Straddling the Line
The pinging started back up. The only thing he was missing was a cymbal. “What do you want?” His words were more cautious this time.
He was listening. Suddenly, Josey had a good feeling about this. Ben Bolton was a numbers guy—he liked his facts hard and fast. But he was a biker, too—so he could appreciate things that were rougher, tougher and just a little bit dirty.
Her face—and other parts—flushed hot. So much for not blushing.
His eyes widened, the blue getting bluer as he noticed her unprofessional redness. The corner of his mouth crooked up again as he leaned a few inches toward her. A small movement, to be sure—but she felt the heat arc between them. Desire kicked the temperature up several notches.
Wow. One slightly unprofessional thought, and she was on the verge of melting in the middle of a pitch. This wasn’t like her. She prided herself on keeping business and pleasure separate. Some people thought they could buy her with the right donations, but Josey never even allowed that kind of quid pro quo to enter the conversation.
With everything she had, Josey pushed on. She had a job to do. Pleasure came later—if it came at all. She needed to get the school ready more than she needed what would no doubt be a short-lived fling. She didn’t have time for flings, especially with a white man.
She handed Ben the three-color brochure she’d designed herself. “The Pine Ridge Charter School is designed to give our Lakota children a solid foundation, not only for their education, but for their lives. Studies have shown that graduating from high school raises a person’s total lifetime earnings over a million dollars more than a dropout. All it takes is a fraction of that cost up-front.”
He flipped her brochure over. She could see him processing the photos she’d taken of the happy kids crowded around her mother for a story at a family gathering, and the architectural drawings for the six-room schoolhouse that was only half built out on the flat grassland of the rez. “Your children?” His eyes cut down to her bare left hand.
“I am a registered member of the Pine Ridge tribe of the Lakota Sioux.” She hated having to add the “registered” part, but there it was. The red in her hair made people look at her like she was just a wannabe. She had her grandfather to thank for her hair, but that was the only part of him that showed up. “My mother will be the principal and chief educator at the new school. She has a doctorate in education and has spent a lifetime teaching our children how important a good education is to them—and to the tribe.”
“Which explains why you sound like you graduated from high school.”
Now it was her turn to glare. “My MBA is from Columbia. Yours?”
“Berkley.” He flipped the brochure onto his desk. “How much?”
“We aren’t begging for money.” Mostly because she knew she wouldn’t get it, but it was also a point of pride. The Lakota didn’t beg. They asked nicely. “We’re offering a unique sponsorship opportunity for businesses around the state. In return for supplies, we will provide free publicity in several forms. Our website will have a detailed list of contributors on our site, as well as links and feedback to your own internet presence.” She leaned forward and tapped her finger on the web address at the bottom of the brochure. When she looked up at Ben again, his eyes were fastened on her face—not her cleavage. But the intensity of his gaze made her feel like he was looking down her dress.
Slowly, she sat back in her seat. His eyes never budged, but the inherent danger that had lurked in them since word one was almost gone. Nothing but desire was left. “Everything donated to the school will be labeled with the sponsors’ information, helping your business build brand-loyal customers while equipping them with the tools they need to be able to afford your products—”
“You’re going to put ads in the school?”
No, Ben Bolton was nobody’s idiot. “I prefer not to think of them as ads—sponsorship. More along the lines of a pizza parlor sponsoring a T-ball team.”
His shoulders moved, a small motion that might have been a sign of laughter. “So, ads.”
“For your business,” she added, undeterred. “Crazy Horse Choppers has been around for forty years, and given how you built this state-of-the-art production facility a few years ago, I have every reason to believe you’ll be around for another forty.”
He tilted his head in her direction, a sign of respect from a man who commanded it. So she wasn’t completely unprepared—a comforting thought. His appreciation was short-lived. “I’m only going to ask this one more time. What do you want?”
“The Pine Ridge Charter School is designed to provide children with not only a world-class education—” he began to ping the pen on the desktop again “—but job training. To that end, we are asking for the equipment necessary to launch an in-depth vocational technology program.”
A smile—a real one, the kind of smile that made a woman melt in her business dress—graced his face. Whoa. All kinds of hot. “Finally. The point. You want me to give you shop tools for free.”
