Straddling the Line (6 page)

He was still standing in the doorway—filling it, really. He knocked on the drywall, flipped the overhead lights on and off, opened and shut the door.

She could just look at the man. He looked very much like he had when she’d first seen him—same belt, same boots, dark jeans, button-down shirt—but there was something different about him.

She couldn’t put her finger on it until he turned those eyes to her. The danger—oh, he was still a dangerous man. But the only thing she was in danger of was losing her head.

He took a step into the room—just the one, but it sent ripples of energy around the small room. She realized that he’d shut the door. The sound of girls painting was a muffled waterfall of giggling in the background. “How many classrooms?” Another step. His jaw flexed, and she saw the cords in his neck tense.

Huh? What? Classrooms? “Um, four. Two grades in each.”

“And when does it open?” He was only four steps away from her now—maybe three. He had long legs. Long, muscled legs.

“Twenty-three days.” All she could do was watch him close the distance. All those muscles…

“Who’s paying the teachers’ salaries?”

The conversation was all business. The look in his eye was anything but. This couldn’t be foreplay—could it?

“Mom and me—we manage the trust fund my grandfather left. We pay the salaries.”

A confused look flashed across his face—not that it slowed him down any. “Kind of a funny feeling, isn’t it?” He reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair off her forehead. “Having someone you’re not sure you’re ever going to see again show up in a place you didn’t think anyone could find?” His fingertips didn’t leave her face. They curved around her cheek and lifted her face toward his.

She swallowed. The intensity in his eyes was paralyzing her. “I can see how it would be unsettling.”

“I told you I’d find you after the show.” His breath danced over her ear and took its time rolling down the back of her neck. Her skin broke out in goose bumps. “I looked for you.”

She couldn’t possibly let him kiss her, not in the first-and second-grade room. “Technically, this is still after the show. And I told you, I don’t do one-night stands.” She swallowed down her—what? Nerves? Desire? Both? “I don’t screw guys I don’t know.”

“Hmm.” His lips touched her cheek. The move was surprisingly gentle, even though his stubble pricked her face. “We could call this a third date. Does that count as knowing each other?”

Yes,
her body screamed. The building heat between her legs was making her sweat, and her breasts ached for his touch. Oh, how she wanted to know him. Intimately.

But she couldn’t. “No.”

He didn’t seem put off by that answer. If anything, he acted as if that was the one he wanted to hear. “How about a fourth date? No strings attached.”

She could feel the deep bass of his voice reverberating all the way down to her core. He settled his other hand in the hollow of her back, just above her butt. She couldn’t back away now if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to.

This should be all kinds of wrong. The kiss at the bar had been wrong, too. But that was at a bar. She could claim that one hard lemonade had gone right to her head, or she’d been dazzled by the music. She hadn’t been herself. Now? She had no weasel excuses to hide behind.

But she didn’t care if it was wrong. He’d come for her. No one had ever sought her out before. No one had ever wanted her enough to risk a trip to the rez. To risk anything for her. Matt certainly hadn’t risked anything for her.

His mouth took possession of hers—not a kiss, oh, no, nothing that simple. One moment she was struggling with what to say, and the next, he was consuming her. Her body responded, pulling him down into her. Even better, she thought as his tongue swept into her mouth. His hand somehow worked its way under her overalls and found bare skin. His fingers inched up, slipping beneath the band of her bra. His other hand did the same, except it went down, finding the breath of space between her panties and her bottom. And just like that, she was naked—while clothed—in his arms. In broad daylight. In the middle of a school.

Her knees fluttered—everything fluttered. Especially that hot spot between her legs. He could tell, too. His lips curved into a smile against hers while he hummed a satisfied sigh. She could feel the drumbeat of his heart against her chest, going faster and faster as the kiss deepened. Somehow, that sensation made her even weaker. He held her up, cupping her bottom, which made things better and worse at the same time.

God, if he touched her in just the right spot…

“Josey? Where are you, sweetie?”

There’s nothing like the sound of a mother’s voice to take the heated build of sexual tension and drive it into the dirt. Ben pulled away from her, taking up a safe spot across the room as Mom opened the door. “I’ve got lunch and— Oh!”

Just as he’d smiled in the face of a furious Don Two Eagles, Ben didn’t even blink. He grabbed the grocery bag before it hit the floor. “Ma’am, let me help you with that.”

Busted. Josey rubbed the back of her hand against her mouth, as if that would erase any sign of yet another stolen kiss. Good Lord, what was she doing? She couldn’t even be sure if she’d brushed her teeth today.

