Indigo Star

By S R Summers

“You don’t want to be famous? You don’t have a choice.”

Not one to be denied or ignored, Daryl Blackmoor of DB Enterprises continues his pursuit of the bonfire of talent he has discovered in the mesmerising Mysty Reverie, who has been hiding herself in plain sight as the anonymous aerial phenomenon, The Butterfly of Black Magic. But the Butterfly will not be captured and, infuriated, Daryl finds his plans for her fame repeatedly thwarted as he encounters a willpower equal only to his own.

Donny Capello, her Vegas mob boss and saviour in the shadows, discovers his intent and issues threats to try and protect her; but even he fears he is not enough against Blackmoor’s formidable determination. Sparks fly and tears are shed as the fame train comes for her regardless, and Mysty finds herself outmanoeuvred and outnumbered.

For a girl as fast as she is, it seems she cannot outrun destiny, and turns to the one man who may prove to be an ally as she is pulled inexorably towards the global spotlight: Patrick O’Grady, the personal bodyguard recruited by Blackmoor to watch her every move...

• Language: English
• Publisher: S R Summers
• Release date: Aug 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916148024

Book preview

THE LIGHTS WENT up and the music began. She uncurled in the middle of the bar, turning to lie on her back, moving so slowly it was hypnotic, her arms going above her head, legs sliding down, stretching out, almost like waking up from a deep sleep. Daryl wanted her to do that in his bed. And for her to do as the music suggested in its title and ‘lose control’. The tempo changed suddenly and she arched up, kicked out and over on her hands to stand – ‘just once in my life’ – the distress in the music accompanying the gymnastics that carried her along, her body language frustrated and the moves daring. Then she moved back to the centre and sank down, writhing, muscles showing beneath her curves, turning onto her front and rising onto hands and knees, arching her back, prowling forward to the contrast of the fast and the slow. Her sensuality was mesmerising; the deep-blue costume hiding nothing of her physicality.

With the music she then rose and sprinted, diving off the end of the bar and falling into one of the dive-twist combinations he so loved watching, catching the trapeze and spinning off to somersault and twirl through the air to another, jumps bigger than he’d seen before, the space between the trapeze huge. He knew he flinched in his seat, fearing she wouldn’t make it, the thrill of admiration and the torment of fear having become a familiar, addictive pastime.

The music settled into a thudding, heartbeat of rhythm, the majority of the instruments creating the powerful, slow beat, and she dropped back onto the bar, going down into a crouch, then up onto points, moving with every thud-thud thud-thud to a new position, hands stretched, imploring. It was like the music was moving to the rhythm of her breathing, her heartbeat. Backflipping as the music built again, the flying display began once more, and she released the trapeze, her body turning, her legs in splits to the sides, rotating in the air with her arms poised above her head – Daryl would like to see that again, in slow motion, and made a mental note to watch it when he returned home – and then her hands found the new bar and, with her legs moving forwards together, she landed. As the music quieted, she was then hoisted up again on a trapeze, slowly, while she spun continuously, at a speed so fast she was a blur. As the music faded to silence, she slowed, and then released, once more dropping straight down. How she saved herself when she hit the ground he would never know, he just knew he loved seeing it. Every time afraid. Every time amazed, and relieved. Every time like a rebirth, it was so miraculous.

Two more acts of similar brilliance, and Daryl Blackmoor was feeling remarkably happy. Somehow, knowing her a little now – although having been insulted and threatened by her – didn’t change how he enjoyed the performances, it only heightened his admiration. She was just as exceptional, in every other way, as she was in Celeste’s arena. So exceptional, in fact, that it made him want to film everything she did and save it, to watch it over and over. (He was annoyed that he didn’t have a video of her dancing at the basketball court.)

With an intensity and conviction that he had only ever applied to business dealings, Daryl now knew he wanted something – someone – with an absolute certainty that, if he was honest, rather worried him. Especially as she was the last person he should want, given who he was. Given her unorthodox nature and her bad language. Given her fighting skills and total lack of decorum. Given her illegal propensities on the road and the computing world. Given the fact she was a performer. And most importantly, given her protectors and erstwhile love, Donny Capello.

Daryl had seen Donny earlier in his private box, before the lights had gone down, with a brunette sitting by his side, a tumble of dark curls over her shoulder. She was wearing a long white dress, and she looked pretty, certainly, but it wasn’t his ‘kitten’. He didn’t think Mysty would appreciate finding Donny with another woman.

The Butterfly’s third piece had been the last act of the night and, once the applause died away, the lights went up and people were able to filter to the exits.

Daryl stood and stretched, looking forward to seeing the performance all over again. He looked over at Donny and saw the chair beside him empty. How strange. Powder room? His pose was pensive, relaxing in the chair, a fingertip on his lips.

He despised himself for watching, for caring as much as he did. It was strange, part of him liked Donny, knew him, could share a joke and a problem with him; but . . . another part of him hated the man. Hated him for being an obstacle to possessing the girl he wanted. Hated him for having her affections, for being so sure of her, for having that bond with her he wanted to be exclusively his own.

Donny looked round sharply and stood, going around the chair and towards the door. A naked pair of arms circled his back as he was embraced, and Daryl realised what was happening: the woman had been a stand-in and the real Mysty had joined him after the show – no doubt she had easily located a dark, curly wig to match. She wrapped one arm round his neck. The closeness was nauseating, and Daryl felt the jealousy in his gut like a knife. He had learned from Donny their relationship was close, but seeing it was like nothing else he’d felt before. The betrayal by his ex-fiancée had been less painful.

The irony was not amusing. He, Daryl Blackmoor, who had the pick of the world’s women for a wife, who was so desirable, so sought after, and he wanted a girl who was utterly unique . . . and belonged to another. How sickeningly . . . fucking . . . frustrating. Goddamnit, he hadn’t asked for this! This torture! Why did Donny have to taint everything he and Mysty had shared that day in LA with this display of just how great a distance there was between the fantasy and the reality?

