These Boots Were Made for Stomping (10 page)

“Move aside, boys,” he said to the gang in the hallway. “It’s obvious Damian needs a little help out the door.” It was a jab,
no doubt about it, and it had its intended effect. The boys separated, snickering all the way. Damian threw an icy glare at
DeLuce, and everyone ignored Micki. Everyone except Lucy. Shooting a glance at her teacher, she tucked herself tighter into
her boyfriend’s side and preened.

“Damian likes me right by his side,” she said. And then they were gone, the boys and Lucy swaggering down the hallway.

“Great,” Micki murmured to herself. “Just frigging great.”

Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone in her classroom. Mr. DeLuce hadn’t followed the kids out. He’d stopped at the door and now
turned back to her. She glanced up, struck by his presence. As usual.

He wasn’t handsome. Far from it, actually. He had a stocky build and a nose that wasn’t completely straight. His jaw was square,
his eyes a pleasant brown, and his skin had that roughened look that should seem scruffy but was actually kind of sexy. Nothing
about Joe DeLuce was exceptional. Common stock, Micki’s mother would say. And yet, when he walked into a room, everybody noticed
him. He was quiet, competent, and impossible to ignore. He had Presence, and Micki couldn’t help but stare.

“So what really happened here?” he asked.

She answered, because that’s what you did when Joe DeLuce smiled, all friendly like that. “Nothing. I slipped and accidentally
clocked him. If it weren’t for you, I’d probably be a bloody mess right now.”

“It’s difficult for outsiders to understand how much power these gangs have. They’re a law unto their own, and Damian’s just
recently become the new leader. He’s going to be especially prickly, especially bold, or he’ll lose his position. It’s not
the time to face off with him.”

“I know.” She sighed and looked at her hands, self-disgust riding her hard. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“You don’t sound very grateful.”

She glanced up, startled because his voice was so close. He’d moved silently in front of her. Close enough to kiss, she thought.
Then she blinked, startled by her disconcerting thought. She’d given up such fantasies about Joe six months ago, right after
she’d seen him with Sar-ahhhh, the blonde bombshell with size DDD breasts. She’d only seen them together one time, but the
sight was burned into her memory.

“Um . . . yeah. No. I mean . . .” She swallowed, forcing her thoughts—and her gaze—away from his mouth. “Thank you. Truly.
I’m just sorry I needed rescuing.” Then she made the mistake of looking into his eyes: soft chocolate brown and filled with
sympathy. Before she even realized what was happening, her vision went wavy with tears. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,”
she confessed. “I try so hard, but I’m not getting through to any of them. Even the good ones.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes widened with a brief moment of panic. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

Too late. Her lashes were already spiky with tears, and they both knew it. So rather than completely horrify the man, she
bustled behind her desk to grab her purse. “Nah. I’m not the tearful type,” she lied.

“Yeah. Thought not,” he lied back.

She took her time gathering her things. She wanted to have herself completely under control before she faced the man again.
He moved to stand on the opposite side of her desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the way his pants hugged his
lean hips. Even with his limp, the guy obviously kept in shape.

“Um, hey,” he said, rather awkwardly. “I need caffeine. You want to go to a café or something? I know one close by.”

Micki straightened slowly, forcing her gaze to travel up his trim waist, past his white shirt and broad shoulders, to finally
look him in the eye. At the beginning of the year, she had fantasized about just this event. She had dreamed that he would
show up in her classroom one day and casually ask her out for coffee. It would be the beginning of a beautiful romance. But
then teaching became unexpectedly awful, and he became notorious for taking certain teachers out for coffee and getting them
to completely rethink their lives. They even had a name for it: pity coffee.

She swallowed and found a boldness that was completely new to her. “Pity coffee, Mr. DeLuce? What if I start crying again?”

He arched a brow, obviously startled. “I thought you weren’t the crying type.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I lied.”

He shifted his stance, his eyes lighting with humor. “And if you think coffee with you is a pity date, honey, you need to
look in the mirror more. A gorgeous blonde—if anyone’s getting the pity, it’s me.”

Micki smiled, her legs growing steadier now that she was back on familiar ground. She’d mastered flirting in middle school.
And yet, she wasn’t in the mood for this subtle dance of attraction, despite the chemistry she now imagined between herself
and Mr. DeLuce. “Come on, Joe. We both know that
petite
blondes aren’t your type.” Her tiny, almost-B cups were well shaped in her Victoria’s Secret bra, but they were nothing compared
to the women she usually saw him with.

