Straddling the Line

Three

Ben took a deep breath. He hated this quarterly meeting with his father. Actually, it was the quarterly report from the chief financial officer to the chief executive officer, but Ben could never shake the feeling that he was in sixth grade, marching to his doom to explain the two Cs he’d gotten. Despite the fact that Ben had graduated as the valedictorian, Dad had always held those two Cs against him. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if the old man threw them back in his face today.

Ben was getting ahead of himself. Maybe this would go well.

And pigs might sprout wings, he thought as he knocked. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could go back to running the business.

“Dad?”

“Come in.”

Ben swung the door open and, just like he did every time he went into Dad’s office, he grimaced at the piles of paper that covered every available surface. Although it hadn’t been an official reason for moving to the new building, Ben had hoped that relocating would help Dad pare down the pit of paperwork.

It hadn’t. Bruce Bolton was the kind of old school that believed “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” was a battle cry in the war against technology. Bobby had gotten Dad on a computer and set up email, but the old man still insisted on printing out every single piece of electronic communication and then “filing” it according to a system that no one but he understood. Hell, the last time Ben had ordered a new printer, Dad had ranted about how that old dot-matrix printer that fed the green-and-white-striped paper on reels was the best piece of technology he’d ever owned. That printer had been a dinosaur twenty years ago—just like Dad.

But facts were facts, and the facts were, Crazy Horse Choppers was still Bruce Bolton’s business. Sure, Billy made the bikes, Ben balanced the books, and Bobby…well, he did something. Bruce was still the sole owner, and he still insisted on approving every single expenditure. Hence the quarterly meeting, where Ben tried to beat some sense into Dad’s head and Dad’s head only got harder.

“Quarterly report,” Ben said, trying to find a place on Dad’s desk where he could set the file. He’d given up on emailing the report a long time ago.

“Still in the black?” That was all Dad cared about. His world was black and white—or, more specifically, black and red. He didn’t care about what it took to keep those numbers in the black, and he didn’t even care how much black there was. He only cared that the bottom-line number was black. It seemed to Ben that Dad set a pretty low bar for success.

“Yes, still in the black. We shipped thirty-seven units, took in orders for forty-five bikes and have our delays down to twenty-eight days.” Of course, Ben had had to get several loans to bridge the gap between delivery and payment, but those facts bored Dad.

This was no way to run a business in today’s world. If Ben could get Dad to sign off on some modern investment strategies—the same strategies Ben had used to build his own financial portfolio—then they’d have the capital to float their own loans. That was what Ben needed to move the company forward—capital to invest in newer technologies, to hire new workers, to build the company. Ben had a good head for numbers, and he had the well-balanced portfolio to prove it. He’d made millions by being careful.

Not that any of that mattered to his father.

Unfortunately, Dad would have none of it. Financial instruments weren’t things Dad could touch. They were not to be trusted. Ben understood those financial instruments. Therefore, Ben was not to be trusted.

Still, it was part of the ritual to try. “Dad, we need to invest some of the—”

“Damn it, Ben, you still think I’m going to let a bunch of corrupt bankers take my money on a rigged crapshoot?” He slammed his fist into the desk, sending papers flying in all directions. “Hell, no. That’s no respectable way to run a business. We do things the right way around here, or we don’t do them at all, so stop asking me!”

“I know how to keep our money safe,” Ben protested, trying to keep his tone professional. “Look at how well my investments have done. Bobby and Billy let me manage their investments, too—and we’re all doing really well.” Which was sort of an understatement—Ben knew not to get sucked into the next big thing, and he avoided the panic that had sunk the economy a few years back.

“We’re in the black. The business is doing fine.” Dad didn’t so much say it as growl it. “We don’t need any of that—” he waved his hands around “—money hocus pocus, or whatever you call it.”

Ben refused to let his father’s derogatory attitude get to him today. “It’s called investing.” He bit back the smart-ass “Everyone’s doing it.” Smart-ass never worked on Bruce Bolton. “The business is fine only because Billy, Bobby and I floated the company money to pay for this building.”