Mac. Daryl couldn’t tear his eyes off them as he spoke, Donny’s tall broad back hiding her from him. Not seeing her didn’t help. And imagining having that superb body pressed up against Donny made him want to smash something. Somehow, he held it in. Years of controlling his emotions and showing nothing were good for something.

Yes, Mr Blackmoor?

Get the car. And get the plane ready to leave for New York tonight.

Yes, sir. If you would like to come now, sir, the car will be waiting.

Daryl turned away from the amazing view – and the source of his hopelessness – and followed Mac to the lift. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. He would probably swear more than she did.

He strode out of the building, with Mac at his side and six behind, his shimmering silver Bentley waiting for him, the red carpet taking him all the way to the vehicle. Another stood by the door waiting to open it. Five others by the car that would follow. So different from the pell-mell car ride on his own, and then the one with the feisty little bundle of blonde curls beside him. The reminder hurt, like vinegar on a wound.

He looked round at the sound of her laugh, and saw her with Donny, stylish dark glasses over her eyes, the dark wig as curly as her natural hair, the white silk dress skimming over her figure as they walked quickly to the waiting black Bentley. Donny’s hair was shining, dark and smooth, next to her head, their arms entwined. In her white heels she was very close to his height, being tall herself. Bile rose in his throat. He looked away, yet glanced back as he got to his car – the door had been opened for him a fraction too late, giving him an excuse to pause for a moment and look at them one last time. He’d not been able to imagine her in a dress, something so feminine, and she carried it off with irritating brilliance; stunning, even without her natural hair, without any jewels on her neck, or a sophisticated hairstyle. Daryl knew women who would spend five hours trying hard to look as lovely. He didn’t doubt she had thrown it all on with careless abandon to meet Donny as quickly as she could.

They got in, Donny making her go first. And then Paulo went to get in with them, as he usually did, like Mac did with him. Except this time a hand threw a dark, curly wig at him and pulled the door closed. Paulo looked stunned, then shrugged, and one of the other black suits walked over and, laughing, slapped him on the shoulder.

She should be getting in his car! Wearing a dress and jewels that he had bought her! Her arm linked with his, not Donny’s! Just to get to speak to her again, let alone anything else would mean so much. It curled Daryl’s fists to realise how desperate he was to have more contact with her. How humbled to realise how little control he had over his feelings, and how vulnerable that left him. His privileged life so far had left him ill-equipped to deal with such emotions.

Daryl had never wanted to get in a car less. For some reason the empty, plush interior now offended him, his mind now on what was happening in a different car less than fifty metres away. Mac sat opposite him in a statue-like stillness, and thankfully stayed silent. Maggots of jealousy and longing warred and ate each other in his mind. He knew he had to find a way to control his emotions or they would drive him insane. Why was he so bothered? So, she could jump and shoot and dance? So what? She was just a girl! A woman . . . And since when did Daryl Blackmoor need a woman for anything, really, other than the obvious?

He reminded himself that she was still fifteen, and Donny would not touch her till she was at least sixteen; but so fiercely protective was the Vegas mobster, it would likely be eighteen. Holding her hand was all Donny was going to get for a good while yet. That was some consolation.

Mac.

Yes, Mr Blackmoor?

Have someone waiting for me at my penthouse. Blonde. And tell her ‘shiny and black’.

If he couldn’t have her, he would have something close. He was so frustrated. He’d not seen any of his Cherries for all the time he’d been in LA and Vegas – a very long time for him – and he wanted her so badly it ached. A stranger would have to suffice tonight. Was he having some midlife crisis, only a little early? He was only, what? Twenty-five. He did not like this emotional roller coaster. Did not like his own mood being part dependent on another. It was stupid. Worse than stupid, it was unacceptable. After all the sophisticated gorgeous women he’d had in his life, and after one mad afternoon in a crumby strip club after getting shot at, he was now utterly preoccupied with this girl, who was far too young to drink alcohol let alone anything more. An invisible hand gave Daryl a mental slap round the face, as if it would help shake him out of it.

He was still in a bad mood all the way to his penthouse, speaking nothing to no one. He got through the door, tossed his jacket on the sofa and began on the shirt cuffs. He sensed movement and looked round, his face already scowling, and angry eyes turned on the female he had ordered to be there. In his miserable web of thinking, he had forgotten.

Mr Blackmoor.

He remembered why he had asked for her a second after seeing her. The long blonde hair – close enough – and the tight, shiny black bondage-style lingerie comprising black net stockings, a shiny black garter belt, shiny black boots, and a bra that pushed up and out. All of the highest quality and superb design – of course.

Close enough.

Put these on. He held out a pair of dark shades.

She took them and put them on. But it wasn’t like her at all. Her lips weren’t as exquisitely shaped, her cheekbones not so high, her chin not delicate enough, but . . . it would do. God knows he couldn’t shift her face from his mind, though. That moment in the car when she’d looked round at him, just him, just them in the car, nothing and no one else there. And not because of who he was, or his money, but just because fate – and OK, a little ‘pursuing’ on his part – had finally brought them together.

Daryl knew what he wanted, and he wanted it hard and fast and rough. Wanted to pretend it was her, fighting him like she did with her words, fighting him with all that passion she used in the rest of her life – the passion that fascinated him, and that he so desperately wanted to feel himself.

He reached out and pushed the woman. Not hard enough to throw her over or to hurt, but enough that it made her fall back a few steps. She didn’t understand. Her parted lips told him that much, and she didn’t move out of the way; she was used to doing as she was told; she didn’t know if she could protest. He pushed her again, so she went back a few more steps. A hand went out and she felt the wall. He trapped her against it.

You don’t like getting pushed?

