to keep the defeat out of it.
His shoulders flexed. “Not even for the free advertising.”
He was staring at her again, waiting to see if she’d challenge him. She swallowed and bit her lower lip. The barest glimmer of desire crossed his face.
“Isn’t there … anything I can do to change your mind?” The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she could take them back. She didn’t make offers like that, ever. So why the heck had she just said that?
Not that it worked. She thought she saw his pupils dilate, but it was hard to be sure because his eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Does that work?”
No, she wanted to tell him, because she’d never made the offer before. Yes, he was hot. He was also arrogant, domineering and quite possibly heartless—a real Scrooge in leather. All reasons her mouth should have stayed firmly closed. It didn’t matter whether or not Ben Bolton was good in bed. Or on his desk. Or even on one of his choppers, for that matter. It didn’t matter if she wanted to find out—or it shouldn’t matter. But with one mistaken sentence, suddenly it did.
And he wouldn’t even say yes to that.
The rejection stung her pride, and she wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she never got the chance. At that moment, a huge crash reverberated up through the floor of his office, loud enough that every piece of metal in the joint shook with enough force that she had to grab on to her chair to keep from falling off it.
Ben slumped forward, weariness on his face. He held up one hand and did a silent countdown—three, two, one—before his phone buzzed.
“What?” He didn’t sound surprised.
The voice on the other end was loud enough that even Josey winced. Ben had to hold the receiver a half a foot away from his head.
“I’m busy” was all he said, slamming the phone down. “Miss White Plume …” He paused, as if he was waiting for her to reciprocate his “Ben” with her “Josey.” When she didn’t, he went on with an apologetic shrug. “I’d recommend coming over here,” he said, motioning to his side of the desk. Another huge crash shook the floor. “Right now.”
Closer to him—mere seconds after that rejection? The next crash seemed closer—like a herd of buffalo were stampeding up the stairs. Josey was in no mood to be trampled. She gathered her things and scurried over to Ben’s side of the desk. He took a protective step in front of her just as the door was thrown open with enough force that she was sure she saw the hinges come loose.
A man—no, more like a monster—burst into the room. He was huge—easily six-five, with a long handlebar mustache that was jet-black. His muscles were barely contained by a straining blue T-shirt, which matched the do-rag he had tied over his head. His eyes were hidden by wraparound shades, making it impossible to know how old he was. “Goddamn it,” he roared, the noise echoing off all the metal, “you tell that bastard you call a brother that I told him to—”
Josey’s presence registered, and the man bit off his curse at the same time an even bigger man, covered with enough facial hair to render him indistinguishable from a black bear, shoved into the room. “I told you, there’s no way you can pull off that asinine idea, and—”
The man with the handlebar mustache punched the bear in the shoulder and jerked a thumb toward Josey. She couldn’t help it. Even though she was mad as all get-out at Ben for turning her down—both times—she found herself cowering behind him. Compared to the wall of bikers hollering on the other side of the desk, Ben was the safest thing in the room. He leaned in front of her a little more and put one hand behind him, keeping her contained. She was furious with him, more furious with herself—but that simple act of protection left her feeling grateful.
“Aw, hell,” the bear muttered.
“What you got there, son?”
Ah. So the man with the handlebar mustache was Bruce Bolton, chief executive officer of Crazy Horse Choppers—and father of the Bolton men. Which meant that the bear behind him was probably Billy, the creative force behind Crazy Horse. Looked like that test drive they’d been on hadn’t gone well.
Josey didn’t particularly like the way the senior Bolton was eyeing her—and she especially didn’t like being a “what.” Not that she could be sure—he still had on his sunglasses—but she got the distinct feeling he was undressing her with his eyes.
Ben’s shoulders flexed. “I told you, I’m busy.” He reached over and picked up his phone. His motions seemed calm, but she could sense the coiled tension just below the surface.
The worst place in the world had to be the middle of a Bolton brawl, because it sure looked like all three of them were ready to throw down, here and now. Maybe that’s why the whole office was done in metal. Easier to wash off the blood.
“Cassie, please escort our guest to her car,” he said, icy daggers coming off his words. He set the phone back down, positioning his body just a fraction more between Josey and his father.
No one moved; no one said a thing. She’d been scared before, sure. She’d talked her way out of being felt up by associates of her grandfather; she’d beaten the living crap out of a boy who’d thought she was an easy target back in high school. But this? Hands down, the scariest situation she’d ever gotten herself into.
Cass appeared, shoving her way into the room. “Damn, Bruce, you’re scaring her,” she said, hip-checking the older man out of the way. “Come on,” she said to Josey. “Let them fight it out in private.”
Ben nodded, a small movement that she took to mean she was safe with the only other woman in the place. Moving slowly, she stepped around the desk, careful to avoid the older man. The younger one gave her plenty of room before he favored her with a familiar-looking nod that bordered on a polite bow.
“Miss White Plume,” Ben called to her as soon as she was clear of his office’s threshold. “Good luck.”
Cass shut the door, which wasn’t enough to block the sound of a battle royal erupting behind it. Josey didn’t get the chance to wish him the same.
She had the feeling she’d just about used up all of her luck for the day.
Two
Stick’s chord from “Dirty Deed Done Dirt Cheap” still hung in the air as Ben attacked his drums with a wild energy for the next song. Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” was his best song, one he could literally beat the hell out of.
The groupies crowded around the front of the stage at The Horny Toad Bar screamed as Ben tore through his big solo. Stick, his oldest friend in the world, came in hard on the guitar riff, and—in that brief moment before Rex started singing—Ben could pretend that the Rapid City Rollers were a real rock band, not a weekend cover band.
Try his best, though, Rex couldn’t come close to David Lee Roth—or Sammy Hagar, for that matter—so the illusion that Ben was a professional drummer never lasted. Sure, they were popular here, but South Dakota didn’t have a lot of people in it. Still, this was Ben’s song, and he gave it his all. The crowd was on its feet, somewhere between dancing and moshing in drunken delight.
Saturday nights were the best. For one long night once a week, Ben wasn’t a CFO. He didn’t have to worry
