One
Josey took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and
opened the door to Crazy Horse Choppers. She did this all
while managing to completely ignore the impending sense of
doom in her stomach—a sense of doom that told her
soliciting educational donations from a motorcycle shop, no
matter how upscale, was a hysterically bad idea.
The waiting room smelled of expensive leather and motor
oil. Two black leather chairs with chrome accents sat on
either side of a coffee table that was a sheet of round
glass precariously perched on a collection of motorcycle
handlebars twisted to form a base. Josey knew money when
she saw it, and that furniture said custom–made. One
wall was covered with autographed photos of her prey,
Robert Bolton, with every kind of celebrity and
pseudo–celebrity. A wall of glass separated the room
from the actual shop. Several large, scary–looking
men were working—with the kinds of tools she
needed—on the other side of the wall. Bad idea or no,
she was desperate. A shop class wasn't a class without shop
tools.
That thought was cut short by a hard–looking
woman—stringy hair that was supposed to be blond,
tattoos practically coming out of her ears and more
piercings than Josey could count—shouting, "Help
you?" over thrashing music. Metallica, Josey thought.
The receptionist sat at a glossy black desk that looked
to be granite. On the wall behind her hung a tasteful
arrangement of black leather motorcycle jackets emblazoned
with the Crazy Horse logo. The woman looked horribly out of
place.
A second later, the music quieted—replaced with
the high whine of shop tools cutting through metal. The
receptionist winced. Josey immediately revised her opinion
of the woman. If she had to listen to that whine all day,
she'd resort to heavy metal to drown it out, too.
"Hello," Josey said, sticking out her hand. The woman
looked at Josey's manicure and bangle bracelets and curled
a lip. It was not a friendly gesture. Undaunted, Josey just
smiled that much sweeter. "I'm Josette White Plume. I have
a nine–thirty appointment with Robert Bolton." After
another beat, Josey pulled her hand back. She kept her chin
up, though.
So what if the receptionist looked like she'd come to
work directly from an all–nighter? Bikers were
people, too. At least that's what Josey was going to keep
telling herself. A happy secretary was the difference
between getting a purchase order pushed through in a week
versus six months.
The receptionist—the nametag on her shirt said
Cass—leaned over and flipped a switch on an
intercom. "Your nine–thirty is here."
"My what?" The voice that came over the other end was
tinny, but deep—and distracted.
Didn't Robert remember she was coming? She'd sent an
email confirmation last night. The impending sense of doom
grew. Josey swallowed, but managed to do so quietly.
Cass shot her a look that might be apologetic. "Your
nine–thirty. More specifically, Bobby's
nine–thirty. But he's in L.A.—or did you miss
that?"
Wait—what? Who was in L.A.? Who was Cass talking
to?
The doom in her stomach turned violent, hitting her
with a wave of nausea. Dang, but she hated it when those
stupid senses were on target.
She thought she'd been prepared. She'd spent weeks
e–stalking Robert. She'd spent hours scrolling
through his social networks, taking detailed notes on with
whom he was meeting and why. She knew his favorite food
(cheeseburgers from some dive in L.A.), where he bought his
shirts (Diesel) and which actresses he'd been spotted
kissing (too many to count). Her entire pitch—down to
the close–cut, cap–sleeved, black wool
banquette dress she was wearing—was built around the
fact that Robert Bolton was a slick, ego–driven
salesman who was making his family's choppers a national
name. Heck, she knew more about Robert Bolton than she knew
about her own father.
But none of that mattered right now. She was
completely, totally unprepared. More than anything in this
world, Josey hated being unprepared. Failure to plan was
planning to fail. Being unprepared was about the same thing.
She'd been unprepared for Matt's rejection of her two
years ago. She'd already been making plans, but in the
end—because there was always an end—he'd chosen
his family over her. She didn't "fit," Matt had claimed.