He looked at her, surprise sharpening his features even more. Then he slowly folded his arms across his chest, making his
biceps bulge and emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. “And what would you know about my type?”

She considered answering. What better way to get back your self-esteem than engage in a spirited flirtation with a handsome
lawman? But then her gaze caught on Damian—arm wrapped around little Lucy—as he and his buddies swaggered past her classroom
window. The group couldn’t see her from outside; she was on the second floor and well away from the sill, but he still paused
long enough to shoot her window a malevolent glare. She couldn’t help it. A shiver of fear ran down her spine. Lord, she was
such a weenie.

Joe’s mellow voice interrupted her self-loathing. “Have you thought of taking some self-defense classes?”

“Already done,” she said, without shifting her gaze from the window. “But yelling ‘no!’ at a friend in padding isn’t the same
thing as facing down an Indianapolis gang leader.”

“True, that,” he murmured in response.

Her gaze hopped back to him, startled by the teen slang he’d just voiced. For a moment there, she might have imagined it was
one of the kids talking, albeit in a deeper, thicker, more manly voice. “Is that why you want to have coffee with me?” she
challenged. “To tell me how to be stronger with the kids? How to face my fears and not let the little bastards walk all over
me?” She did a fairly good imitation of Mr. Gorzinsky, who was always lecturing her on the subject.

“Would it help?”

She sighed. “Maybe.” She hefted her slim Gucci purse. “Come on. I’ll buy; you advise. But be warned: you’re not the first
person who thought he could toughen me up. Stronger men than you have failed.”

He grinned, startling her with the mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I doubt that, Miss Becker. I most sincerely do.”

CHAPTER TWO

Café Kopi was quiet, the music trendy, and the tables tall. Sitting on a high stool, Joe DeLuce looked distinctly out of place,
and yet he seemed completely at ease sipping a mocha latte, double sweet. It was quite a disconnect for Micki, and she struggled
with even looking at him. First of all, he was too big for the place. Too big for the tiny tables, too big for this intimate
little space in the front corner. Hell, he looked too big for the huge picture window that backlit him with warm afternoon
sun.

“Nervous?” he asked as he took a long drink.

“What? No! Not at all. Of course not.” She clamped her mouth shut before she started gibbering like an idiot.

He just nodded and looked at her with his dark gaze. He knew, of course. She could look her parents straight in the eye and
give a bald-faced lie: Yes, Dad, I desperately want to be a corporate lawyer. Yes, Mom, teaching is what I’ll do until I can
marry a future senator. And, Yes, I know the best way to work with inner-city youths is with a checkbook and an intermediary.
Lying to her parents had become second nature. But with Mr. DeLuce, her insides seemed too jittery. Hell, even her feet kept
twisting beneath her for no obvious reason. Her new Chinese velvet Mary Janes had felt like heaven when she put them on, but
for some reason they now pinched or were too large or something. It was weird. Or maybe she was just avoiding continuing this
conversation with the enigmatic school cop.

“Okay, let me have it,” she said, bracing her hands around her candy apple red travel mug. “What am I doing wrong?” Then she
abruptly took a gulp of coffee rather than look him in the eye.

“What makes you think you’re doing anything wrong?”

She was so startled by his question that she forgot to put her mug down; she held it before her lips and stared at him over
the rim. “Is this some cop technique? Answer a question with a question? Two can play that game, you know.”

He smiled, and the skin around his eyes crinkled. He had a weathered look she really liked: tan and used to smiling. Awful
on a woman, but on him it screamed rugged, manly stud. “No trick,” he said, interrupting her lust. “Sometimes it’s important
to identify exactly what isn’t working.”

She shrugged. “That’s easy; the kids don’t listen to me. Which means they don’t learn.”

“So, that’s your goal? To make them learn?”

She set her mug down and frowned. “That is my job, isn’t it?”

“Nope,” he said, then took a long draw from his paper cup, forcing her to wait for his explanation. “Your job is to teach
English. Is that your goal?”

She rolled her eyes. How many times had she suffered this discussion: What are we really teaching, and is knowing Shakespeare
truly vital to an underprivileged child? It was a fun debate in the abstract from the ivory tower. But George Washington High
in Indianapolis was a long way from her masters thesis, in both time and attitude. “I’m looking for specific tips here, not
an academic discourse.”

His eyebrows shot up at her curt tone. She could tell that she’d surprised him, but hadn’t a clue why. Then it hit her. “You
didn’t think I was serious, did you? You didn’t think I wanted any real advice.”