He freed her, for a moment, feeling more than ready, his thoughts on her, not the woman before him, despite the body being very lovely. His voice had been low and dangerous in her ear, and he’d felt her shiver, fingers feeling for a wetness between her legs.

I’ll like it if you want me to.

Daryl held in the curse of frustration. How different she would be. She’d have shoved him right back, or pushed his hands away, told him to fuck off in no uncertain terms!

No, I’m asking, do you like getting pushed?

No, not really. I don’t know what I’ve done, she replied, hesitantly, watching him carefully from behind the glasses.

I will explain, but first . . . He unzipped his trousers, lifted her leg and thrust into her – she always wore crotch-less panties – needing to address the raging desire, to find some release first to calm him.

She lifted her legs around his waist, letting him hold her wrists against the wall. She climaxed sooner than she meant to, the passion of his thrusting an onslaught against her senses she couldn’t ignore; but he didn’t stop, and pushed himself on and on, finally letting himself go, and it felt so good.

His body went temporarily weak, sated, taking off that edge of wanting that had dogged him since God knows when. His lips hadn’t touched hers. He hadn’t wanted to kiss her. He never kissed any of them, not even his Cherries. Didn’t want that intimacy with them. But Mysty? He’d pay a couple of million for one kiss with her. Knew with her it would be all emotion, nothing hidden, nothing held back, would never be anything contrived or false. Like a concentrated dose of some addictive drug, her passion and fire would be powerful, intoxicating.

He moved her legs from around him and let her go, walking to the kitchen and pouring himself a glass of orange juice, pulling off clothes and kicking off shoes as he went. He pointed towards his bedroom as he walked back towards her, with the glass in his hand. It was 7am, and he was hungry, for lots of things. Breakfast could wait.

He drained the glass and removed everything that hadn’t already been taken off, leaving a litter of clothes abandoned on the floor. She stood uncertainly by the bed, watching him.

You said you didn’t like being pushed. He pushed her again, towards the bed.

No!

At last, a tiny bit of attitude. Perhaps, when asked to be, she could become a very good dominatrix. He had no doubt she could adopt that role.

Is that so? He pushed her again and he saw her scowl, not liking this game.

Yes!

Come on, is that the best you can do, or do I have to put a whip in your hand for you to stand up for yourself?

Two seconds of silence, then he went to push her again, and she caught his hand, looking at him, a challenge in her body language.

Fight me.

He said the words like an invitation, with an undercurrent of menace, and while she was processing that, he snatched his hand back from her grasp and pushed her again. This time she fell on the bed and, when he went to follow her, she did as he had said and fought him, hands pushing back. One then yanked on his hair, but he was much too strong to be stopped and it was a tussle that he easily won. But it was invigorating all the same.

Swear at me, he then commanded, pinning her down.

Her breathing was ragged, her muscles straining to be free. What the fuck happened to you to make you so goddamned randy? She was confused, angry – and aroused.

Daryl laughed. Perfect.

Very good, he said.

He approved, but the poor woman didn’t know what to think, debating if he really had gone mad – until she felt him fill her again, and the merciless pounding of his hips sparked her own arousal back to life. All the passion and raw lust that had been missing from him for months suddenly seemed to be back with a vengeance, and she clasped him tightly to her with her legs, pulling him deeper as he thrust into her. She still fought to be free, yet she held on, arching her hips against his, determined to remind him why he employed her, even if this was all a little unexpected. He pushed her over the edge, and the tension went, her limbs weakening as ecstasy shook her, Daryl’s own climax eliciting a surprised groan.

He opened his eyes – a bad idea. The dream was gone. The feisty biker chick he had managed to pin down outside the basketball court had disappeared. Yet such bliss he hadn’t known for so long. He shuddered in the aftermath, just thinking of her. Oh shit. He really did have it bad.

Daryl looked down at the woman, still on top of her, and used one hand to take the shades off, finding unexceptional grey eyes looking back at him.

If I ever order you here again, you know how I want it to be. Understood?

Yes.

He moved off her and lay on one side of the bed, away from her, not touching any part of her.

Now go.

Go? Usually there was hours of this, not just twenty-five minutes!

"Leave. He opened one eye and looked at her, with a hint of anger in his expression. Are you so dim you cannot remember where the door is?"

She blushed and moved off the bed, hurriedly getting out the door, and footsteps sounded on the polished wood floor and a door shut.

Daryl breathed out. His hand resting on his chest, he could feel his heart racing still. Knew if he kept thinking about her it would get faster again. What had she done to him? She was totally wrong for him. She was beautiful, but . . . she was also everything he never thought he’d want in a woman. And her treatment of him? Hostile! Distrusting! Defensive! Disrespectful! He had no reason to like her; but, God help him, he did. Did without quite being able to explain it. He knew why she was distrusting, and he also knew why Donny waited. So many had already tried to take what they wanted, and, by waiting, Donny was proving to her that she was worth more to him than just her gorgeous body or her beautiful face. Donny must really love her.

Would he wait if it were him?

Right then, Daryl didn’t know. Even as his blood ran hot and fast in the wake of an orgasm that belonged wholly to her; even in her absence, he knew it had been an indulgence of his mind. Faced with her, especially without those damned shades on, if she’d just let down her defences for a few moments – like when she had talked about her dream to go to Harvard – she would be softer, and maybe, just maybe . . . But no. She was a fragile, wounded innocent, because her family were dead and her childhood had come to a brutal, premature end. So, faced with her like that, and not the vituperative firebrand, his lust-filled fantasies would be utterly inappropriate. He fully understood Donny’s protectiveness. But where did that leave him?

Daryl swung his legs off the bed and headed for the shower, turning it up as hot as he could stand it. He leant on the wall as the water cascaded powerfully over his shoulders and back. It somehow calmed him enough to think clearly.