“Your money? Ha! You wouldn’t have any money if it weren’t for your brothers. They do things. What do you do? Add, subtract. Mess around with numbers. I could get a fifth-grader to do your job. Your money…” Dad’s voice trailed off in a chuckle. “My money is real. I can go to a bank and get cold, hard cash. Where is your money, huh? You can’t even say it’s on paper—it’s all zeros and ones floating out there.” He waved his had toward his computer.

Ben sat there, his face burning. He was so tired of this fight. No matter what he did—including paying for this fancy building—he couldn’t get the old man to look at him with the same respect he gave Ben’s brothers. “Look, if we at least investigated the possibility of bringing on some investors, besides us three boys, then we’d be able to—”

“That’s enough! This is my business, boy, a fact you don’t seem to remember. I’m not gonna tell you again. I make the decisions around here.” Dad eyed him. “And if you have too much trouble remembering that, well…”

The threat was implicit. If Ben didn’t toe the family line, he’d be replaced by a fifth-grader. Except, of course, that Dad would immediately discover how wrong he was. The temptation to quit and let the old man flounder was strong. Today, it was stronger than most days.

However, the moment he considered such a move, he heard his mother’s voice in his ear as she lay on her deathbed. “Keep the family together, Ben. You’re the only one who can.”

His mother’s voice had been weak, but he’d still felt the steel behind the order. His mother had been the only one who could keep the four Bolton men from killing each other, and Ben had promised that he wouldn’t let her down.

So this was him not letting Mom down.

“I know who’s in charge around here,” he grumbled to Dad. He’d keep the company in the black—barely, but still black—the hard way. It was the only way to keep the family together. It was the only way to honor his mother.

He went back to his office and closed the door, shutting out the shop noise. This was the one room in the building where it was quiet enough to think. Ben sat with his head in his hands, wondering how much longer he could keep the business afloat and the family in one piece. Every quarter it got that much harder.

Then the corner of the brochure for the Pine Ridge Charter School caught his eye, and Ben’s thoughts turned from stemming the hopeless Bolton tide to one Josette White Plume.

In the four days since Josey White Plume had kissed him and then disappeared, he’d found himself staring at the brochure on more than one occasion. He’d even checked out the website. Josey’s name had been listed, but it hadn’t seemed right to email [email protected] about nostrings-attached sex.

But if he had some tools to give her, well, that would be a different story. A perfectly aboveboard reason to make contact, to see if that heat was still there, if strings were still unattached. To see if she’d been level with him about coming for the music.

The problem with that plan was that Dad would never let the company donate tools. Hell, some of those machines down there were as old as Ben was.

Just when things didn’t seem like they could get any bleaker, Ben’s office door swung open.

“Ben! My man!” Bobby barged into Ben’s office.

Startled, Ben took the brochure he’d been looking at and shoved it under some paper. Great. His younger brother was back. Ben wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing or a really bad thing.

Bobby plopped down in the guest chair and loosened his tie. He was the only one who wore ties around here. Anything to be irritating. “How was my nine-thirty? I heard she was something sweet.”

Ben ignored him. Rex and Bobby were pretty friendly, so no doubt Bobby had heard about the kiss. The question was, would Bobby put the nine-thirty and the kiss together?

“The silent treatment, huh?” Bobby whistled in appreciation. “She must have been something. What did she want?”

Me, Ben thought. She wanted me. “Donations. And thanks a hell of a lot for dumping her on me. It was quarter-end, you know. I barely got the reports done in time.”

Bobby had the nerve to tsk him, as if Ben were some old fuddy-duddy to be pitied. “Come to New York with me next time.”

“What the hell for?”

“For starters, you need to get out more. When was the last time you got laid?”

The pounding between Ben’s eyes took on a dedicated rhythm. “None of your damn business.”

“Ouch—not even that groupie? Rex said she was a piece of work.” Bobby chuckled and slapped his hand on the desk. “Hard up, my man. Hard up.”

“Shove it and get out. Unlike some people, I have work to do.”