He shrugged, but she saw the flush of dark red hit his cheeks. “Not many people really want help. They just want to gripe,
then use me as an excuse to quit.” He shrugged. “That’s the real story behind those ‘pity coffees.’ ”

“So you think I’m ready to quit? That I’ll resign tomorrow because it’s too damn hard?”

He took a long sip of his coffee, his eyes dark and serious. “Nah,” he finally admitted. “I guessed you were too stubborn
to go that route. If you were going to quit, you’d do it without using me as an excuse.”

She frowned.

“So, why ask me out for coffee if you didn’t think I’d listen? Why even try?”

He leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “Because you’re cute?”

He had nice eyebrows, she realized. Nicely arched, bushy enough to be male, but not a tree farm. Nice. And he had just said
. . .

“What did you say?” she asked.

“Your ego needs me to repeat that?”

“Because I’m cute.” It took a moment for her brain to process his words, but when it did, irritation cascaded through her.
This was all an elaborate come-on? “I get nearly beaten to a pulp in my own classroom, and you use it to try to get with me?”
Earlier in the school year, she would have been thrilled. Hell,
yesterday
she would have accepted any excuse to spend some time with him. But after today’s failure with Lucy, she needed honest advice.
She got to her feet, grabbing her purse as she turned for the door. “I wanted help, Mr. DeLuce, from a man the kids respect.
I thought maybe you had a new perspective. Apparently, I was wrong.”

“No, wait!” He made it to his feet faster than she expected. He didn’t touch her, but his body was large and effectively blocked
her exit from the café. It might have been intimidating, except that he looked contrite. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. And
I do want to help.”

She folded her arms, frustration making her curt. “Not interested, okay? I got bigger problems than being dateless. And .
. .” She cut off her next words. Had she just confessed her lack of a social life? God, she was
way
off today. “Let’s just call this a misstep and go home, okay?”

He touched her arm. His hands were large—cop hands, work-roughened and strong—but also gentle as they hovered against her
skin. “And what?”

She blinked, pretending to not understand.

“You were going to say something. ‘And’ something. What?”

She debated a moment about telling him the truth, but apparently there were no restraints on her tongue today. “And you’re
cute, too. Another time, I would be interested.” She
had
been interested at the beginning of the school year, but he hadn’t looked at her twice. And then she’d realized how in over
her head she was as a teacher, and all other thoughts had disappeared. “I just want to get through this school year alive.
Everything else is secondary.”

He cocked his head to study her face. She let him for a bit, but quickly began to feel uncomfortable with his scrutiny. What
did this cop see when he looked at her? Incompetent wuss? Underdeveloped waif? At last he shook his head. “No, you’re not
really afraid for your life. You’re afraid you can’t hack it as a teacher.”

She opened her mouth but no sound came out. She didn’t know how to respond, especially since he was absolutely right.

“You can, you know,” he said. “You can be a good teacher, just not for these kids.”

She swallowed, her chest too tight to breathe. In two short sentences, he had just confirmed her worst fears. She wasn’t cut
out to be a teacher—not to the kids who most needed her. She forced a breath into her chest, then spoke, keeping her voice
low and calm. “Anyone can teach future Ivy Leaguers. I know, because I did it for five years. They teach themselves; you just
have to lay out the content. It’s these kids that need someone.” Someone who apparently wasn’t her.

He gestured to her chair. “Please sit. We can talk shop.”

“I think you’ve said what you really think. That’s about all I can handle for one day.”

“But I think now I was wrong.”

She almost smiled. “No, you don’t. You think I’m an upper-class idealist who hasn’t a clue how to handle inner-city kids.”
Honesty forced her to continue. “You’re right about that. I just thought I could learn.”

“You still can. You’ve just started.”

“It’s March, Mr. DeLuce. I think I’ve had enough time.” She looked over his shoulder at the parking lot rather than admit
this to his face. “I’ve taken the tough-love classes, I’ve done self-defense and read a library’s worth of material on the
subject. But my heart just isn’t in the hard-line attitude. I still think that leading with the heart is the best thing any
teacher can do.” She shifted her gaze back to his face, challenge ringing in her voice. “You still think I can teach, what
with my bleeding heart?”

He swallowed. After a moment he said, “I think you’ll get disillusioned, burn out, and turn bitter. And that’d be a damn shame.”

She gave him points for honesty. “Caring is never in vain,” she answered. It was the motto she lived by, but by Christmas
the words had begun to ring hollow. She wondered if she really believed it anymore. She’d cared. She’d tried. Nothing changed.