She was young – very young – despite nature fashioning and fate forcing her to grow up sooner. Despite her continued pretence of being an adult. Whatever she felt for Donny could very well change, especially if she barely saw him. Her living in LA and Donny never leaving Vegas was hardly conducive to having a relationship of any kind, even more so if emotions were strong. Frustration would set in, particularly if Daryl could engineer circumstances to ensure Donny didn’t think it safe for her to visit him in Vegas . . . What had Capello done to deserve her? The man had spilt more blood during his life, some personally, than some Third World dictators. How could she care for him the way she did? For although she had trashed the bar in LA, and beat the crap out of those who had attacked her, it had been in defence and none of the wounds would have been crippling. She wasn’t vicious, just as Donny has said; in fact, given her display at the dance-off, she was remarkably humble, and fair. Argh! Why couldn’t she care for him, not Donny?

And all that talent. Why let it go to waste? Why insist on anonymity? If the media got wind of her association with Capello – past or present – it would only add to her notoriety, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Why should she spend her life in disguise, being a shadow of who she was rather than taking full credit for being so remarkable? Why should she have old clothes and fifteen-year-old digital watches, when she could have the world at her feet? Daryl could give her that, and more!

By the time Daryl turned off the shower he had come to a decision. He was not quite sure how he could make it happen, but it gave him a purpose. If he failed, he failed, but he couldn’t stand by and watch. Not this time.

He remembered her words, like he remembered everything: It’s not about how well you can dance. It’s about how it makes you feel. He could see her move to the music, body alive with energy, the tilt of her head telling him she didn’t have to think, she was just lost to the rhythm. So much enjoyment, so much joy. If there was one thing he had learnt from her, or rediscovered from being around her, it was that.

Daryl Blackmoor might just be spending a little less time in the office.

MYSTY WALKED INTO her dressing room . . . and stopped dead. Flowers. Hundreds of flowers. So many she couldn’t actually see anything else except flowers and ceiling.

Jesus Christ, she whispered softly.

She took a few steps and dropped her bag by the door, looking around in amazement. Every flower – and there had to be over a thousand of them – was a rose. And in every colour – red, white, yellow, pink, peach – and wow! the smell. The fragrance was almost too much! Who on earth had sent them? Was it Donny again, making some grand gesture?

She looked around for a card, or something that would reveal the sender. A small silver envelope was on the table, near the base of a most amazing bouquet of deep red roses, the velvety soft petals offering themselves to her, each of the blooms utterly perfect. She picked it up, turning it over and opening it, seeing a butterfly drawn on one side. She pulled out the thick, smooth white card inside. In lovely italic-style handwritten script in black ink it simply said, ‘An admirer’.

Good Lord.

She raised her eyebrows wondering, who on earth? . . . And then, how on earth? It was an outrageously forward statement, plus she had important equipment stored in her room. This had better not happen again. She pressed in a call.

Craig.

Mysty.

I’m calling about the flowers. I presume you know? No one else has a code to the door.

You don’t sound pleased.

I’m not! What I have in this room is too precious to be meddled with. I would never have given you the code if I thought you’d put this truckload of garden in here. A hand Craig Roberts couldn’t see waved at the silent floral tributes, resolutely unmoving in their gorgeous array.

I thought they were beautiful. I oversaw the delivery of them myself, with two members of security, when I was told what had arrived for you. You know I respect your privacy.

"Well, that’s some comfort, but seriously, I can’t even sit down there’s so many everywhere. Fine. I’ll sort it."

Mysty hung up and headed out of the room and down the corridor, to where they were a good number of female performers relaxing and chatting before show preparation began again. Three minutes later her room was almost empty of flowers, and she could once again see everything. The desk that was usually in front of a mirror – the mirror had been removed at her request – her computer, the single chair, a small sofa against the wall with the door, a fridge with drinks and energy gels, and then the tall dresser with her locked boxes of equipment, which she now checked. They didn’t look touched. She knew because she’d ordered the boxes to be made so that they were virtually unbreakable – unless someone wanted to do proper damage – and they were secured to the metal frame of the dresser. She lovingly traced a hand over one box, a piece of equipment that made her acts possible and one of her best inventions so far. She didn’t want that going anywhere.

DARYL SAT CALMLY, watching her, annoyed she had got rid of so many of the flowers with their hidden cameras, glad there was one bouquet left to provide him with this insight into her . . . and perhaps find out what magic trick she did to achieve her acts. He was sure he would see evidence of it in her room. He had also wanted to make her aware of the fact that Donny Capello wasn’t the only man on the planet who admired her, and a number of other things. As far as Daryl saw it, Donny Capello had had an easy time of it so far, and never had any competition for her affections. Things were going to change.

As a creator of technology himself, he rather liked her moment of quiet with her equipment, which he had no doubt she had designed and made herself. Unpacking a few things from her small bag, she sat down on the chair and waited for her computer to boot up, rubbing a hand over her eyes and leaning back on the chair to the fridge, going so far back she kept it from falling by hooking her toes under the desk. She swung back with a bottle of drink loaded with the high-concentration energy complexes that athletes used.

I just want you to know, she said – and he smiled as she held the bottle in front of her, looking at it seriously, balancing with casual ease with two feet of the chair still off the floor – it’s nothing personal, but I hate you. I really, really, really hate you. I’m starving hungry, and you are all I can have. A groan of disgust followed, and she managed to drink half of it. She then closed the top down and chucked it over her shoulder so it hit the wall and landed on the sofa. She sat forward and rested her head on the table, covering it with her hands.

This wasn’t what Daryl had expected at all. All he’d seen so far was strength, defiance, attitude. Not this vulnerable, unhappy side. And aside from when she’d been pissed off with him in LA and threatened him with violence, she had been of good humour, laughing, friendly and smiling with her friends. It was, somehow, comforting to know she had moments of weakness, poignantly expressed, whilst in her own company.