The way he said it hit her funny. A note of panic started growing again in her belly. “In so many words, yes.”
He picked up the brochure again. He looked like he was really weighing her proposal, but then he said, “No.” He set the brochure carefully to one side and put both hands on the desk, palms-down. For all the world, he looked like he was about to vault the darn thing. “Look. You’re obviously intelligent and obviously beautiful. But this business operates on razor-thin margins. I’m not about to give away a bunch of tools for nothing.”
A small, girly part of her went all gooey. He thought she was beautiful. Obviously beautiful. “Not even for the free advertising?” Her voice came out pinched. She couldn’t manage to keep the defeat out of it.
His shoulders flexed. “Not even for the free advertising.”
He was staring at her again, waiting to see if she’d challenge him. She swallowed and bit her lower lip. The barest glimmer of desire crossed his face.
“Isn’t there … anything I can do to change your mind?” The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she could take them back. She didn’t make offers like that, ever. So why the heck had she just said that?
Not that it worked. She thought she saw his pupils dilate, but it was hard to be sure because his eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Does that work?”
No, she wanted to tell him, because she’d never made the offer before. Yes, he was hot. He was also arrogant, domineering and quite possibly heartless—a real Scrooge in leather. All reasons her mouth should have stayed firmly closed. It didn’t matter whether or not Ben Bolton was good in bed. Or on his desk. Or even on one of his choppers, for that matter. It didn’t matter if she wanted to find out—or it shouldn’t matter. But with one mistaken sentence, suddenly it did.
And he wouldn’t even say yes to that.
The rejection stung her pride, and she wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she never got the chance. At that moment, a huge crash reverberated up through the floor of his office, loud enough that every piece of metal in the joint shook with enough force that she had to grab on to her chair to keep from falling off it.
Ben slumped forward, weariness on his face. He held up one hand and did a silent countdown—three, two, one—before his phone buzzed.
“What?” He didn’t sound surprised.
The voice on the other end was loud enough that even Josey winced. Ben had to hold the receiver a half a foot away from his head.
“I’m busy” was all he said, slamming the phone down. “Miss White Plume …” He paused, as if he was waiting for her to reciprocate his “Ben” with her “Josey.” When she didn’t, he went on with an apologetic shrug. “I’d recommend coming over here,” he said, motioning to his side of the desk. Another huge crash shook the floor. “Right now.”
Closer to him—mere seconds after that rejection? The next crash seemed closer—like a herd of buffalo were stampeding up the stairs. Josey was in no mood to be trampled. She gathered her things and scurried over to Ben’s side of the desk. He took a protective step in front of her just as the door was thrown open with enough force that she was sure she saw the hinges come loose.
A man—no, more like a monster—burst into the room. He was huge—easily six-five, with a long handlebar mustache that was jet-black. His muscles were barely contained by a straining blue T-shirt, which matched the do-rag he had tied over his head. His eyes were hidden by wraparound shades, making it impossible to know how old he was. “Goddamn it,” he roared, the noise echoing off all the metal, “you tell that bastard you call a brother that I told him to—”
Josey’s presence registered, and the man bit off his curse at the same time an even bigger man, covered with enough facial hair to render him indistinguishable from a black bear, shoved into the room. “I told you, there’s no way you can pull off that asinine idea, and—”
The man with the handlebar mustache punched the bear in the shoulder and jerked a thumb toward Josey. She couldn’t help it. Even though she was mad as all get-out at Ben for turning her down—both times—she found herself cowering behind him. Compared to the wall of bikers hollering on the other side of the desk, Ben was the safest thing in the room. He leaned in front of her a little more and put one hand behind him, keeping her contained. She was furious with him, more furious with herself—but that simple act of protection left her feeling grateful.
“Aw, hell,” the bear muttered.
“What you got there, son?”
Ah. So the man with the handlebar mustache was Bruce Bolton, chief executive officer of Crazy Horse Choppers—and father of the Bolton men. Which meant that the bear behind him was probably Billy, the creative force behind Crazy Horse. Looked like that test drive they’d been on hadn’t gone well.
