her hat. Everything crystallized, almost as if time had stopped, capturing the committee’s chanting in one long syllable. Reducing her body to a melting buzz of awareness. Was this what poets talked about in all of her old college textbooks? Was this some kind of Shakespearean moment that existed only on stage and in the minds of fools and dreamers? Surprise, excitement, even complete terror—that’s what was pumping through her right now. Heavens, she couldn’t even smile at him, could only stand there and gape at his rugged beauty. He raised his hand very slowly to his forehead, gave her a jaunty salute. A softer smile. In the back of her mind, reality creeped in. Crooks and robbers, sleaze and scum, Go on back where you came from! It seemed like the CMB had doubled their efforts. Elizabeth blinked, adrenaline and a dose of good old-fashioned shyness forcing her to break eye contact with the carny and to focus on the CMB. They’d spotted the shirtless man and had halted their picket line to face him, jabbing their signs in the air to emphasize their message. Dizzy from the intensity of the odd exchange, Elizabeth bent down to pick up her hat, shook it free of dirt, plopped it back on her head and turned around to go…where? Back to picketing? Anywhere that would stop her hands from shaking, her heart from fluttering. But a truckload of new arrivals thankfully redirected her attention. Replacement picketers, scheduled to take the next shift. Good. Making nice with the carnies wasn’t something a girl like her did. A Dupres. An upstanding member of the community. Cassie and Fred Twain, her mother’s most stalwart associates and friends, walked toward the picket line, their two young children running ahead of them to greet Bitsy, who was their frequent babysitter. Cassie was a real-estate agent and attorney, a mousy woman sporting bobbed hair and a discount-catalog shorts ensemble. Burly Fred, with his prematurely graying strands and watery eyes, looked as resigned as ever. A banker at Strong Bank and Trust, he fit the part—overworked and slightly henpecked. As Bitsy scooped the kids into a hug, she glowed with happiness, ecstatic to greet towheaded Abe and Abby no matter the time or day. Though Elizabeth always looked forward to seeing her former first-grade students, she also knew this was no place for the Twain twins. Setting her sign down, she made a beeline over to them. Her mother kissed the giggling children and encouraged them to return to their parents before Elizabeth got there. “Mom—” “I know, Elizabeth.” Her mother’s hand was cool as it rested on Elizabeth’s bare, sunscreen-covered arm. “But Cassie and Fred are our next shift leaders.” “Cassie and Fred are exposing their children to a lot of ugliness. I’m being exposed to it, too, and it’s not my idea of a relaxing summer vacation, if you know what I mean.” Bitsy sighed, no doubt because she and Elizabeth had discussed this over home-cooked lunches and dinners a hundred times before. “I’ll take care of Abe and Abby, bring them home with me right now. Would that make you feel better?” “Yes, it would.” Jeez, she hated arguing with her mom. Whenever they did—which was too often—Elizabeth felt a sense of disloyalty. Her mother always got that sad, betrayed glaze to her eyes as she reminded Elizabeth of what had happened to her father. About the Swindle. About the bad elements of this world and what good people needed to do to make their homes safe again. Knowing how the rest of this conversation would go, Elizabeth braced herself. “The CMB has made its point here. Why don’t we concentrate on something more worthwhile, like the folks in the next county who had property damaged in the tornado? Two days have gone by and they still need help.” “We’ve seen to getting our neighbors food and shelter.” Her mother’s voice was so calm, the soft lilt of a true believer. “I’m fairly certain that the only thing that needs repairing is your attitude.” Here they went again. Her mother’s eyes were starting to tear over. Even if her father had died a year and a half ago, the anguish was still too fresh, still too hurtful to them both. After all, Bitsy Dupres was battling “evil”—the sort that had killed her Carlton. At least, in her mind. Frustrated by the trap she found herself in, Elizabeth couldn’t help sneaking a peek at the Ferris wheel, just to escape her mom’s disappointment. The carny was gone, the wheel isolated and cold. It’s just a ride now, she thought. Not another world I can fantasize about. Wanting to cool off the tension between her and her mom, Elizabeth walked back toward the gates, intending to finish her soda in peace and separate herself from this whole mess, from her own pain at losing a father so young, from losing a mother to a cause that was spinning more out of control by the month. “Elizabeth!” It was her mom’s voice. Startled, she stopped in her tracks. The squeal of brakes pulled Elizabeth out of her thoughts and into a dervish of dust. Her heart punching her ribs, she faced an equipment truck that had been headed for the entrance. The driver’s door flew open and