Her earpiece buzzed on the table next to her and she pressed the button, keeping her head on one arm, leaning on the desk, hair falling over a shoulder, her lovely face tired and annoyed.

Hey.

Hey, sweetheart, you alright? You don’t sound too happy.

Daryl grimaced. Donny. Great. Just when he was having some time alone with her.

I’m so hungry, I could chew my own arm off. You wouldn’t sound happy if you’d not eaten any real food for eight hours.

Really? So long? Daryl hadn’t realised the preparation was so intense and restrictive. She made it look so easy, he hadn’t thought . . .

You don’t want to do that.

I’m seriously thinking about it, she replied sullenly, stubbornly, sounding very miserable.

I have a very good reason why not.

Really? Can I come home tonight?

Her head raised up off her arm, her voice full of hope, and she looked around and pressed some buttons on the computer panel, pulled various disc drives out of her bag, putting them next to her, ready. Clearly Vegas and Donny were still ‘home’.

No, kitten, not so soon. Daryl saw the disappointment crease her brow in a frown, wishing she would turn and look at the camera hidden in the roses so he could see her eyes, finally.

But, before you get annoyed with me, you should know there is a Ducati Desmosedici 990 and a new Honda Fireblade waiting for you at home. Stunned silence. You should be able to break some speed records on them, and your others are getting a bit old. For all I know, though, they’re probably still in mint condition–

Donny–

I’m not listening.

You know what I think–

I’m not having this argument again.

From Donny’s tone it was clearly well-trodden ground. She was obviously very awkward about gifts. This was a revelation to Daryl. Having men spend money on them was what women loved the most, wasn’t it?

No, not that. You know how close I am to walking out the door, grabbing a pizza and going straight home to those bikes.

Daryl chuckled. That would be typical of her. Donny laughed as well.

You know you wouldn’t do it. You wouldn’t disappoint all those people.

No, you’re right, dammit. She glared at the computer and slotted a memory card in.

"Hey, come on, you’ll enjoy it once you’re out there, and now you have something to look forward to when you get back to LA. But you’re not to go out on them as soon as you get back, you’ll be tired. Promise?"

Daryl imagined her rolling her eyes, and then she started typing into the computer, fingers so fast it was obvious how proficient she was.

Yes, I promise I’ll wait until at least 6am.

God knows I must be insane giving them to you. I’d never forgive myself if you got hurt.

Daryl saw her smile, and pause her typing, clearly amused and slightly touched.

Donny, you know I never go over 200kph if I’m tired, and never over 220kph unless I have clear road.

Daryl held in a moan of frustration at the flippancy she had for such speeds.

Only you would fail to understand why that doesn’t give me much comfort.

It was a dry reproof, and she laughed. Oh, come on, if you were me you’d understand. Try imagining that ‘fast forward’ is normal.

She leaned back on the chair again and pulled a headset from the dresser, putting it on her head, the earpiece going in the other ear and the microphone going next to her mouth. What was she getting ready to do?

Hmm . . .

You do know I’ve turned sixteen, she then commented, quietly, putting in a second card, deliberately changing the subject.

I guessed. It’s that time of the year. Daryl was caught suddenly with two thoughts: first, that Donny was waiting until she turned sixteen to take her to bed, and second, that he didn’t know when her birthday was – why not? Which means one of the bikes is for your birthday, and the other? Just coz I love you.

I’d rather have a different gift . . .

She knew exactly what she wanted. She stretched her legs out and put her feet up on the desk, crossed at the ankle. Daryl enjoyed the sight of her superb thighs, muscles dancing beneath the black leggings.

Eighteen.

Seventeen?

No.

You cruel man. She tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling and smiled.

I know. I’m sorry. You tell me the moment you’re eighteen, and even high-flying you will get a head rush I’ll carry you up the stairs so fast.

Daryl wanted to throw something really hard and hear it smash violently as he listened to the promises he wanted to make being made by another, even as he felt a wash of relief that she had two more years to somehow forget Donny and . . . and what? Decide she loved him?

Stairs? she replied. Why are you bothering taking me upstairs? Why waste the time? The hall is fine.

Daryl had to smile. He liked her attitude, despite having no idea what she was really talking about.

Good point. As long as you’re OK with friction burns?

Daryl didn’t know how much more of this he could take, as much as he liked it.

Oh, I’ll be fine. A willing sacrifice, as I trust, Mr Capello, you’ll kiss it all better.

Absolutely. You tell me what hurts and I will kiss it better as many times as you want me to.

I’ll hold you to that, she warned Donny solemnly.

I’m counting on it.

She laughed. Donny?

Yes, kitten.

You didn’t . . . send me lots of flowers, did you? Leave them in my dressing room?

A moment of silence.

No . . . though I will if you want me to. He well remembered her reactions to his flowers in the past. Why? Has someone sent you flowers?

That is rather an understatement. There must have been a thousand, and they were really beautiful. But I couldn’t actually see anything that I needed in the room, and there’s no point, really, seeing as I can’t take them home, so I’ve given most of them to the girls – I know they’ll enjoy them.

Some of Daryl’s irritation at her actions melted as he understood why she’d cleared the room, and that she hadn’t just dumped the flowers.

Did it say who they were from?

He could hear the irritation and tension in Donny’s voice, and enjoyed it.

There was an envelope. Just said, ‘An admirer’. No name, no nothing. I don’t really want it to happen again. I can’t risk anything happening to the equipment.

Daryl made a mental note to make sure Craig Roberts made sure she knew they’d been checked by security so she didn’t worry in future, kicking himself for not having thought of this, too caught up in his own anticipation to have made his plan perfect.

Anything like this happened before?

Nope.

Well, I guess no harm done. There was a pause. Would you like me to send you some next time?