“Ben, that hurts.” Bobby made a sad face at him, somehow managing to look exactly like their mother when she was disappointed in him. “Come with me in a few weeks and I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”

“We can’t afford it.” Whatever “it” was, Ben was not footing the bill this time. Despite his best attempts, Bobby had not managed to do lasting harm to the company. Not yet, anyway. Ben couldn’t help but feel that the whole business was just one Bobby-based incident away from financial ruin, and it fell to Ben to contain the youngest Bolton.

“Boy, the camera is going to love you, big brother.” Bobby held up his hands like he was framing Ben for a shot. “Brooding, handsome, rich—”

Camera? Hell. Ben picked up the most recent bank statement—the one with all the charges from swanky New York hotels and martini bars—and flung it at Bobby. “Not that rich, thanks to you.”

“That’s all going to change, I swear. This deal—”

“No. No more deals.”

“Yes.” Bobby shot back at lightning speed. “I already talked to Dad about it.”

The pain clobbered Ben in the forehead, the kind of instantaneous headache he imagined rhinoceroses got when they hit a brick wall going full tilt. Bobby’s ultimate trump card—he’d already talked to Dad.

Ben felt like he was a kid again, back when he’d wanted to go to some science center on a family trip. Billy had been too old to care one way or another; Bobby had wanted to go to the zoo. Bobby had always wanted to go to the zoo, but Ben had wanted to see something besides pitiful animals.

He and Bobby had gotten into a big fight over it before Mom had broken them up. Ben had gotten a whipping while Mom had cuddled her “poor baby” and kissed the satisfying goose egg Ben had managed to get in on a parting shot. And after everyone had calmed down, Dad had glared at Ben and firmly announced that they were all going to the damn zoo.

Ben looked around his office. Was this any different from being a tiger on display, doomed to spend his life within these four walls, dying to get out and do something different?

Bobby was sitting there, grinning smugly at the victory. Ben should be used to this—losing the battle before he knew he was fighting one—but some things never seemed to change.

He looked down at his desk. The bottom half of the brochure was peeking up at him, with a map and directions to the school barely visible.

He made a snap decision. Bobby went to L.A.; Billy went on test drives. Ben wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life staring at financial reports in this cage of an office.

It was high time Ben hit the road.

*

Josey surveyed the blanket of newspaper covering every possible flat surface in the multipurpose room. “Great job, girls.” Twenty-seven faces beamed at her. “Now, who wants to stir the paint?”

“Me! Me! Me!” a chorus of little girls all shouted at once as they crowded around the cans.

Josey couldn’t help but grin at them. The girls didn’t care that the school wouldn’t be done in time, or that she’d failed to get shop equipment. They didn’t even care that the guy who’d promised her some band instruments had called this morning with some lame excuse about a “mix-up” in accounts payable, which meant her “free” trombones would now cost a cool thousand—unless she wanted to get together on, say, Saturday night and “talk” about her donation “needs” a little more. That kind of bait-and-switch wasn’t uncommon, but it was as irritating as all get-out. Plus, she was still without instruments.

No, none of the kids—the girls clutching their cheap chip brushes, ready to paint, or the boys outside, hacking away at two-by-fours with half-rusted hand saws—cared about any of that. All they cared about was getting their very own school—and helping finish it.

Josey picked the two oldest girls, Livvy and Ally, to stir. As she crouched down to demonstrate how to pop off the lid, the hair on her arms stood up. Livvy made a noise that sounded like someone had poked her with something sharp. The rest of the room got very still, and the youngest, Kaylie, started to whimper. Josey looked up and saw everyone’s eyes focused on someone behind her. She spun on her heels to see a tall white guy in black motorcycle clothes with dark hair and baby…blue…

Ben Bolton. Here. Now.

“I’ll find you after the show.”

He’d come for her.

Her mouth went dry as her eyes met his, which flashed with that dangerous desire again. Lord, he looked good. His cheeks were tinged red, his hair was mussed up and his eyes sparkled with mischief. And here she was, looking like she hadn’t showered in two days. She’d fallen into bed after midnight and had been back out here at six this morning. Had she even brushed her teeth today?

“What are you doing here?” Her voice came out in a stutter. Excellent. She sounded as good as she looked. At least she managed to stand without landing on her butt.