a squat carny dressed in ratty, grease-stained clothing and a cowboy hat tumbled out. He darted toward her. “You okay?” Aside from a decent impression of a heart attack, she thought everything was in order. “Sure, I—” “What were you thinkin’, walking out in front of me like that? I could’ve—” Spencer Cahill, who’d gone back to picketing since his earlier chat with Elizabeth, stepped in front of the rattled guy. “Back off.” The former star linebacker of Sam Houston High School got into the carny’s space, tossing his picket sign by the wayside and narrowing his eyes. The carny, though shorter by about a mile, didn’t seem to take kindly to Spencer’s bullying. He got right back in the other man’s face. “Are you gonna be the one to back me off, Buttercup?” Ooo, not a nickname Spencer would enjoy. Elizabeth moved forward to insert herself between the two men. “Listen, no one got hurt. Spencer, let him drive through.” When he glanced at her, Elizabeth wanted to cringe at his bullheadedness. She’d known that Spencer had taken a hankering to her since their junior year of high school, but aside from an awkward let’s-go-as-friends senior prom date, she’d made it clear that they were as platonic as platonic can be. “It” just wasn’t there. That spark. That…whatever she’d felt while staring at the Ferris wheel man. “Miss.” The carny had taken off his hat, a sign of courtesy. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, I appreciate your willingness to referee this here problem, but I don’t take kindly to being ordered around by a sign-carryin’ townie boy.” “Boy…?” Spencer’s neck reddened, the color slipping upward until he looked likely to have steam whistle out his ears. “Who’s the boy?” They were bellying up to each other again. By now, the other picketers had ventured closer, beginning to hurl insults at the carny. Both his and Spencer’s neck veins were taut, and neither was giving ground. Until a deep, half-amused voice sounded from across the carnival gate line. “Hudson, come here.” Having donned a shirt, the man from the Ferris wheel was lethargically pushing open the gate, not even bothering to step across the boundary. Hinges squeaked as the crowd silenced itself, all eyes on the stranger. Elizabeth’s skin tingled, almost as if he were standing right next to her and not five feet away. Even the hairs on her arms were alive, standing amidst the goose bumps. With the benefit of this close proximity, she could catch the details of him: his imposing height; the olive skin; the beguiling wave of dark hair as it brushed his shoulders, having maneuvered out from that ponytail; the piercing silver-blue of his eyes as they fixed on her. Elizabeth gulped, striving for breath and balance. As she lowered her gaze from his, she couldn’t help spying the long, faded scar that stretched from high cheekbone to strong jawline. A carny. A forbidden glimmer on the edges of her safe, boring world. If only she had the guts to glance back at him. Clearly, his hungry stare hadn’t been lost on Spencer. Jealousy got the better of his menacing walk as he moved toward the Ferris wheel man. “Don’t look at our women like that,” he said. Holding back a groan, Elizabeth merely shook her head. Testosterone. “Cut it out, Spencer.” Her platinum-haired friend planted himself in front of the stranger. “Next thing you know, these creeps will be combing our streets and getting you women into trouble.” “Would you come out of your cave and let the truck through?” At this point, Elizabeth wanted to sock Spencer herself. Civilized people didn’t act this way, especially ones that had been carrying morally superior picket signs only moments ago. However, the truck driver beat her to it. With a burst of speed, the shorter man yelled, “You don’t talk to him that way, Buttercup!” and gave Spencer a good shove. While they wrangled with each other, the picketers swarmed closer to the gates… …until a crowd of carnies blocked the entrance, buttressing the sides of the Ferris wheel man. Since the CMB consisted mainly of middle-aged couples, senior citizens and a few church-going under-twenties, they weren’t exactly in fighting shape. But they could sure tongue-lash with the best of them. As the bitter comments roared around Elizabeth, she caught sight of her mother herding a frightened Abe and Abby together while trying to pull her committee back. In the meantime, the Ferris wheel man shook his head and blew out a deep breath, hands on his jeaned hips. Then the unthinkable happened. The committee had vowed not to step foot inside the carnival, but with the force of traded punches, Spencer and the carny stumbled over the line. Right next to the Ferris wheel man. Everything happened so quickly, Elizabeth didn’t even have time to inhale. After a particularly solid punch, Spencer held the weakened carny by the collar, then cocked back his fist for another go. That’s when the Ferris wheel man stepped in. He gripped Spencer by the wrist, stopping the forward arc of his intended punch. For a split second, no one moved. But then Spencer tugged at his hand, dropped the carny to the