Josey didn’t particularly like the way the senior Bolton was eyeing her—and she especially didn’t like being a “what.” Not that she could be sure—he still had on his sunglasses—but she got the distinct feeling he was undressing her with his eyes.
Ben’s shoulders flexed. “I told you, I’m busy.” He reached over and picked up his phone. His motions seemed calm, but she could sense the coiled tension just below the surface.
The worst place in the world had to be the middle of a Bolton brawl, because it sure looked like all three of them were ready to throw down, here and now. Maybe that’s why the whole office was done in metal. Easier to wash off the blood.
“Cassie, please escort our guest to her car,” he said, icy daggers coming off his words. He set the phone back down, positioning his body just a fraction more between Josey and his father.
No one moved; no one said a thing. She’d been scared before, sure. She’d talked her way out of being felt up by associates of her grandfather; she’d beaten the living crap out of a boy who’d thought she was an easy target back in high school. But this? Hands down, the scariest situation she’d ever gotten herself into.
Cass appeared, shoving her way into the room. “Damn, Bruce, you’re scaring her,” she said, hip-checking the older man out of the way. “Come on,” she said to Josey. “Let them fight it out in private.”
Ben nodded, a small movement that she took to mean she was safe with the only other woman in the place. Moving slowly, she stepped around the desk, careful to avoid the older man. The younger one gave her plenty of room before he favored her with a familiar-looking nod that bordered on a polite bow.
“Miss White Plume,” Ben called to her as soon as she was clear of his office’s threshold. “Good luck.”
Cass shut the door, which wasn’t enough to block the sound of a battle royal erupting behind it. Josey didn’t get the chance to wish him the same.
She had the feeling she’d just about used up all of her luck for the day.
Two
Stick’s chord from “Dirty Deed Done Dirt Cheap” still hung in the air as Ben attacked his drums with a wild energy for the next song. Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” was his best song, one he could literally beat the hell out of.
The groupies crowded around the front of the stage at The Horny Toad Bar screamed as Ben tore through his big solo. Stick, his oldest friend in the world, came in hard on the guitar riff, and—in that brief moment before Rex started singing—Ben could pretend that the Rapid City Rollers were a real rock band, not a weekend cover band.
Try his best, though, Rex couldn’t come close to David Lee Roth—or Sammy Hagar, for that matter—so the illusion that Ben was a professional drummer never lasted. Sure, they were popular here, but South Dakota didn’t have a lot of people in it. Still, this was Ben’s song, and he gave it his all. The crowd was on its feet, somewhere between dancing and moshing in drunken delight.
Saturday nights were the best. For one long night once a week, Ben wasn’t a CFO. He didn’t have to worry about Billy’s slow production pace costing the company too much money. He didn’t care if the banks floated him the stop-gap loans he needed. He could forget about whatever Bobby was screwing around with. And most of all, he didn’t even have to think about his father, who was determined to grind the family business into the ground just to prove that his way was not only better than Ben’s way, but that his way was the only way. For one night a week, Ben didn’t have to care about how Dad looked at him with nothing but disappointment in his eyes. None of that mattered. On Saturday nights, Ben was a drummer. That was all.
He loved having something he could beat the hell out of, over and over, but instead of leaving destruction in his wake like Dad did, he made something that he loved—something beautiful, in its own brutal way. Something that other people loved, too. It wasn’t the same as Billy’s bikes, but it was Ben’s and Ben’s alone. A week’s worth of frustration went into each beat.
Something was different tonight. Rex was hitting most of the high notes, and the crowd was eating it up. The Horny Toad was one of their best gigs—they played here once a month. Ben should be enjoying himself. But no matter how hard he hit his drums, he couldn’t get the sound of one Josette White Plume saying, “Isn’t there … anything I can do to change your mind?” out of his head.
That voice had been floating around in his dreams for eight freaking days now, and he was damn tired of it. It had gotten to the point where he’d begun to think he should have taken her up on her offer—get her out of his system before she’d gotten into it.