One corner of his mouth moved in an upward motion. Was that a smile?

“I came looking for—” Kaylie squeaked and buried her face in Josey’s overalls. Ben startled, as if he was realizing there were other people in the room for the first time. “The school,” he corrected himself. “I came to look at the school.”

In the awkward silence that followed, Josey found herself wishing that, for just once, she was ready when she saw this man. After the meeting at the bar, she wouldn’t have thought she could be less prepared. Heck, she didn’t even know what to say right now.

Ben looked around the room. The older girls were protectively standing in front of the younger ones; only the smallest ones were actually looking at him. “I’m sorry,” Josey said, patting Kaylie’s head. “They’re not used to…outsiders.” Which was the nicest way she could think of to say “white people.”

Ben’s cheeks got the tiniest bit redder. Oh. Blushing. Some of her panic melted into warmth. All kinds of hot.

“Hi, girls,” he said with a cautious wave. At least he was trying not to be scary. She gave him a few extra bonus points for that. And the way his jacket fit his chest.

“Hey!” Suddenly, thunderous footsteps echoed down the hallway. “Who the hell are you?”

As if this situation could get any worse, Don Two Eagles burst into the room. Ben had the good sense to get the heck out of the way—without getting any closer to the kids.

“Hey, wasicu, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

That, in a nutshell, was why she should not even be attracted to Ben. God forbid, if she acted on that attraction, she’d run a real risk of having people like Don treating her just like this. A few of the braver girls giggled at the Lakota word for white devil—that, and Don’s tendency to cuss no matter who was listening.

“Don,” Josey said in her meanest polite voice, “this is Ben Bolton. He’s here to take a tour of the school.” She shot a glare at Ben for good measure. Although he didn’t look the least bit concerned by this new development, he played along and nodded.

Don cranked his head to one side, cracking several joints at once. “Bolton? As in Bruce Bolton, the chopper guy?”

“That would be my father.” Ben managed to sound cool, but he took a wary step back. A man like Ben Bolton wouldn’t be afraid. He would, however, have a healthy respect for the situation. “You know him?”

Don cranked his head to the other side. More popping. “I broke my hand on his face back in ’87.” He unnecessarily cracked his knuckles, as if he wouldn’t mind breaking his hand on another Bolton.

So that’s why Don had argued so vehemently against her going to Crazy Horse Choppers in the first place. It was personal—going back twenty-five years.

“Sturgis? ’87?” Ben didn’t even look a little intimidated. In fact, the grin on his face said he was amused. “You’re the one who broke his jaw? He was wired shut for a month after that. Most peaceful month of my life.” Ben advanced on Don. Now it was the older man’s turn to be confused. “Let me shake your hand, Mr….”

Don glared at Ben for a moment before he returned the grasp. “Don Two Eagles. I’m the shop teacher and coach.” He looked at Josey as if to say, what the heck? All she could do was shrug. Now that she’d met the senior Bolton, she had to admit she was equally impressed that Don had knocked him down. Even if he had broken his hand doing it.

“A real pleasure.” Ben seemed to mean it, too. He pumped Don’s hand and gave him a hearty slap on the back. “Not too many men have put my old man down for the count.” He chuckled, like this was some cosmic joke. “I’d steer clear of the shop if I were you, though.”

“I ride Harleys,” Don said, as if that would somehow make this whole interaction less weird.

Ben grinned, perfectly at ease. “Miss White Plume and I didn’t get a chance to finish our conversation about donations for the school when we last met. I hope you don’t mind me dropping by—I wanted to see the school for myself.” He turned a huge, almost blinding smile to her. She barely recognized him.

It all sounded great—perfect even—but the buddy-buddy smile didn’t match what his eyes were saying. His eyes were saying, I wanted to see you.

Her insides got a little melty.

“Yes—a tour.” She forced herself to look away from Ben’s contradictory face. “He wanted to be sure that we got what we actually needed.”

Another lie—because she was pretty sure, from the way Ben looked at her, that what he needed was some wildly hot sex.