“Let me buy you another coffee,” he urged. “Please.”

She shook her head, but her lips softened at the obvious disappointment in his eyes. And then she found herself agreeing when
she was sure her brain had given orders to leave.

“On two conditions,” she said. “One: you buy me a brownie. I’ve had enough coffee for one day. And two: you tell me how you
do it.”

“Do what?” Wariness crept into his tone, and she could tell she’d have an uphill climb trying to get to the core of this man.

“You were shot by a kid on drugs. It’s crippled you, possibly for life.” She gestured at his leg. He usually masked his limp,
but she knew it was there. Everyone knew it was there. “And yet you work every day in a high school without anger or bitterness.
So, I want the full story, Mr. DeLuce. I will sit back down if you tell me how you keep the faith when your problems are so
much bigger than a stupid little rich girl who wanted to be a teacher.”

He looked at her. “Is that really how you see yourself?— as a rich girl who wanted to slum it?”

“We’re talking about you here. Or I’m leaving.”

They stood at a stalemate, and Micki could feel her disappointment grow. He wasn’t going to open up to her, and that made
her really sad. She would have enjoyed getting to know him better.

With a sigh, she turned toward the door.

“I’m buying two brownies,” he grumbled. “I’m not spilling my guts without more sugar.”

“It was Lucy’s brother, you know.” Joe watched as Micki nearly choked on her soy latte. Soy. Who knew there were people outside
of California who drank it?

She glared at him, and he smiled at the spark in her blue eyes. “You timed that deliberately so I’d choke.”

He grinned. “Gave me an extra flash down your peekaboo blouse.”

She slapped a hand to the white linen over her cleavage. She needn’t have bothered. The tiny buttons had stayed closed, not
showing any extra skin. Then she frowned. “This is not a peekaboo blouse!”

No, it wasn’t. But that didn’t stop a man from imagining. “Not with your hand right there,” he laughed.

She slowly removed her hand and peered down at her chest. “There is no cleavage showing, Mr. DeLuce. I think you’re stalling.”

She was smart, he’d give her that. And a lot tougher than he’d initially thought. He knew better than to dismiss someone based
on looks, but she’d seemed so easy to peg. A petite blonde with class, obviously from money, idealistic and fresh out of graduate
school. She’d cut her teacher chops in an elite suburb of wealthy Detroit, then for some quixotic reason decided to work with
the Indianapolis poor. He hadn’t expected her to finish out the quarter, much less the year. And, yet, she was still here,
and apparently hadn’t given up. But she was close.

He kept his expression congenial, but inside he grimaced. It was his unfortunate duty to push her over the edge into running.
A bleeding heart could so easily die on this side of the tracks. “There are messed-up kids in the wealthy part of town, you
know,” he said gently. “They need you just as much as these kids.”

“I know,” she said, breaking off a dainty bite of brownie. “But we were talking about you.”

He grimaced, adding tenacity to her list of attributes. Flirting hadn’t distracted her, though he sensed she wasn’t as opposed
to him as she pretended. Career advice hadn’t derailed her. It looked like he really would have to spill his guts. “Okay,”
he said as he bit off a huge chunk of triple-chocolate brownie. “So, Wayne Varner—Lucy’s brother—got high one night and thought
I was Satan come to claim him or something.”

“Were you?”

He looked up from his brownie, surprised. “What?”

“Were you coming to claim him.”

“As Satan?”

She laughed. “Did the boy have reason to feel threatened?”

“I wasn’t asking him out for coffee, if that’s what you’re asking.” Pain shot up his thigh. It wasn’t real, however; it was
a memory, and one he worked hard to suppress.

“Look, Mr. DeLuce. Joe. I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did,” he snapped. “You said you wanted to know what made me tick. Well, here it is: Wayne was high that night on
a new drug—a hallucinogen called Chem that’s messing up kids all over Indianapolis. I was tracking a supplier and stumbled
onto him. Yeah, I was gonna hassle him. Yeah, I was gonna make damn sure that he ended up in jail for dealing. And yeah, I
ended up with a bullet in my knee, Wayne in jail, and still no closer to the drug connection I was looking for.”

She let him sputter down into a furious silence. He glared at her, and she didn’t so much as blink, just took a sip of her
latte and waited in silence. In his experience, women either tried to bury him in sympathy or poke into the inner workings
of a drug investigation. Micki did neither. She merely waited. He had her complete attention, though she wasn’t pushing for
more. And she wasn’t judging him, either.