ground, and in a flurry of energy, jammed his fist upward, right into the Ferris wheel man’s cheek. The powerful carny merely kept holding Spencer’s fist, looking only slightly put out by the assault. Even so, Elizabeth saw a slice of blood emerging on his darkened skin. A cut from Spencer’s high-school ring. “Spencer!” she yelled, rushing over and yanking on his other arm to bring him back to the town side of the line. He seemed chastised by her schoolteacher tone, by his ridiculous show of violence. When she pushed him farther into the quieted crowd of picketers, he didn’t resist. Her mother leveled a lethal stare at him, then led him away by the button-down sleeve toward the cars, with the twins following behind. Elizabeth turned her back to all the carnies: the heavily made-up women in their exotic satin costumes, the barkers who manned their games with their white straw hats, the sweating men in grimy T-shirts. “I can’t believe you all…us all,” she said to the CMB, voice quivering in pent-up shame. “Is this what we’ve come to?” She whipped around, face to chest with the Ferris wheel man. Her heart caught in her throat as she tilted her gaze upward and he locked eyes with her once again. Knees turning to liquid, she took a deep breath and gathered her courage, reached up and touched his wound with a sense of wonder. Today’s slight injury was positioned just below the longer scar. I’m sorry, she thought. So sorry. Once again, time slowed, floated around them, preserving the electric contact of her innocent caress. Seconds, hours. The longing of an endless sigh. Someone in back of her gasped, jarring her out of the moment. She’d gone too far, hadn’t she? When Elizabeth blinked, the Ferris wheel man did, too. Then he jerked back, a delayed reaction to her unexpected gesture. She was a townie, a picketing one. What was she doing making overtures to the so-called enemy? As she searched for an answer, the shock faded from his expression, replaced by that carefree smile she’d first seen when he’d been balancing on the Ferris wheel. The sexy acknowledgment that she had been staring at him, that she had been interested. Still, he kept backing up, into the crowd of carnies, their postures wary. “No need for lectures, Miss,” he said, voice light, as if he tolerated punches to the face every day of his life and had learned to enjoy it. He gave her an easy wink. “You just stay on your side, and we’ll stay on ours.” He glanced pointedly at her sandaled feet, and without thinking, Elizabeth stepped back, knowing she wasn’t welcome on this patch of territory. As soon as she got to the line, she felt a hand close over her arm, pulling her back into the committee. Returning her to where she belonged. It was Cassie Twain. As they walked, they passed the fighting carny—Hudson. He stared at Cassie, his bloodied brow wrinkled. She ignored him and kept moving. “Uppity, aren’t they?” she asked. “I hope this episode makes them reconsider and pack it up.” A response stuck in Elizabeth’s throat as the CMB took up chanting again, their message louder than before. They’d been energized by the fight, hadn’t they? One last time, Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder, finding that the Ferris wheel man was walking backward, watching her, too. Then he was erased by a surge of his own people as they surrounded him. The gate slammed shut, telling Elizabeth once and for all that she was locked out. Chapter Two That night, after the carnival shut down and the midway was left deserted, Carlo Fuentes stood to the rear of the benches surrounding a community bonfire. He was leaning against the manager’s RV office, taking part in the assembly, yet, at the same time, not really taking part in it. Waiting for the crowd to talk itself out, to come to some understanding of what was going on in Blossom County. The rest of the carnies, some still in costume, some freshly showered for a night of revelry or relaxation, were taking turns chattering, sorting through the consequences of standing up for themselves against the Committee for Moral Behavior. Firelight danced over the red silk of the tents, the aluminum shells of their motor homes. That intoxicating “fair smell”—a mix of animals, deep-fry grease and hay—hung in the warm air. Home, he thought. The only place I’ll ever love. A tall, lanky man dressed in a black-and-white pinstriped suit was grandstanding at the moment, preaching to them by waving his arms and flapping his gums. Harmon Flannery, the carnival manager. “Now, I know all about what happened at the gate today,” he said in a wheezy baritone. “And I’ve heard a few of you hotheads talking about going into town and raising a ruckus. That wouldn’t be good for business, friends. Not ’tat all.” The group, especially the “hothead” contingent that boasted three of Carlo’s rousties, or manual laborers, groaned at Flannery. Then, quite naturally, they all turned to Carlo, waiting for him to speak up. Resigned to the ritual, he kept his tongue, gathering his words, having known all the while that it would come to this. The crowd would wait for anything