She smiled, a little sadly. No, thank you, not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but you really don’t need to. You know that. I hardly deserve any after what happened to the ones you sent before. She looked a little bashful and bit her lip.

Donny laughed. Hey, you had every reason to be very angry with me, I don’t blame you for that. I’ll pick my moment and surprise you one day.

She smiled, a big smile that brightened the room. Even without seeing her eyes she looked exactly like Harvey had said: an angel. But what had she done to Donny’s flowers?

You know, you are the only person on this planet who could distract me from the fact I’m starving.

A delighted laugh from Donny. Knowing how hungry you get, I take that as the best compliment. God knows what your metabolism is.

Such a contrast with the calorie-counting women of Daryl’s own circles. She clearly had none of their concerns, which was unbelievable considering her figure. But then it wasn’t like she didn’t burn it off.

I think that’s why I don’t ever get drunk. I keep trying, but it doesn’t happen.

Donny laughed again, Daryl found himself smiling as well. Such determination, even curiosity, yet she sounded vaguely annoyed!

I had better let you go, kitten, I’m sure you’ve got lots to do.

Sadly, yes, and none of it involves anything edible. Another groan.

Go to Raffi’s after you’ve landed, he’ll feed you. You know he likes seeing you.

That is such a good idea, I can practically smell it now.

Daryl knew Raffi’s – top-class Italian. Why wasn’t he surprised?

I’ll message you when I’m on the plane.

Sure thing, sweetheart. Any problems, you know what to do.

Yeah, I know.

We’ll all be watching.

I know that, too.

She smiled.

Disconnect.

She sighed, took out the earpiece and turned her full attention to the computer.

Mark? Businesslike, efficient, fingers still busy over the keypad.

Butterfly. A friendly voice.

You ready for the upload?

Sure thing, gorgeous, send it up.

You already got the lighting spec?

Yep, already processed, got the guys working on it now.

How are my fire hoops looking?

The pyro boys have been having a ball, everything prepared just as you ordered and as per the rehearsal.

Fine. Upload coming over to you now, so you can let the camera boys know what’s happening. I’m just about to go and do set-up. Anything I need to know?

Everyone up here wants to marry you.

She smiled, and so did Daryl.

Apart from that?

Um . . . no.

Super. She hit the last key and stood up, took a utility belt from the dresser and clipped it round her slender hips, put on her shades. Give me a shout if you have any problems. Voice recognition is already good to go.

We’re all set, upload complete. I expect to be amazed, as per usual.

Oh, don’t worry, you will be.

She then unzipped her jacket and pulled it off, revealing a sleeveless black top that showed her strong, toned arms. She looked good enough to eat. She then dropped the jacket on the sofa, opened the door and disappeared.

Wow. He was so glad he’d sent those flowers. And he hoped she’d leave that last bouquet so he could see her get changed, that would be worth the price of all those flowers . . . not that he wouldn’t have spent a thousand times more. She made his life so much more exciting, without even meaning to.

Daryl sat back and sighed. He needed to go and get changed into his tux. Harvey would be arriving soon. They were having dinner at the sky-high restaurant at Celeste with Robby and Guy, so he would have to leave soon.

He really wanted to know what she’d done to Donny’s flowers. Clearly, next time he should put a selection of super bikes in her room.

And who was this ‘Mark’, who called her Butterfly? Daryl didn’t know if he was pleased by the interruption or not.

MYSTY LOOKED UP, having spent the last forty-five minutes lying stretched out on her back on the sofa, iPod on, drink in her hand, and eyes closed. He hadn’t expected her to be so peaceful. Didn’t she have warm-up or something she needed to do?

Carrie? You OK?

The tentative knock had been followed by a head peeking round the door, and Mysty looked up, then sat up with a welcome smile as she realised who it was, sliding shades over her eyes from her hair.

Yeah, just thought I’d come say hi. Heard someone say there was something new tonight – sounds exciting.

Should be. If the plan goes well.

Heard about the flowers. They look beautiful. Why’d you give them away?

Carrie, I’m only here for six hours max, and what on earth am I going to do with them all back home? There were so many I couldn’t even sit down. The smell was beautiful, but I need to breathe air, not perfume. It was a very grand gesture but . . . not one I’m in a position to appreciate.

Carrie went up to the flowers and bent down to smell them, her own slender body in joggers and a sports bra. They really are lovely. Whoever sent them must like you very much.

Yes! They do! Way to go, Carrie!

"I already have someone who likes me very much, so it’s a sad waste.

Why don’t you have those? I can’t take them with me, and I know you only live around the corner, so take them and give them a good home."

Daryl was torn between admiring her giving nature, and the awful prospect that his camera would leave her room!

Are you sure? Don’t you want to keep just this one bouquet?

If I could eat them, yes, but you know I leave within ten minutes of my final act finishing. I don’t have time to worry about flowers.

Well, OK, if you’re sure? Mysty nodded and smiled, seeing the way Carrie touched the petals with her fingertips. The flowers would be well appreciated. Wow, I’ve never had such gorgeous flowers.

Give that boy of yours a kick up the ass, then. Seeing you arrive home with those might give him a hint.

Mysty’s cheeky smile made the other girl laugh. Yes, I guess it will. I’ll go now. I know you have your routine to go through. Are you sure you can’t have anything to eat? Just a few rice crackers or something?

A grimace. Right now is not really the time to go experimenting, as all the calculations are based on certain body mass figures – and currently I am just where I need to be. I only have a hundred grams to play with before I might enter the dangerous territory of inaccuracies. I’ll starve. I’m pretending I like water.

"I am so glad I don’t have to do what you do." Carrie’s voice was kind, and full of meaning. The bouquet was picked up and she moved towards the door.

Daryl was irritated beyond belief.