Don’s wrinkled face was full of doubt. “Wačhíŋmayaya hwo?” Do you need me?

“Taŋyáŋ naúŋžiŋpe ló.” No, we’re okay. She felt bad about using Lakota in front of Ben—it was exceptionally rude—but the last thing she needed right now was Don to get his nose bent any further out of shape. Plus, the girls would be more comfortable with the stranger if Josey could keep things calm.

Don gave Ben the kind of look that made most white people pee their pants. “Aawáŋič’iglaka yo.” Watch yourself.

Really? What was the point of threatening Ben if he was going to do it in Lakota?

Ben only notched an eyebrow, like he was thinking, sure, you flattened my old man, but that was a long time ago.

Josey cleared her throat loudly. “Thanks, Don, but we’re okay,” as if Don had offered to help. Now get out, she thought as she looked at him.

The big man gave Ben a departing glare before he left. Ben looked around and wiped imaginary sweat off his head—much to the amusement of the girls. Kaylie even managed a small giggle.

“So,” he said, shining that hundred-watt smile on the room, “about that tour?”

“Yes. That tour.” What she wouldn’t give to have five minutes in the bathroom—alone—right now. Especially given the way that Ben was looking at her paint-stained overalls, her formerly white tank top and her frizzing braid. Heck, she’d settle for three minutes. “Well.” She made a sweeping sort of gesture, barely clearing Kaylie’s little head. “This is the multipurpose room.”

God, those eyes—how could they be that blue?

“Multi?”

“Gym and cafeteria.” She pointed to the tables at one side. An old elementary school was building a new cafeteria addition in Iowa and had been happy to let Josey haul the ancient fold-up tables and benches out free of charge.

“Music room,” Livvy said in a whisper.

“Oh, yes. Thanks.” Josey pointed to the one deer-hide drum in the corner. “And music room.”

“What is that—a drum?”

Livvy sniffed in juvenile indignation. “A traditional drum,” Josey explained, shooting him a warning look. She stepped into him, keeping her voice low. “Her father made it.”

He nodded. “I’ve never seen one that, um, tall. Very impressive.” Livvy rolled her eyes—but didn’t cop any other attitude.

Josey fought the urge to stand there and gape at this man. He clearly had no idea what he was doing—but he was here anyway, trying to soothe a thirteen-year-old’s ruffled feathers. He’d already talked Don back from the brink. He’d even convinced Jenny they were going to talk about the school in the middle of a crowded bar. Not to mention he’d survived the tornado that was his family. He was a peacemaker.

So why did he leave her so unsettled?

She watched as his unnaturally large smile faded, replaced with a look she recognized from their first meeting—suspicious disbelief. “You have one drum for how many students?”

“Sixty-three.” She couldn’t help taking a deep breath. The smell of wind-whipped leather filled her nose, and she had the sudden urge to be out there on a bike with him, to feel the summer wind rippling through her hair. Not here on the rez, not at that war zone he called a shop. Someplace where she wouldn’t have to worry about what anyone else thought of her—or Ben. “There’s a problem with the instruments. Munzinga backed out of our deal.”

A shadow fell over her face, and she found herself less than a foot from the all-businessman who’d flatly refused all of her offers. She didn’t particularly care for the all-businessman. She kind of liked the drummer—not that she’d ever tell him that. He leaned over and whispered, “Munzinga? He’s a jerk,” in her ear.

So much for sweet nothings. Despite the insult, his breath touching her skin set off an unfortunate round of goose bumps—that she chose to ignore. “I figured that out yesterday, but thanks for the heads-up.”

Thin lines appeared around his eyes, and his mouth did something that could be smiling—a real, honest thing. Whatever it was, the shadows eased back, and Ben went from hot to intensely handsome. His eyes moved over her face with exacting precision. “So, the multipurpose room.”

“Just a second, and we’ll go look at the shop.” Josey left Livvy in charge of painting the walls and headed out into the hall. Ben followed—close, but not too close. Just within hand-holding range. Not that she would dare hold his hand within the same area code as Don.

The moment she opened the front door, the wind barreled across the hot grass, further demolishing her braid. “This way.” She moved quickly through the grass before he could change his mind and bail on the tour.