he had to say. For some reason, these people considered him their leader. “Prince of us gypsies,” they’d joke, even though he’d never asked for the honor or the title. He was just another one of them—a nomad, a thirty-year-old professional carnival worker who had flown the coop from his indifferent, widowed father upon turning eighteen. A rousty who just wanted to make it from one town to the next without incident or injury. Not that Blossom County was making it easy. “You’re all watching me like I have the answers,” he said, grinning as Flannery muttered about the “thick heads around this place” and took a seat. “I don’t know much. Just about that godforsaken Swindle. Because a few of you have talked with these townies, we’ve heard about their past troubles with other carnies.” Here, he acknowledged Cherry Cooper, aka, Lady Pandora, the circuit’s contracted fortune-teller. Even though she was leaving the troupe after their time in Blossom ended—she was engaged to marry the town’s mayor, by some odd twist of fate—she was still one of them. Decked out in her costume, an airy gypsy skirt, white peasant blouse and a scarf covering her curly brown hair, Cherry sat on the opposite side of the fire, thoughtful as can be. And who could blame her? She was caught in the middle of this thing, and so was her fianc?. As mayor, Jason Strong was forced to walk a line between the vocal CMB and his ties to the carnival. Hell, even now, Carlo—a real keep-to-yourself kind of guy, too—wasn’t sure exactly what had made everything go from bad to worse today. While finishing up a safety check on the Ferris wheel, he’d noted the raised voices. Then he’d found Hudson, a rousty, trading playground insults with the one-in-every-town football stud. And woven in between it all had been the woman… The woman. She’d caught his attention more than once outside the gates, but today had been different. There’d been something in the way they’d looked at each other, with her standing below the Ferris wheel, her beautiful face lifted toward him as a slight breeze caught the wavy golden hair tickling her back, as her white dress danced around her slender body. And when she’d crossed into the carnival itself, he’d been temporarily enraptured by the night-sparkle blue of her eyes. A gaze that contained strength, curiosity and vulnerability all at the same time. Truthfully, Carlo wasn’t one to sample the local population. Aside from Cherry, who hadn’t meant to go and fall in love with Mayor Jason Strong, he and the rest of the carny community were too cautious, having been burned by town politics before. They’d learned the hard way to keep to themselves. When Carlo did seek out a woman’s wit and wiles, she was always a part of their group, a transient worker who wasn’t looking for permanency or promises. But he could always fantasize about a waifish woman standing beyond the gates, couldn’t he? Wouldn’t do any harm. Unthinkingly, he ran his fingertips along the cut on his cheek, right where she had touched him earlier. He could’ve cared less about that punk who had cuffed him with the sharpness of his ring. All Carlo could really remember was a sparking, sweet moment when the woman had stood in front of him, compassion in her eyes as she had searched his injury, her lips parted as she lifted her hand and… The bonfire snapped, and Carlo came back to the moment. The carnies were getting restless, waiting for him to conjure up some pearl of wisdom. He’d been lost in thought for too long, his head scrambled by a townie who would be just a memory in two weeks when this show did its next “circus jump” to yet another destination. “All I know,” he said, “is that we’d be wise to keep to ourselves, just as we always have. Move in, offer our wares, amuse the ladies with a wink or two, then move out. That’s the way it needs to go.” Some of the carnies chuckled and nodded, but most of the young ones, who didn’t know any better, shuffled their feet and cleared their throats. Hudson took off his hat before he spoke up. The skin around both of his eyes was black and blue from today’s scuffle. “Carlo, they took the fight to us this time. We’ve never had this kind of trouble before, but something’s telling me that maybe we need to give a little grief back to them.” All Carlo had to do was stare at Hudson for a second too long. The smaller man nodded in understanding, then put his hat back on, silenced. “Listen,” Carlo said, “there’s nothing in town that we don’t have here, so there’s no reason to cross over. We can slide out in a couple of weeks with our wallets bigger, our safety record intact and our reputation clean. True enough?” A chorus of agreement was his answer and, after an awkward moment when nobody was brave enough to disagree again, the meeting ended. Harmon Flannery shook his head as he talked to himself on the way into his office. The rest of the group mingled, beginning to set up the beer, whiskey and lively music that would get them through another night. As a makeshift band of a fiddle, acoustic guitars and an accordion tuned up, Carlo kept to his place, leaning