Then you’re a smart girl. Anyone who wants to do what I do must be mad. Mysty swung her legs up and lay back down.

Carrie paused at the door. No one else can do what you do.

Yeah. And that’s a lonely place to be. A very weary voice.

The last view Daryl had of her was with her shades down, her iPod earpieces in, hands resting on her ribs, body completely relaxed.

Were they so dissimilar, she and him? Both exceptional in their own way, he with his riches, she with her amazing physical abilities, and both with razor-sharp intelligence? Was that why he wanted to spend time with her? Because she might understand what it was to be lonely, the way he was? Even though she had managed to make a life for herself, with an interesting collection of friends and buddies, a great deal of that was because she hid half, probably most, of who she was. Those people at the dance-off didn’t know she was the Butterfly. She had no family. Donny had become her rock, in so many ways, the one from whom she didn’t have to hide any part of herself. Neither did she have to from Daryl, if he was honest, as he liked discovering every new little bit about her, even if part of his brain – that sensible, logical part – told him she was still wholly unsuitable, and this was madness. She was a wild child . . . not like him at all.

The car pulled up and he stepped out onto the familiar red carpet, ignoring the noise of the crowd and the reporters, only interested in getting to his private box for a dry Martini and to watch the most amazing show on earth.

And he now had greater appreciation of it. The discipline Mr Roberts, Celeste’s director, had spoken of was now made real, made human. He’d known there would be calculations involved, but he hadn’t really stopped to think how tight the window was, how precise she was. Everything about the performance she handled herself, literally everything, and since she was fifteen, or fourteen? She was still incredibly young, and so self-contained. Didn’t rely on anyone. But her command was assertive. Appreciative but businesslike.

Goddamn Donny Capello.

Daryl had the slightly consoling thought that Mysty hadn’t ever met ‘Daryl’; the clean-shaven handsome version with charm enough to bring birds out of trees. How would she react to that? At some point he would find out. After all, he had another two years, roughly, to play with until Donny sealed their relationship, which was far longer than Daryl had ever dared hope.

Despite what she’d said to him, he would definitely be spending more time in LA. And instead of going to the office first thing on Saturday mornings, he had now started filtering through all the images, able to marvel at her over a cup of coffee, in the privacy of his office at home. He had a growing collection of mounted pictures now, and had sent some off to his main house in Philadelphia – a massive and very beautiful house. But he hardly had time to go there, like so many places. It was, however, the one place he had always thought of as home, to a degree, having very early memories of being there with his parents. For some reason, although tenuous and not making much sense, having pictures of her there made her seem closer, more his, as if in those photos he had managed to capture a tiny piece of her.

What would she do tonight to keep him happily occupied tomorrow?

THE LIGHTS ROSE to show her on the bar. Tonight she was in red, a bright scarlet, accentuating the pale creamy skin of her face, slashed with the red of her domino mask, hair extensions to match. She was the embodiment of passion in flesh, in woman. Daryl knew exactly what was going to be all over the news the next day.

She started in a crouch as the music started – ‘it’s true . . . we’re all a little insane’ – and then, with beautifully expressive gestures and perfect balance, rose and moved, nothing too grand or fast, in keeping with the music, pulling her wrists apart to ‘now that I’m unchained . . .’, making her way to the edge of the bar with slow, winding dancing steps – a position which usually indicated she was lining up to do a leap, but in no way lessened the excitement.

And the audience wasn’t disappointed. As the tempo ramped, Daryl knew he blinked, hadn’t wanted to, but when he refocused she was moving, and there were flames dancing behind her feet as she started running, falling into a handstand, then a jump, flip, and a run-up – and she flew into the air just as the singer sang, ‘you poor sweet innocent thing, dry your eyes . . .’ hanging for a wonderful second like a giant flame herself, then falling gloriously into space, and driving and twisting, catching the trapeze bar and swinging off . . . but tonight, flames licked down the wires, the lighting subtly adjusted to illuminate both her and the fire.

She swung round and released, falling onto a bar that almost immediately caught fire, the flames chasing her running footsteps . . . and so it continued, leaping up to a new bar, following them round in a rising spiral, climbing higher and higher, leaping and landing hands first and rolling, to stand and sprint, or jump and somersault, land and run. She was a non-stop moving miracle who, somehow, continually evaded the flames, and in what seemed like no time at all she was back on her main bar, and Daryl could see her chest rising and falling rapidly, underlining what Roberts had said: she made it look effortless and graceful, but it took immense power and precision and energy and strength.

After a few moments more of prowling, using wide, elegant arm gestures with the words, ‘one sweet day I’m going to forget your name’, she made it to the end of the bar, which was in darkness. Daryl could feel the frisson of excitement from the audience, in himself, knowing she was building up to a huge jump – ‘fear is only in our mind . . .’ The words hung in the air, and then she stepped back, once, twice, three times . . . and ran, and flew, spinning around, again and again, before she fell. The trapeze then took her on a sequence that went around the edge of the arena, and the flames began again, bigger than before, and a set of hoops and spirals appeared that marked her path, forcing her to fly through them or between the coils as she flew, somersaulted and flipped to the next trapeze, all the time in time with the music. She then exited the fire hoops and, somehow, she went upwards, defying gravity, using energy and skill that beggared belief as it took her all the way up to her main bar. She paused. One second. Two seconds. And then leapt off backwards in the most complex dive of the night so far, and landed it, rolling to a stop and remaining on her knees, head bowed and arms out, palms up.

Despite the huge toll on her body, she rose straight up to standing and backed away into the shadows, the sound of the applause deafening.

Daryl resisted the urge to rub his hand over his face. She was getting more and more daring! Fire? As if what she did wasn’t amazing enough already?

He, and the rest of the world tuned in watching, couldn’t wait for the next two pieces.

