âI donât know how I can thank you.â
He could think of a couple of ideasâand that was just for starters. The stupid part of his brain tried to argue that he just needed a woman. That was all. But he was starting to think he didnât need just any woman. He was starting to think he needed this woman.
âLet me take you to dinnerâtonight.â
Oh, yeah, he wanted her. But he wanted her to want him back. Just him. Not his money, not his band, not his financial skills and most certainly not his ability to keep the family together.
Her mouth parted, and she lifted her chin toward him. One kissâwhat could it hurt? Idiot, he thought to himself as he moved closer. Like there was a shot in hell he could stop at just one.
Award-winning author SARAH M. ANDERSON may live east of the Mississippi River, but her heart lies out West on the Great Plains. With a lifelong love of horses and two history teachers for parents, she had plenty of encouragement to learn everything she could about the Wild West.
When she started writing, it wasnât long before her characters found themselves out West. She loves to put people from two different worlds into new situations and see how their backgrounds and cultures take them someplace they never thought theyâd go.
When not helping out at her sonâs elementary school or walking her rescue dogs, Sarah spends her days having conversations with imaginary cowboys and American Indians, all of which is surprisingly well tolerated by her wonderful husband. Readers can find out more about Sarahâs love of cowboys and Indians at www.sarahmanderson.com.
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 stomachâa 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 workingâwith the kinds of tools she neededâon the other side of the wall. Bad idea or no, she was desperate. A shop class wasnât a class without shop tools.
That thought was cut short by a hard-looking womanâstringy hair that was supposed to be blond, tattoos practically coming out of her ears and more piercings than Josey could countâshouting, âHelp you?â 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 quietedâreplaced 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, sheâd resort to heavy metal to drown it out, too.
âHello,â Josey said, sticking out her hand. The woman looked at Joseyâs manicure and bangle bracelets and curled a lip. It was not a friendly gesture. Undaunted, Josey just smiled that much sweeter. âIâm Josette White Plume. I have a nine-thirty appointment with Robert Bolton.â After another beat, Josey pulled her hand back. She kept her chin up, though.
So what if the receptionist looked like sheâd come to work directly from an all-nighter? Bikers were people, too. At least thatâs 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 receptionistâthe name tag on her shirt said Cassâleaned over and flipped a switch on an intercom. âYour nine-thirty is here.â
âMy what?â The voice that came over the other end was tinny, but deepâand distracted.
Didnât Robert remember she was coming? Sheâd 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. âYour nine-thirty. More specifically, Bobbyâs nine-thirty. But heâs in L.A.âor did you miss that?â
Waitâwhat? 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 sheâd been prepared. Sheâd spent weeks e-stalking Robert. Sheâd 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 heâd been spotted kissing (too many to count). Her entire pitchâdown to the close-cut, cap-sleeved, black wool banquette dress she was wearingâwas built around the fact that Robert Bolton was a slick, ego-driven salesman who was making his familyâs choppers a national name. Heck, she knew more about Robert Bolton than she knew about her own father.