The hell of it was that he couldn’t quite nail down why he was stuck on her. Sure, she’d been beautiful—but the Horny Toad was loaded with hot chicks tonight. Yeah, she was probably the smartest woman he’d talked to in weeks—months, even. And, okay, he’d have to admit that her fiery, take-no-prisoners business pitch combined with that note of vulnerability at the end, right before his family had crashed the joint, had made his body throb.
But she was just a woman. Maybe that was it, he thought as he wailed away on his drums. Maybe it had just been too long since he’d had a woman. Hell.
Stick held the high note at the end for an extra beat while Ben let the cymbals have it at the end. Their eyes met and they nodded in time, cutting off at the same moment. The crowd howled for more, which was a nice feeling. Someone threw a bra onto the stage, which Toadie, the bassist, snatched up and waved in victory. “We’ll be back after a little meet ‘n’ greet break,” Rex announced, tossing his guitar pick to an unnaturally busty blonde.
“You coming?” Stick asked as the house music filled the bar. Rex and Toadie had already been enveloped by the groupies, and Ben knew Stick was itching to get out there and join them.
Ben didn’t go anymore, but Stick always asked. He was a good friend. “No,” he started to say, but then a woman caught his eye.
She was tall and lean and wearing a white sequined tank top over a nice chest that caught some of the stage lights and made her glow, even though he was wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit bar. But that wasn’t what drew his attention. No, something about the way she was looking at him …
No. It couldn’t be. Could it?
The woman turned to talk to someone else, but then glanced back over her shoulder at him. Cascades of dark hair spilled down her back, coming to an end just above the kind of ass that would haunt a man. He’d caught just a glimpse of her walking out of his office before Dad and Billy had erupted into World War III, but he wasn’t likely to forget it anytime soon.
No doubt about it. Josette White Plume was in the house.
“Yeah,” he told Stick, “I think I will.” Together, they hopped off the side of the stage and ducked around the chicken wire.
Someone grabbed his butt, and a few chicks tried to throw themselves in front of him, but Ben ignored them all. He was focused on the woman in the sequined top.
Maybe he was wrong, he thought as he got closer. Her back was still to him, and all that hair was throwing him off. The woman who’d come to his office had had a twist pinned up in a classy, elegant style that matched her classy, sleek dress. The woman a few feet away from him wore skintight jeans and had long hair that hung in loose curls. He couldn’t tell about the color in this light, but he was sure he’d recognize that reddish black anywhere.
He closed the remaining distance, grabbed the woman’s bare arm and spun her around. She tried to jerk away with such force that it pulled him into her. His sunglasses came off in the resulting jostling.
“Hey!” A smaller woman—clearly Native American—pushed her way between Ben and his prey. “Get your hands off her, you creep!”
Now that he had her face-to-face, without his sunglasses, he could see the red in her hair—and the fire in her eyes. “What the— Oh!” Recognition set in, and the anger became shock. “Ben?”
Ben glanced down at his hand and was surprised to see that he was still holding her. Her skin was creamy smooth against his. In her other hand, she held a bottle. “What are you doing here?”
“Who’s asking?” the smaller woman demanded. She sounded comfortable being the boss.
“No, Jenny—let me explain.”
“What’s to explain?” The woman named Jenny shoved Ben’s chest. “He can’t just grab you, Josey.”
Josey. God, what a pretty name. Would he ever get this woman out of his head?
Josette—Josey—blushed. “Jenny, this is Ben Bolton, CFO of Crazy Horse Choppers.”
“Wait—you’re the guy who didn’t give us anything?” She sniffed in distaste. Ben decided he kind of liked Jenny. She had spunk.
But Josey—Josey had fire. The heat coming off that woman was making him sweat with need. “Jenny! Ben,” she went on, hell-bent on formal introductions in the middle of one of the grimier bars in the state, “this is Jenny Wahwasuck. She’s one of the teachers at our new school.”
“And her cousin, so you just watch yourself, buddy.” Jenny crossed her arms and glared at him.
Someone bumped him from behind, shoving him into Josey. Jenny made loud noises of protest.
Screw this. He couldn’t find out what she was doing here in the middle of the bar with her cousin watching him like a hawk. He leaned in close to whisper, “I need to talk to you—alone,” in Josey’s ear—which was a mistake. Up close, he could smell her scent, something light and clean, with a hint of citrus. She smelled delicious.