And what he'd really meant was that, because she was a
Lakota Indian, she didn't fit in his world. And, as a white
man, he had no interest in fitting in hers. Not permanently.
The voice on the other end of the intercom
grumbled, "I'm aware Bobby's in California. Is it a client
or a supplier?"
"Neither."
"Then why the hell are you bothering me?" The intercom
snapped off with an audible huff.
"Sorry," Cass said, clearly not. "Can't help you."
The dismissal—blunt and heartless—took all
of her nerves and grated on them. Josey would not be
ignored. If there was one thing she'd learned from her
mother, it was that a silent Lakota Indian woman was a
forgotten Lakota Indian woman. Because that's what she
was—a Lakota woman.
She'd tried not being one, and that had just gotten her
heart trampled on. After the affair with Matt had ended so
spectacularly, she'd quit her job as a corporate fundraiser
in New York and come home to her mother and her tribe.
She'd somewhat foolishly thought they'd welcome her with
open arms, but that hadn't happened, either.
So here she was, doing her best to prove that she was a
full member of the tribe by building a school in the middle
of the rez. But schools were expensive to build, more
expensive to equip. So what if Crazy Horse Choppers had a
reputation for being less than warm and fuzzy toward
charitable causes? So what if Robert Bolton wasn't here?
Someone was up there, and whoever it was would have to do.
Screw being unprepared. Winging it had its advantages.
"Sure you can. You probably run this whole place, don't
you?"
Cass smiled—without making eye contact, but it
was still a smile. "Damn straight I do. Those boys would be
lost without me."
Josey considered her line of attack. "You aren't old
enough to have school–aged children—" Cass's
head popped up, a pleased smirk on her face. She might be
thirty–five or fifty–five—there was no
telling with all those tattoos. But flattery could get a
girl everywhere—if well done. And Josey could do it
well. "I'm raising money for the vo–tech program at a
new school, and I thought a chopper shop would be the
perfect place to start."
So that was a lie. This was a last–ditch attempt
to get some equipment. She'd started out approaching big
manufacturers and had slowly worked her way down the food
chain to local auto repair shops, remodeling contractors
and even shop teachers at wealthier schools. Nothing. Not a
damn thing.
Josey had gotten a
twenty–two–year–old internet billionaire
to give a few computers, a television chef who was on a
healthy food kick to pay for some kitchen equipment and a
furniture place to give her last year's model dining room
tables and chairs to use for desks. She couldn't pry a band
saw out of anyone's cold, dead hands. Against the vocal
protests of a small group of school board members, led by
Don Two Eagles, who wanted nothing to do with bikers in
general and Boltons in particular, she'd decided to try
Crazy Horse.
What did she have to lose? The school opened in five
weeks.
"A school?" Doubt crept across Cass's face. "I dunno..."
"If I could just talk to someone. . ."
Cass shot her a mean look. Right. She was someone, so
Josey pulled out a brochure and launched into her pitch.
"I represent the Pine Ridge Charter School. We're
dedicated to the educational and emotional well–being
of the underserved children of the Pine Ridge
reservation—"
Cass held up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I
give." She flipped on the intercom again.
"Damn it, what?" On the bright side, the man on the
other end was no longer distracted. However, he sounded
mad. That sense of doom came rushing back in.
"She won't go."
"Who the hell are you talking about?" Excellent, Josey
thought. Shouting.
Cass looked Josey up and down. There was something
sneaky in her eyes as she said, "The nine–thirty.
Says she's not going anywhere until she talks to someone."
He cursed. Rudely.
Whoa. F–bombs at nine–thirty in the
morning. What on Earth was she getting herself into?
"What is your problem, Cassie? You suddenly incapable
of throwing someone out the door?" The shout was so loud
that it briefly drowned out the sounds of the shop.
Cassie grinned like she was up for a round or two. She
winked at Josey and said, "Why don't you come down here and
throw her out yourself?"
"I do not have time for this. Get Billy to scare her
off."