against Flannery’s office. Hudson casually approached him, hands in his jeans pockets. “I just thought I’d bring up a point, Carlo,” he said. “It was a good one. But you know how things work outside.” Everyone knew. Once upon a time, Carlo used to visit the towns. He’d been young and dumb, and one night, his loyalty to his carny community had resulted in a stint in jail for a crime he hadn’t committed. The story was near legend. It had bought him a lot of respect, a lot of gravity. Still, most times, Carlo did his best to charm his way out of having people recall it. Hudson obviously had something else to say. Carlo waited until the young man was ready to talk. In the meantime, Cherry Cooper sidled up to them, placing a hand on Carlo’s forearm, then removing it. No doubt she had just taken psychic measure of him. Soon he would hear some kind of prediction from her. Finally, Hudson said, “I talked to Cherry about this already, just to see if she could give me some third-eye guidance, but…Well, you know I been through Blossom County before, Carlo, with that other carnival two years ago.” “Yeah.” “The thing of it is, some townies look more familiar than others. Like…” He furrowed his brow. “Heck. There was this picketer woman out there today. I still can’t place her, but…Ah, never mind. It ain’t important.” Carlo considered his rousty, then decided to let it go. If Hudson wanted to talk more about it, he would. Carlo wouldn’t push. “Let me know if it becomes important.” Hudson nodded. “Will do, boss. Will do.” He left Carlo and Cherry as the band started to play. While the crowd lost themselves in the music, Cherry gestured for Carlo to follow her away from the bonfire, toward a quieter area. “Walk me to the gates?” his friend asked. Once there, both of them ended up leaning against the steel, gazing at the stars. In the color of night, Carlo imagined the CMB woman’s eyes. The shimmering stars became her smile. “Reckless,” Cherry said. He couldn’t hide his attraction to the town woman from Cherry, psychic or not. “It’s a passing thing.” “Good. Because you know what I saw?” “I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me.” She smiled, ignoring him. “You need to be listening to your own advice, Mr. Don’t-Go-Into-Town.” Carlo’s laugh had a ring of disbelief to it. “Me? In Blossom?” “I saw you. And I sensed hard times following your visit.” He shook his head. Visions from the past—a small-town jailhouse and a joke of a trial—assaulted him. “You know I’m not stupid enough to cross over. Never again.” “Tell me that later in the week.” His idiot of a heart gave a leap as he imagined golden hair and warm blue eyes. Did this have something to do with the townie? He wasn’t going to follow some woman, even this one, anywhere outside. Not for anything. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you so.” With that, Cherry opened the gate, then crossed over. Carlo watched her leave, knowing she was going to visit her fianc?, Jason Strong. Knowing that, for her, town wasn’t off-limits anymore. The sun rose, arced its way over Blossom, then set once again, leaving a keenly frustrated Elizabeth in its wake. All last night, all day she’d thought about him. The look. The touch. The possibilities. The thrill of reveling under just one more magic gaze from a man who was perilously out of her league. She couldn’t help it. Even though Elizabeth had spent the past couple of weeks judging youth contests at the fair, she was out of excuses to be inside of the fairgrounds now. But tonight, she created a thousand more and went there again. Putting on her favorite flowered sundress, she drove to the festivities alone, hoping no one would recognize her car parked behind a massive oak in the dirt lot. By the time she paid for a ticket and walked past the main gates, she’d convinced even herself that she was justified in being here. I’m just going to check out the prize horses and goats, she told herself. I’ll use my observations to formulate a good lesson plan at the end of vacation when I’m back in the classroom. Horses go “neeeigh.” Goats go “eeeeeh.” Excellent first-grader stuff. Yup, that’s all she was doing. Research. Her mother would even understand—as long as Elizabeth stayed inside the fair itself. And didn’t go to the carnival. Yet just before closing, she found herself in the shadows of it. She stood near the flaps of the belly dancing tent on the midway, watching scantily clad twins undulate their bellies in front of wide-eyed men. Research, she told herself, peeking around every few seconds and hoping to catch one, yes, one more glimpse of the Ferris wheel man. She was such a lost cause. But all she saw were clots of teenagers eating cotton candy and heading for the Scrambler. Out-of-towners who’d traveled from the surrounding dry counties in order to enjoy the very wet Blossom County Fair’s beer garden. This was ridiculous, sneaking around, playing out an impossible crush that barely existed. She shouldn’t be here. Before she left, she couldn’t resist one more glance at the dancers. The sinuous music slid around her senses, and