It took all of his willpower to lean back, but he didn’t get far. Instead, he found himself staring into her big brown eyes. The slick, overconfident ballbuster who’d talked her way into his office was gone, and in her place was someone who looked surprisingly sweet and vulnerable—considering the bar they were in.
She nodded and turned to her cousin. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
“Wait—what? No way!” Jenny tried to shove Ben back, but he didn’t give her any leeway this time.
“It’s about the school,” Josey said.
Except it wasn’t. But if that was the lie that worked, he was willing to nod and play along. Jenny rolled her eyes in frustration, but turned to Ben and said, “If she’s not back here in one piece in ten minutes …”
“I just want to talk to her.”
The hell he did. He wanted to do everything but talk, a fact made all the more clear when Josey slipped her hand into his and waited for him to lead her away.
Ben plowed through the crowd like a bulldozer. There was only one place quiet enough to not have a conversation in this joint—the small closet that served as the band’s dressing room.
As he worked his way back there, two conflicting emotions ran headlong into each other. First off, he was pissed. Saturday night was his night off. He didn’t have to think about people taking and taking and taking from him until he had nothing left to give, about how he never got anything back. He didn’t want to think about some school in the middle of nowhere, and he sure as hell didn’t want to have to think about the bottom line.
The other thing barreling through his thoughts was the way Josey had laced her fingers with his, the way his thumb was stroking small circles around her palm and the way he wanted to bury his face in her hair and find out if she tasted of oranges or limes.
He pulled her into the dressing room with more force than he needed—she came willingly—and slammed the door shut. Don’t touch her, he told himself, because touching her again would be a mistake, and Ben wasn’t the kind of guy who made mistakes. He was the kind of guy who fixed other people’s mistakes.
Still, that didn’t explain why she was backed against the wall, trapped between his arms. Hey, at least he wasn’t touching her.
“Why are you here?” he demanded, keeping his voice low. No need to shout, not when he was less than a foot from her face.
She licked her lips. They were a deep plum color, like a fine wine begging to be savored.
Not. Touching. Her.
“Jenny’s son is at her mother’s house. It’s a girl’s night out….” Her voice trailed off as she looked at him through thick lashes.
He was not going to fall for that old trick—no matter how well it was working. “You told her we were going to talk about the school. I already said no. How did you track me down?”
“I came to hear the band.” Her voice had dropped to a feather whisper. He couldn’t help it if he had to lean in closer to hear it. “I came for the music.”
“Bull.” No way did he believe that—not even if he really wanted to.
She swallowed, then one hand reached up and traced his cheek. He wasn’t touching her, but the mistake was huge nonetheless. Heat poured into him, all coming from that one, single touch.
Just a woman, he told himself. He just needed a woman, and she fit the bill. That didn’t explain why he couldn’t look at her and feel her at the same time without doing something he knew he’d regret, so he shut his eyes. It didn’t block out the sound of her voice, though.
“I’ve seen you play before.”
“Prove it.”
“Fat Louie’s—late last March, although I forget the day. The singer was different that night.” Her other hand palmed his other cheek. So soft. So sweet. “Not quite as good as this guy, but not bad.”
Bobby had taken the mic that night—Rex had the flu. She wouldn’t know that unless she was telling the truth … but Bobby had left with a smokin’ hot woman that night, and raved about the sex for weeks after that. “Are you some kind of groupie? Did you go home with him?”
“I’m a corporate fundraiser.” Her voice packed more heat this time, taking his challenge head-on. “I don’t do one-night stands, and I don’t screw men I don’t know.”
His body throbbed. Two tense meetings—did this qualify as knowing each other? Was screwing on the table? Damn. It had been too long since he’d had a woman.
“Before that, it was at Bob’s Roadhouse,” she went on. “I think that one was right before Thanksgiving. You did a metal version of ‘Over the River.’” Her thumbs traced his cheeks. Yeah, he remembered doing that. Rex hadn’t stopped with the stupid “stuffing the turkey” jokes all night long.