"Out on a test drive. With your father. It's all you
today." She gave Josey a thumbs–up, as if this were a
positive development.
The intercom made a God–awful screeching noise
before it went dead. "Ben'll be right down," Cass said,
enjoying being a pain in the backside. She pointed to a
door in the wall of glass.
Maybe Josey should bail. Don Two Eagles had been
right—Crazy Horse Choppers was a crazy idea. Josey
put on her best smile as she thanked Cassie for helping
out, hoping the smile would hide the panic hammering at her
stomach.
Ben—Benjamin Bolton? Robert was the only member
of the Bolton family who had joined the twenty–first
century and had an online presence. Aside from a fuzzy
group photo of the entire Crazy Horse staff and a
generic–sounding history that traced how Bruce Bolton
had founded the company forty years ago, she hadn't found
anything usable about any other Bolton. She knew next to
nothing about Ben. She thought he was the chief financial
officer, and Robert's older brother. That was all she had
to go on.
Before she'd made up her mind to stand her ground or
take off, the glass door flew open. Ben Bolton filled the
doorframe, anger rolling off him in waves so palpable Josey
fought to keep her balance. Should have run, she thought as
Mr. Bolton roared, "What the hell—"
Then he caught sight of Josey. For a split second, he
froze as he stared at her. Then everything about him
changed. His jaw—solid enough to have been carved
from granite—set as his eyes flashed with something
that might have been anger, but Josey chose to interpret as
desire.
Maybe that was just wishful thinking—in all
likelihood, he was still angry—but without a doubt,
Ben Bolton was the most handsome man she'd seen in a long
time. Maybe ever. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she couldn't
tell if that was attraction or just nerves.
He straightened up and puffed out his chest. Okay. This
situation was salvageable. Brothers often liked the same
things—music, games—why should women be any
different? She didn't have enough time left to start over.
She batted her eyelashes at him—a move she'd learned
a long time ago worked despite being clichéd.
"Mr. Bolton? Josette White Plume," she said, advancing
on him with a hand outstretched. His palm swallowed hers.
He could have crushed her hand, but he didn't. His grip was
firm without being dominating. She felt her cheeks get even
warmer. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me
today." They both knew that he'd taken no such time, but a
gentleman wouldn't contradict a lady. His reaction would
tell her exactly what kind of man she was dealing with
here. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."
Bolton's nostrils flared as the muscles along his jaw
tensed. "How can I help you, Ms. White...Plume?" He said
her name like he was afraid of it.
Lovely. Hopefully he wouldn't start spouting all that
PC nonsense about how she was an indigenous American of
Native descent. As long as no one called her an Injun, the
world could keep turning. She tightened her grip on his
hand enough that one of his eyebrows notched up. She
couldn't tell if his hair was black or brown in the dim
light of the waiting room, but he'd look plenty good either
way. "Perhaps we could discuss the particulars elsewhere?"
Suddenly, Bolton dropped her hand so fast that it
bordered on pushing her away. "Why don't you come up to my
office?" he asked, that flash of anger growing a little
stronger.
Behind her, Cass snorted. Bolton shot her a look of
pure warning, a look so hot Josey might have melted if it
had been aimed square at her. But the dangerous look went
right over her shoulder. By the time Ben Bolton turned
those baby blues back to her, he was back to that
no–man's–land between danger and desire. He
stared down at her with an intensity she didn't normally
encounter. He was waiting for her answer, she realized
after a silent moment had passed. That was unusual. Most
men just expected her to follow.
"That would be fine. I wouldn't want to keep Cass from
her work."
Bolton narrowed those blue eyes in challenge, then
turned on his heel and stalked out the room. Josey barely
had time to grab her briefcase before he'd disappeared out
of sight.
"Good luck with that," Cass called out behind her in a
cackling laugh.