Mom shot her a look of mild panic, which was enough to remind Josey what she needed to do. “Mom, this is Ben Bolton. He’s the chief financial officer of Crazy Horse Choppers.” Mom’s eyes got even wider, as if to ask,
that
guy? Josey nodded, yes—
that
guy. “Ben, this is my mother, Sandra White Plume.”

“Ah—the principal? Nice to meet you.” Still holding lunch, Ben managed a polite handshake. “Your daughter has been telling me about the good work you’re doing here. I’m impressed at what you’ve accomplished.”

Man, he was smooth.

Mom’s panic turned to shock, but only for a second before she managed to pull it together. “Mr. Bolton, how wonderful of you to visit our school.”

Josey took a slow, deep breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth. Mom’s Lakota accent had dropped, and she spoke in her soft New York accent. She could just do that—turn off the Indian and turn on the New Yorker—like the flip of a switch. It always took Josey a little longer to switch gears.

“Sweetie?” Mom was looking at her. Josey realized she’d lost track of the conversation.

“Huh?”

“I said, I didn’t want to
interrupt
your tour. Mr. Bolton, it is truly a pleasure to meet you.”

“Ma’am, the feeling is mutual.” Except he had that big, flashy smile on his face. He waited until Mom had reclaimed the bag of peanut butter sandwiches before he turned back to her. “But I do have to be going. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today.” And then he extended his hand for a nice, professional handshake.

Really? After he’d hunted her down—after he’d seen her at her grimiest—after
that
kiss—
she was going to get a handshake?

Ben shook her mother’s hand, too. Josey guessed he was thanking her, too, but her ears weren’t working. Nothing was working.

Ben turned back to her. His eyes blazed at her. “Josey, I’ll be in contact.”

Her name. It was the first time he’d said it out loud.

The question was, what
kind
of contact?

Four

T
he clanking of the garage door sliding up snapped Ben back to awareness. He was at the shop? Funny. He didn’t remember deciding to come back here. The last thing he remembered was…

Kissing Josey White Plume.

Damn. He’d kissed her. Again. This time had been different, though. He’d touched her. The heat of her bare skin still burned against his palms. Under his touch, her body had shaken with the kind of desire that couldn’t be faked. The way she made him feel—it went way beyond not getting laid for a while. She drove him to distraction. If her mom hadn’t barged in on them, there was no telling how far he would have taken her. How far she would have let him take her.

Not a mistake.

Was it?

“What are you doing here?” Ben’s head shot up to find his older brother, Billy, standing in the middle of the shop, a muffler in his hand.

“I went for a ride today. She was pulling a little to the left.” Ben rolled his bike into an open bay. “Been a while since I took her apart and put her back together.”

So he hadn’t consciously come back here. He normally changed the oil at his place. But getting his hands dirty and shooting the breeze with Billy was just what he needed to get that woman—that kiss—out of his system.

Billy shot Ben one of those looks and then smiled. It was probably a damn good thing the big man never shaved. No woman would ever look at Ben—or even Bobby-the-playboy—if Billy bothered to clean up. God only knew why he didn’t. “Who is she?”

He ground his teeth. Was it that damn obvious? He stripped off his nylon jacket and dug out his coveralls. “No one. I just need to take better care of my bike.”

Billy laughed at him. “Yeah. Right.” But he had the decency not to press the issue. Instead, he turned back to the bike he was working on.

Zipping into his coveralls, Ben did a double take. The chassis of the machine Billy was working on was three-pronged. “I didn’t think we made trikes.”

Billy’s normal glower settled back over his face. “We don’t.”

“So what are you doing?”

“
We
don’t.
I’m
doing this on my own time.” Before Ben could ask the most important question, Billy added, “And my own money, too. This has nothing to do with the company.”

Ben didn’t get anything else, and he didn’t push. If he wasn’t shouting at Dad, Billy rarely talked. Now that Ben thought about it, this was the longest yell-free conversation he’d had with his big brother in years.

Ben got to work. He’d built this bike with his own hands back in high school. He didn’t care if the money was in wild choppers with crazy handlebars or Batman rip-offs with ultralow-profile tires. This bike was his and his alone. He knew exactly how fast it accelerated and decelerated, and exactly how fast he could bank a corner before he lost control. He had the scars to prove it.

He started with the oil while Billy worked in the next bay on his trike. “Who’s the trike for?”

“What’s her name?” Billy shot back a few minutes later.

“None of your damn business.”

“Typical.”

Ben ignored him as he took the carburetor apart. It was some time before he said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Silence.