He looked down at the programme, knew the first had been ‘Sweet Sacrifice’ by her favourite band, Evanescence, the next being ‘Your Star’, and the third and last act of the night, ‘All That I’m Living For’.

Daryl needed a drink. He gestured to the man stood silently at the back of his private box, awaiting any instructions, and then sipped the brandy that arrived moments later, not knowing that she had just about made it back to her dressing room, her body quivering uncontrollably until she managed to get more of her most-hated drink inside her, and another energy gel pack. Some of the tech hands had noticed her weakness and tried to help, but she’d refused anything, determined to manage on her own. She had to learn how to cope with the exhaustion, and never rely on others, because they might not always be there.

By the time her next act came along, she had recovered.

In a white and gold costume, the gold creeping up her arms from her hands and up her legs from her feet, she walked out onto the bar, which was fairly low, as the music began, knowing her magic was all set to go.

Everything was in darkness. The only spotlight was on her, on where she walked, slowly, a startlingly beautiful image in the surrounding dark. It was a calm walk, almost sad, and as the song began – ‘I can’t see your star’ – she rose up on pointes and reached, as if stretching for that star, twirling around as dots of lights began to dance around her, flowing around her body as she moved, like a thousand tiny fairy lights attracted to her presence. ‘Until the mechanical lights of this world frightened them away . . .’ and the lights disappeared, and the music changed, assertive and determined now, angry even – ‘and I’m alone now, me and all I stood for’ – and she started to walk up, into nothingness, small energy bars rising up to create a staircase. It was a lonely ascent, surreal, nothing but her body visible.

Jumping and grabbing onto a trapeze and swinging up as the tempo upped, she travelled up to a bar, walking along as it quieted slightly, indulging in complex gymnastics, and then dancing on pointe to the piano notes that sounded out clear and light. The music turned heavier again, and she implored with the song, ‘Why can’t you feel me, calling your name?’ and a brightness began to burn, the source unknown, like a giant floating blue light crystal, and she began running for it, only it moved, and she had to chase it . . . and jumped from one of the bars sideways into a dive, almost all the way to the floor.

Another pause with the music, on a lonely bar, and the blue light disappeared . . . but then there it was again, and she was off, the mysterious light drawing her on and up, up and up, bouncing off platforms and swinging from ropes. She managed to catch it up, dived for it, and there was a huge flash, the music ended, and . . . she was gone.

There was a momentary pause as the audience wondered what to think – where had she gone? They were sad that the piece was over. They had been so caught up in the mad, headlong, seemingly random chase against gravity that their ecstatic response was delayed. They broke suddenly into rapturous applause.

Daryl, however, knew that it had all been cleverly, carefully designed. How many calculations must she have done to have pulled that one off? What was the blinding flash? And where had she gone?

Still the crowd roared its approval, and coming down from the roof in one of the performance lifts, she sagged a little, trying to conserve her energy, feeling the physical vibration of the tremendous noise coming from the arena.

She was doing more demanding things this week than she had ever done before, and she could feel its toll on her body. Another energy gel, and lots of water.

One more.

The third and final piece proved to the audience that she was fully alive, and the disappearance had been part of the magic of La Papillon de la Magie Noire.

The grinding guitar vibes of the first notes of the song ‘All That I’m Living For’ began as the lights showed her, standing tall, so high up, arms up and back arched. The song was pure rebellion, and she was in black, with a white strip down the outsides of her arms and legs, sequins swirling over her, illuminating her though the lights made her unmissable. Every eye in the arena was on her as she stood, motionless, and then, a moment later, she jumped and turned, spinning round and landing on the main high bar, in time with the lines of the song, again and again, until the music calmed slightly and she went into slower movements, drawing the audience in with a hypnotically lithe display of spellbinding balance.

‘I can feel the night beginning; separate me from the living . . .’ It was dark and brooding, and her arms, expressive, played out the lyrics. At ‘all that I’m living for’ she backflipped sideways once more off the bar and fell, but caught herself and flicked back up, doing it again, forwards, and then, for the third time, she flew extra high and then dropped, falling backwards, lying down flat, then tilting to fall headfirst, catching the trapeze with breathtaking composure, timing and skill . . .

The trust she must have in herself to do that, Daryl pondered, to know it would be there, just when she needed it, was unbelievable. If he wasn’t there, watching it live, he wouldn’t have believed it possible.

Another prowl along the bar, and then she jumped, grabbing hold of two vertical ropes and, swinging between them, spinning, she then used the trajectory to throw her high and fell into a dive, full of twists and turns – was there no position her body could not bend into? – until she was back on the main top bar, where she threw her arms and hands in the air, defiant, imploring the sky and whatever god looked down on her.

At the final ‘all that I’m living for’ she leapt off into the abyss with arms outstretched, falling, forever, rolling, flipping three times, and then, perfectly still, she came to land, standing ramrod-straight with arms out level with her shoulders like a cross, her palms up, as the final chords of the guitar ground out . . . and the sound and the lights faded.

She closed her eyes. She’d managed it. It was over.

Again, Daryl and the world watched her back away, into the shadows, beyond the lights.

Don’t go just yet. Stay.

But his silent wish could not be answered, as high above the coin-sized space that was the arena floor she felt the weakness grab her and she was on her knees. In seconds, hands were there to pull her up, and someone carried her to her dressing room, where she was given a bottle of water and a gel pack and left, wonderfully, in peace. The rest of the performers and stage crew were in awe of her; she was their champion, their star, and they hated seeing her weak, even for a moment. Yet they knew she didn’t like attention, as much as they wished she did, and they admired her too much to annoy or upset her by interrupting her recovery. Her greatness on stage, enhanced by the dangers she undertook to make it all possible, made them respectful, and they returned to their own dressing rooms.

After several long minutes, she turned on the shower, taking the bottle with her, sipping it even as the water cascaded over her body. She turned it onto full power, wanting to feel it