In these shoes, Josey had to hurry to keep up with
Bolton's long strides. He took the metal stairs two at a
time, putting his bottom somewhere between hand and eye
level. She shouldn't be openly gaping—not in public,
anyway—but she couldn't help it. The whole back end
was a sight to behold. Ben Bolton had wide shoulders
packing the kind of muscle that a gray button–down
shirt couldn't hide. His torso was long and lean, narrowing
into a V–waist that was wrapped in a leather tool
belt, which was way more cowboy than biker. His ankles were
the safest place to look, Josey decided. Black denim jeans
flowed over black cowboy boots with extra thick soles.
One thing was abundantly clear. Ben Bolton wasn't a
normal CFO.
Below her, someone wolf–whistled. Before she
could react—cringe, stick out her chin in defiance,
anything—Bolton whipped his body to the railing and
shouted, "That's enough!" in a voice powerful enough that
Josey swore she could feel the vibrations through the metal
stairs.
The sounds of the workshop—the clanging of
hammers hitting metal, the whine of air compressors, a
stream of words she could only vaguely discern as
cursing—instantly died down to a low hum as Bolton
bristled. For a moment, Josey thought she saw the railing
bend in his grasp.
Josey's insides went a little gooey. This wasn't a show
of power, this was actual power, so potent that she could
nearly taste it. Ben Bolton commanded absolute respect, and
he got it. She was an outsider here—she couldn't
think of a time when she'd been more out of her
league—but he still defended her without a second
thought.
Bolton's glare swung down to where she stood
precariously perched on a step, as if he thought she'd
challenge the authority that had silently reined in twelve
men armed with power tools. And then he was moving away
from her, taking each step slowly and methodically this
time.
Josey's pulse began to flutter at her wrists. She was
used to men trying to impress her with their money, their
things—all symbols of their power. This was a man who
didn't appear to give a darn about impressing her. Heck,
given the way he now stood at the top of the stairs, arms
crossed and boot tapping with obvious impatience at her
careful pace—Josey was pretty sure he detested her.
Somehow, that made him that much more impressive.
When she neared the top, Bolton flung open a steel door
and waited for her to get her butt in the office with
poorly disguised contempt on his face. The doom ricocheting
around her belly grew harder to ignore. She'd missed her
chance to bolt, though. She had no choice but to tough this
out.
The moment the door shut, the sounds of the shop died
away. Blissful silence filled her ears, but her eyes were
now taking the brunt of things. Bolton's office had so much
metal in it that Josey was immediately thankful the sun
wasn't shining in through the floor–to–wall
windows. A stainless–steel desk was underneath
sprawling piles of papers. Filing cabinets that matched the
desk perfectly made up a whole wall.
Everything in this gray office—down to the
leather executive chair and the walls—said money. The
leather–and–chrome seats downstairs had said
money, too. But this was different. Downstairs screamed of
someone dressing the place to impress. Up here? Mr. Bolton
didn't give a flying rat's behind about impressing anyone.
This was all about control. Or Ben Bolton was
color–blind. Either way, the whole place looked
depressingly industrial. In a wire mesh trash can , she saw
the remains of what had to be the recently departed
intercom. Had he ripped it out of the wall? Because of her?
No wonder Bolton was in a bad mood. If Josey had to
work in this office, she'd probably curl up into a lump of
iron ore and die.
Bolton motioned for her to sit in a shop
chair—also metal. He sat down and fixed her with
another one of those dangerous/desirous glares. He picked
up a pen and began bouncing the tip on the metal desk,
which filled the air with a perfectly timed pinging. "What
do you want?"
Oh, yeah, he was mad. Being as she had no plan B, Josey
decided to stick with plan A. It was still a plan, after
all. "Mr. Bolton—"
"Ben."
That was more like it. Familiarity bred success. "Ben,"
she started over. "Where did you go to school?"
Robert had graduated from a suburban high school in a
wealthy area of Rapid City about twenty miles from where
they sat. Odds were decent Ben had gone there, too.