she wondered what it’d be like to move that way around a man, tempting him, inviting him to see underneath her sheer facade of schoolteacher primness. Would the Ferris wheel man watch her as he had yesterday, with intense yearning? A hint of something more? Something Elizabeth had never experienced in her sheltered life. When a deep, familiar voice spoke from the nearby darkness, Elizabeth almost jumped, her hand to her stuttering heart. “Picket line’s due south of here,” he said. The unscarred half of his face was lit by light from the tent, so Elizabeth could see he was grinning, probably amused that she was too shy to step foot into the show. She realized she was beaming right back at him, so happy that he’d found her. Did that mean he’d been looking? What should she say to him? Her mind whirred with the need to invent something that wouldn’t make her sound like she’d come here just to see him. “How’s the cut?” she blurted. “You know. The one on your face?” You know, she mocked herself, wanting to smack her head. The one you got when Spencer clobbered you? The one next to that long scar that absolutely screams “scary but exciting”? Graceful it was not, but the question lured him farther into the light. He stood before her, smelling of musk and something as exotic as the dancing inside that tent. Tall. Very, very tall. And…oh, really gorgeous in a rough way. His smile enchanted the tar out of her. He lightly gestured to the cut Spencer had given him. It was barely there now. “I’m a quick healer. Did you come here just to check up on me?” “I…” “Because I thought your group wasn’t allowed to visit. I should think it would go against your philosophy of despising us.” “You’d think.” Elizabeth nodded, trying to make her words as slow and careful as possible. Of course, she was running the chance that he would believe she was dim, but it was better than bursting out with her true feelings. “Or you could argue that if I don’t visit the carnival, I don’t really have an idea of what we’re protesting. Now I know what I’m up against.” So, clearly she had a great reason for being here. Boy, she was so bad at this strangers-in-the-night talk. She’d never been this electrified around a guy before. It was terrifying, making her think she had no say over herself, that she would start bouncing off solid objects any moment because she was so keyed up. No wonder she’d never been with a man before. Curse of the virgin. He still seemed highly entertained by her, his silver-blue eyes flashing with mirth. Oh, somebody save her. “Well,” she said, just to kill the silence between them. The carnival music seemed much too loud, provoking more anxiety. “Glad to see you’re recovering.” He just laughed, glanced at the ground, then right back up at her from underneath his brows, acknowledging how much of a struggle she was having here. “I don’t know your name,” he said softly. Elizabeth willed herself to talk, but she couldn’t. Holding out his hand, he rescued her. “Carlo Fuentes.” She looked at it like he’d offered her a sizzling firecracker that would take her fingers right off. And, when she reached out to clasp his grip, that’s sure what it felt like. She swallowed. “Elizabeth Dupres.” They didn’t shake on it, merely allowed the contact to linger. His skin was calloused, foreign against the pampered softness of her own. They held each other so long that the handshake ceased to mean anything. Or maybe it meant too much now. Embarrassed by the intimacy of such a simple gesture, she removed her hand and crossed her arms over her chest. Such a dork. “And what’s your boyfriend’s name?” he asked. “You know, the one who took the cheap shot at me yesterday?” She couldn’t deny that. “Spencer Cahill. But he’s not…my boyfriend.” “Ah.” “He’s just got too many hormones rampaging around that superhero body of his. You were the most convenient way to spend them.” Carlo took a step closer, and she gasped. “Can’t blame him for wanting to protect you.” A flurry of tambourines sounded from the belly dancing tent. The subdued lighting from inside filtered over Elizabeth’s face like a pure blush. Now that they weren’t in the middle of a skirmish, Carlo could take time to dwell on the details of her: the long brows, the thick golden lashes surrounding slightly tilted eyes, the full lower lip and a dainty cleft in her chin. She had worn her hair long, and it waved down her back, inviting him to run his hands over it. But he didn’t dare. Even if his body was furnacing out of control, he wouldn’t touch an outsider. Getting closer wasn’t any different from stepping into town limits, and he knew what that would get him. Still, he could tell that Elizabeth was one of those “good girls,” a bright-eyed debutante who toyed with the idea of a carny who earned his pay through sweat and “manly” work. What she didn’t realize yet was that he was only a guy who’d been glorified by cut-rate B movies and romantic fantasies spun from the minds of bored women. He encountered Elizabeths at every stop. But he usually did a much better job of resisting them. He’d been overseeing ride operations