The shop, if one could call it that, was a little ways off from the school. The bigger kids were sawing away at the two-by-fours while the smaller boys held the wood steady. Don saw them coming. Heck, everyone saw them coming—the whole lot of them froze.

“This is a concrete foundation.” He seemed surprised about that.

“Classrooms have a higher priority than the shop.”

“I guess.” Josey pulled up short to look at him. Not what she’d expected to hear a valedictorian say. Ben shrugged, but they were within earshot of the still-motionless kids, so he didn’t clarify.

Professional. Be professional. “Much like the cafeteria, this building will serve several purposes. In addition to housing the shop classes, we’ll use it for storage and for the school vehicle.”

“Why aren’t they looking at me?” Crud. He’d noticed. “Do they have a problem with white people?”

How could she tell him that the only time most of these kids saw white people was when their parents were arrested for drug and alcohol violations? Or when social services came to take someone else away from the rez and the tribe—the only family most of these kids had? How could she possibly explain that some Lakota people refused to acknowledge white people at all—by not looking at them, they could pretend white people didn’t exist?

How could she hope to explain that’s why it was her job to be the face of the tribe to “outsiders”—because her grandfather had been an outsider himself? How some people still treated her and her mother like bastards at a family picnic? How some still whispered about her grandmother’s “betrayal” of the Lakota Nation, all because she’d dared to fall in love with a white man? How it would never matter how much her grandfather had given to the tribe, because he would always be a white man from New York?

She couldn’t. No one could ever understand how freaking hard it was to walk in both worlds—one where she was too Indian, the other where she was too white. She’d tried to explain it once—once, she’d been in love—and what had it gotten her? Nothing but heartbreak.

“No,” she said, trying to keep herself together. “They’re just not used to outsiders.”

Ben regarded her with open curiosity, like he was trying his darnedest to make sense of this strange new world he’d casually wandered into. But she wasn’t going to give him anything else.

He nodded. He was going to let it slide—this time. “Why are they using handsaws?”

Reality sucked. That’s all there was to it, but that’s not what she said. No, she was a professional, darn it. “I was attempting to negotiate for some power tools, but most shops operate on razor-thin margins and are unable to part with any equipment.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed as his nostrils flared. So maybe that wasn’t the most professional thing she’d ever said. Too late. It was out there now, and there was no taking it back.

Josey gave Don the most meaningful look she had. The old coot seemed to get the message. He said something in Lakota under his breath, and everyone started moving again. They didn’t look at Ben, but at least they weren’t frozen in a workshop tableau.

“We should let them get back to work.” She headed back to the building, but stopped short when she caught sight of the motorcycle. “Is that yours?”

“Built it myself,” he said with obvious pride. “You like it?”

“It’s beautiful.” She’d looked at the Crazy Horse website, seen all the wild bikes they’d be happy to build for a small fortune. But this bike was different. It had a vintage sensibility to it, with clean lines, a shiny gray body and normal-looking handlebars. Nothing like what was on his company’s website, but very much Ben.

She looked from the motorcycle to the man. He was watching her. She cleared her throat. “Would you like to see a classroom?” Because they had only one that was done.

He fell into step with her. “What about you?”

She tensed. “What about me?”

“Do you have a problem with white people? With me?”

“With you being white? No.”

He chuckled. “But you do have a problem with me.”

Gosh, wouldn’t it be nice if her mouth kept up with her brain? Yeah, she had a problem with him. More specifically, she had a problem with him just showing up when she least expected him. What next—he’d come to the house while she was in the shower?

She didn’t want to admit that the white thing could be part of the problem. The way everyone—from Don on down—had reacted to Ben’s mere existence made it perfectly clear that even entertaining the fantasy of another kiss would be fatal to her reputation within the tribe. She’d worked too hard to throw her place away on hot kisses.

She didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she cleared her throat and headed for Jenny’s classroom. She was a professional, darn it. “This is our first-and second-grade room. Do you remember Jenny Wahwasuck? This is her classroom.” She turned to look at Ben.

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?