This was the difference between talking to Billy and talking to Bobby. Bobby slung words around like bullets and he had stocked up on ammo. So what if a few ricocheted away from him and he drew blood? So what if he never listened? Words were disposable. Meaningless.

Billy, on the other hand, hoarded words like they were gold coins. He could say three sentences in three hours and consider that a conversation. He thought about each and every thing he said, and he didn’t say something he didn’t mean.

True to form, it was another twenty minutes before Billy answered him. “The only time you come down out of your little cave up there and actually get your hands dirty, you’ve got woman problems.”

Ben bristled. Maybe today, he liked Bobby better, because even though the little jerk said crap like this all the time, Ben knew he didn’t mean it. “It’s called an office. You have one, too. You should check it out sometime.” Billy used his office for storage and sleeping. The shop was his office and everyone knew it. “You know you’re behind schedule. Why the hell are you wasting time on that?”

Billy couldn’t be goaded into a fight as easily as Bobby, though. He merely snorted in amusement and kept working. Slow. Methodical.

“You remember Cal Horton?”

The silence had gone on so long that Ben had half forgotten Billy was still there. “Horton? The shop teacher in high school?”

“Yeah.” Billy sighed as he wiped his hands on a rag. “He was like…the anti-Dad, remember?”

Ben nodded. Billy had lived in the shop class. If it hadn’t been for shop, Ben didn’t doubt that his brother wouldn’t have graduated from high school. And Mr. Horton—Mr. Who, the kids had all called him behind his back—had been a scrawny guy with big ears, buck teeth and a voice that never shouted. Ben had taken shop for a while, but it was the one class in high school where he couldn’t show up his big brother. After Billy, all the other teachers were thankful to have a Bolton who could be taught. But Ben always had gotten the feeling that Mr. Who would take Billy every day of the week.

“Anti-Dad. Very funny.”

“I’m serious. He didn’t make you earn his respect, you know? He gave it to you. To me, anyway.”

The weight of thirty-two years’ worth of effort to get Dad’s honest respect suddenly crushed Ben’s chest. “Yeah. I can see that.”

“Cal helped me out a few times, when I got in real…trouble.” Suddenly, Billy looked way more than serious. He looked positively moody.

Billy’d had no shortage of trouble back then. A smart remark about bail money and strippers danced around Ben’s mouth, but a strange sort of sadness made Billy look young. Small, even—which was no mean feat. Let Bobby be the jerk in this family. Ben knew how to keep his mouth shut.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Billy stood there for a moment. Ben was about to give him some space and get back to work on his bike when Billy unexpectedly went on. “After September 11th, he re-upped with the army, did three tours in Afghanistan before an IED got him a few years ago. He finally got clearance to ride again—but his wife doesn’t want him on a chopper.”

Hands down, this was the longest, heaviest conversation Ben could ever remember having with his brother. A lifetime of loyalty—what the hell kind of trouble had Billy gotten himself into back then?

Ben didn’t even get his mouth open before Billy started talking again. “He expected better of me. Everyone else—even Dad—expected me to fail. But not Cal. He almost died for me, for my country. He never asked me for anything. The least I can do is build him a damn bike. On my own time. With my own money. And if you’ve got a problem with that—” His shoulders dropped and he swung his hands into loose fists.

“No, no problem.” Ben threw up his hands in surrender. Only an idiot would push Billy.

“You don’t look like an idiot to me.”
Josey’s voice floated around his head as he and Billy went back to their respective bikes. Something else she had said popped into his head.
“People expect them to fail.”

One man had made the difference for Billy—a man who asked for nothing in return, but got unshakable loyalty anyway. Ben thought back to the little girls who’d been scared of him, the young boys who wouldn’t look at him. Those kids—people expected them to fail. Was he one of those people?

Josey’s face swam before his eyes. Not the polished businesswoman, not the hot chick at the bar, but her face today, with the big paint smear across her forehead and her hair crazy around her. He saw the warm, bright smile she had for those kids. She expected better of them.

She expected better of him.

Everyone expected so much from him—to keep Billy working, to keep Bobby in line. Dad expected him to fail, but also expected him to keep the company afloat. Not her. She didn’t act like he had to have all the answers, like he was the one thing between her and complete, total failure. All she expected from him was to be something better. And all he’d done was kiss her.

He could do better. He could
be
better.

“Billy!” He had to shout over the air compressor.

“What?”

“You got any tools you don’t use anymore?”

*

The dull pain in residence behind Josey’s eyes picked up speed at an irregular clip. What a disastrous day. She could still hear Ben saying, “You have
one
drum for how many students?” Because one drum was all she was going to get.