when he had seen her loitering near this tent. One more flirty encounter would do no harm, he’d told himself. But that’s not what his body was telling him. Even the useless lump of coal in his chest was chiming in with warnings of heat and danger. “You’ll be picketing again tomorrow?” he asked, needing to get to safer ground, to remove himself a little. “I’m not out there every day.” She frowned, but the expression was so fleeting Carlo barely caught it. “Just out of curiosity, can I ask why you do it?” “Why I’m picketing? Well…It’s complicated.” “For us carnies, yeah. Your CMB does make things complicated.” He grinned again, letting her know he could care less about the group. Another of her frowns twisted at his gut, making his stomach go slightly off balance. A ride on a roller coaster, he thought. “The CMB isn’t all bad,” she said, sounding so wistful that Carlo wanted to touch her, to absorb some of that purity he’d lost years ago. She continued. “They’re genuinely concerned about the quality of life in Blossom. When crime started inching into our lives, they decided to take a stand.” He didn’t comment on how she was using the word “they” over and over. It was more telling than any explanation. “Do you really think carnies are at the root of all the town’s problems?” he asked. “Are we that awful?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, almost drawing his attention away from the slow gaze she ran down his body, from head to foot. Whoa. Warmth washed over him, a hunger so powerful that he almost fell to his knees in front of her. Had she done that on purpose? No. Based on her nonreaction, she hadn’t been aware of what he’d usually term a “get on over here, big boy” glance. “You’re not all bad,” she said softly, her words barely covering the carnival tunes, the tent music. “It’s just that the Swindle…” “I’m aware of it.” The comment came out gruffer than he’d intended. He was still recovering from her unknowing come-on. She straightened up and peered inside the tent again, probably to avoid the tension between them. “At any rate, you don’t seem too evil.” When she looked back at him, hope brimmed over in her gaze. “Are you?” Carlo could only chuff at that. If only she knew. He moved away a few feet, the expectation in her eyes digging into him. “Go home, Elizabeth, before someone on your committee catches you here.” “But…” “It was nice meeting you, even for just a night.” He started to walk away. “Carlo?” The sound of her voice wrapping around his name halted him. He imagined her gentle, cupped hands holding his essence, sheltering him like a nest cradling a wounded eagle. When he didn’t answer, she spoke again. “Good night.” She sounded so forlorn. It was all he could do to stop himself from turning back around and dragging her against his body to show her how bad he really could be. Yet, instead of looking at her again, he resumed his pace, telling himself that his memories of a woman in a flowered sundress standing in the light of a carnival tent would be enough. One sleepless night later, he admitted to himself that it wasn’t. Chapter Three When Elizabeth returned to her cottage, which was in the backyard of the Dupres’s mini-mansion, she couldn’t resist standing in front of her long, time-clouded, gilded mirror. While running her hands along the sides of her dress, she tried to move her stomach like she’d seen the belly dancers do. Waves of taut flesh, sand dunes in the wind. She practiced for fifteen minutes then, resigned to the fact that she came off more like someone who’d eaten a bad meal than an exotic sexpot, she went to bed. Tucked in with fantasies of Carlo Fuentes. Carlo. Fuentes. Carlo Fuentes. Elizabeth Fue— Oh, nice regression into fifth grade, she thought, turning over and finally getting to sleep. The next morning she was spared having to picket. The CMB had enough members to cover rotating shifts every third day, so she spent her time preparing decorations for her classroom. School had let out only recently, but she was already excited about her next batch of children. Maybe she could even visit the fair’s craft show to secure some colorful, interesting objects for her students’ room. Wonderful idea. Yes. More fair research! Then she recalled how Carlo had told her to go home, as if he’d gotten tired of her infatuation already. So much for adoration at first sight. However, later that day, destiny intervened in the guise of a phone call. Spencer Cahill wanted to know if she would hang out at the Dairy Dream with a “bunch of us.” Though she met her friends regularly there, this time she managed to talk him and a few others into entering the line-dancing competition that would be held this evening instead. Might as well take advantage of the fair while it was here, she said to them on the phone, thoroughly justifying the inspired idea. She hated to take advantage of their willingness, but she had to get back there. Had to revel in these new feelings. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/crystal-green/her-gypsy-prince/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.