"What?" Confusion. Also not bad. An opponent
off–balance was easier to push in the right direction.
"I'd be willing to bet that you graduated near the top
of your class, maybe played on the football team? You look
like a former quarterback." Josey followed this up with one
of her award–winning smiles—warm, full, with
just a hint of flirting while she checked out those
shoulders again. Wow. If Ben Bolton wasn't so intimidating,
he'd be all kinds of hot. What did he look like without all
the gray? Boy, she'd love to see what he looked like on a
bike. He had to ride. He ran a motorcycle company.
Flattery usually got her everywhere—but not with
this man. Ben's glare moved farther away from desire and a
heck of a lot closer to dangerous. "Valedictorian. And
running back, All State. So what?"
Josey managed to swallow without breaking her smile.
The "All–State" was a good sign—bragging, if
only just. But the pinging of the pen on metal got
louder—and faster. Besides, she shouldn't be
entertaining any sexual thoughts about another white man,
not after the last debacle. She needed to stick to her
goals here. Getting the school ready would earn her a place
within the tribe—permanently.
"Your school had computers in every classroom, didn't
it?" Before he could demand "So what?" again, she kept
going. "New textbooks every few years,
top–of–the–line football helmets and
teachers who actually understood what they taught, right?"
With a final, resounding clang, the pen stopped
bouncing. Ben didn't stop glaring, though. Josey sat
through the silence. She would not let this man know he
intimidated her. So, chin up and shoulders back, she met
his gaze and waited.
His hair was a deep brown, she realized. She could see
the warm tones underneath—much browner than her own
chestnut hair. A few streaks of salty white were trying to
get a foothold at his temple, but his hair was cropped
close in a no–nonsense buzz cut. The scowl he wore
looked permanent.
Does he have any fun?
The question popped into her mind out of the blue, but
it had nothing to do with game–planning her strategy.
She found herself hoping he had some kind of fun, but she
doubted it occurred within the walls of this steel box.
Finally, he broke the silence. "What do you want."
It wasn't a question—oh, no. A question would be
getting off easy. This was an order, plain and simple.
That meant the answer to all of her previous questions
was yes. She couldn't afford to waste any more time on
setting up the pitch. If she didn't get on with it, he
might take it upon himself to throw her out personally.
"Are you aware that the state of South Dakota has
recently been forced to cut all funding to schools across
the board?"
A look of disbelief stole over his face. "What?"
Right. He hadn't known she was coming; obviously, his
brother hadn't told him about her. She pressed on. "As I
told your brother Robert—"
"You mean Bobby."
She forced a smile at the interruption. Hot and
intimidating sounded like a good combo, but the hotness
just made the intimidating more intense. She prayed she
wasn't about to start blushing. "Of course. As I told him,
I'm seeking donations for the Pine Ridge Charter School."
The look of disbelief got closer to incredulous, but Josey
didn't give him a chance to interrupt her again. "Fewer
than twenty percent of Lakota Sioux students graduate from
high school—less than thirty percent go past the
eighth grade." No, he didn't believe that, either, but
then, few people did. The numbers were too unbelievable.
"Currently," she went on like a warrior out to count
coup, "there is no school located within a two–hour
drive from some parts of the reservation. Many students
must be bussed two hours each way. If they're lucky, they
get one of the good schools. If they're not, though, they
get textbooks that are twenty years old, no computers,
teachers who don't give a darn if their students live or
die." The near–curse word got her something that
might have been a quarter of a grin.
Maybe Ben liked things a little gritty. Well, Josey
could do gritty. "Between the butt–numbing trip on
buses that break down all the time, the crappy education
and the unrelenting bullying for being American Indians,
most choose to drop out. People expect them to fail.
Unemployment on the reservation is also near eighty
percent. Any idiot can see that figure mirrors the dropout
rate almost precisely." She batted her eyes again. "You
don't look like an idiot to me."
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 upfront."
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 onto 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.