At least she could take comfort in the fact that building the shop class from the ground up counted as real, live shop class. Maybe they’d postpone music class until after winter set in, when they couldn’t do much on the shop anyway. Surely she’d be able to get some instruments in three months.

She could always try asking Ben—he was a musician, after all—but she’d already made up her mind about that. She didn’t know what, if anything, was going on between her and Ben Bolton. She only knew that asking him for anything else would muddy the waters between pleasure and business.

Even if that meant no more kissing.

In this foul mood, Josey rounded the bend and slammed on the brakes. A massive, dual-wheel pickup truck—gray—with a custom trailer attached to it was parked next to the school. That wasn’t the weird part. The weird part was that the kids were swarming over both the truck and trailer, unloading box after box.

Josey did a quick mental check of her calendar. Nope—no planned deliveries today. No more planned deliveries, period. She didn’t recognize the behemoth vehicle. What the heck?

Livvy came running the moment Josey opened her door. “He came back!”

“He? He who?”

“That guy! He brought stuff!” With those helpful words, Livvy turned around and took off for the truck. It was loaded with boxes. Some were brand-new—circular saws, power drills—and some were the kind of boxes a person scrounged up for moving.

Shop tools? That guy? That was as much as Josey could process before Ben Bolton himself strode back around the building, talking to Don Two Eagles, of all people. Shock stopped her short.

God, he looked good. Dark jeans that fit like he might as well have been born in them, and a red chambray shirt—cuffed to the elbows. He said something to Don, and the older man nodded before barking out orders in Lakota. Don was taking directions from Ben?

Power. Josey’s blood began to pound. This was power so real that she could smell it on the wind. Ben Bolton commanded absolute respect, and he got it—even from the likes of Don.

And Ben had used his power to help her.

Livvy bounded up to him and pointed to Josey before grabbing another box and taking off. His eyes met hers, and he shot her a look that invited all sorts of contact. His long legs cut through the grass as he headed her way.

Just once, I want to be ready for him.

That was all the thinking she could formulate before a horn sounded behind her. She jumped and spun to see a van pulling up behind her. The window rolled down and a guy who looked vaguely familiar leaned out. “Is this the school?”

“Yes?” It came out as a question, because, honestly, Josey wasn’t sure of anything right now.

“Where do you want the instruments?”

“The what?”

“The instruments.” A hand touched her in the small of the back, the fingers splaying out against the hem of her shirt before settling in. Speechless, she turned to see Ben standing next to her, a wicked grin on his face. He was touching her in full view of everyone. Including her mother. How could something that was so clearly a bad idea feel like it was the most natural thing in the world? “Stick, glad to see you didn’t get lost.”

“Says you,” the man named Stick said with a raspy chuckle. “Where the hell am I?” His eyes turned back to Josey.

“Stick, this is Josey White Plume. Josey, this is Leonard ‘Stick’ Thompson, the guitarist in the band.”

“Screw you.” Stick flipped off Ben, but he was still smiling. “Call me Stick. Only my grandmother calls me the
L
name.”

Josey tried to nod, but nothing seemed to be working. Not even her brain.

“What did you get?”

His hand still resting on her back, Ben leaned into the van. Josey had no choice but to lean with him. The whole thing was filled with black cases strapped down with bungee cords.

“Everything but a trombone, man. The only one he had was bent. Where do you want it?”

Ben had the freaking nerve to look down at her, as if she could put together more than two syllables in a sentence. All she could do was blink at him. His eyes flashed with something outrageously wicked. “Multipurpose room, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Ben’s hand slid around to her side and he pulled her away from the van—and into his chest. “Just park by the steps in front and ask for Sandra. She’ll get some kids to unload for you, okay?” Stick nodded and rolled toward the entrance to the school.

He was on a first-name basis with Mom?

Ben didn’t let go of her. Instead, he leaned down to whisper, “I told you I’d be in contact.” As his lips grazed her ear, her body shuddered with a rush of heat. Oh, that was contact, all right.

At least Josey had brushed her teeth today. And her hair was smooth and neat in a twist. She was wearing a business-appropriate dress with a jacket.

And all of her supply problems had been solved in the space of three minutes. By a man who made her all fluttery and melty at the same time.

However, she wasn’t even sure she was breathing, she was so paralyzed with terror at this exceptionally public display of—well, maybe not affection, but familiarity.

No matter how good Ben’s body felt against hers, this kind of touching was off-limits. Or it should be, anyway. What if people saw and, worse, what if they started making assumptions? What if this simple touch—okay, this
not
-so-simple touch—undid everything she’d worked so hard for?

Finally, her mouth opened. “Razor-thin? Margins?”