Warrior In Her Bed. Cathleen Galitz

in her hand. Suddenly feeling like he was back in grade school all over again, he reverted to the kind of insolence that had so often led him to the principal’s office. Deliberately, he let his own dark eyes traverse this young woman’s body from head to toe—and back up again. The smile playing with the corners of his lips left little doubt that he liked what he saw.

      “No, thanks,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded insolently across his chest. “I can see everything I want to see just fine from right here.”

      “Suit yourself,” she replied, slipping on a pair of safety goggles and proceeding with her presentation.

      Had it not been for the telltale flush in her cheeks, Johnny might have believed that his presence had absolutely no effect upon the lady. She was one cool customer. He had to admire the way she sidestepped his intended power play by simply continuing on with her demonstration as if he were not in the room at all. The difficult curve of her intended pattern snapped the thick glass neatly in two separate pieces, causing her pupils to let out an appreciative “ohhh!” at what was apparently a remarkable feat.

      Calling to mind his sister’s directive—to keep the teacher from disrupting her relationship with her daughter, Johnny provided a sarcastic second syllable to the class’s admiring outburst.

      “Ahhh,” he murmured just loudly enough for everyone to hear.

      Crimson Dawn shot him a dirty look and muttered a one-word warning under her breath. “Uncle…”

      Glancing in the general vicinity of where the heckler was standing, her teacher pushed the goggles to the top of her head. “It’s not all that exciting, but I’m glad you approve nonetheless. You’ll have to come back tomorrow when we’ll begin the thrilling process of grinding off the rough edges.”

      Johnny noticed that her smile did not reach her eyes, which were presently shooting off more sparks than an arc welder. If he hadn’t been spoiling for a fight, he would have been tempted to put on a pair of protective goggles himself. He wondered if her seemingly benign remark was actually pointed at him on a personal level. The hint of a smile flitted across his face. Every woman with whom he’d been involved before had inevitably come to discover that his edges were far too rough to be smoothed away.

      “That’s all for today, class. Time to put up your materials.”

      As her students scurried to do her bidding, Ms. Wainwright proceeded to divest herself of her goggles altogether. Johnny found himself wishing that she would free her hair from its restraint, as well. The no-nonsense ponytail pulling her hair so austerely away from her face didn’t do her justice. He imagined what she would look like with that lustrous mane loose about her face. He suspected it would make her look older—perhaps all of twenty-seven or twenty-eight. When she put a hand to the middle of her back and stretched her taut muscles, something dangerous tightened in Johnny’s loins. Feeling like a voyeur, he was unable to pull his gaze away.

      “Why don’t you introduce me to your uncle?” he heard her ask Crimson Dawn.

      The girl blew her bangs out of her eyes with an exasperated burst of air directed heavenward. Johnny grinned unabashedly. It wasn’t the first or the last time he would be destined to embarrass his headstrong niece, the one most like him of all his kin. Reluctantly she obliged, leading her teacher across the spacious art room to where he struck a leisurely pose. With his back against the doorway, he gave every impression that he had all the time in the world. One knee was bent to allow a booted foot to rest against the door frame. His arms remained stubbornly crossed over his chest, calling into question whether he would actually extend a hand by way of a customary polite introduction.

      “This is my uncle Johnny—”

      “John,” he corrected his niece. “John Lonebear.”

      Lone wolf suits you better, Annie thought to herself.

      At six foot two inches, John Lonebear was a big man, whose broad shoulders filled his Western-cut shirt as completely as his very presence filled the airy room in which they stood. His face was angular, and his skin was the color of warm, burnished copper. A military-style haircut didn’t hide his heritage any more than a pair of store-bought jeans and shirt could conceal his rock-hard physique. Absently Annie wondered what this man would look like with his thick black hair grown out and braided in the usual manner that Hollywood liked to portray Native American men. Such a fierce-looking warrior would undoubtedly be the bane of traditional leading men by stealing any scene in which he appeared. The predatory glint in those unfathomable black eyes of his made Annie hesitate to offer him her hand.

      She had the unnerving feeling that he might well bite it off.

      “Pleased to meet you,” she said nevertheless, holding her breath and sticking her hand out bravely.

      He took a long time uncrossing his arms before finally taking her hand inside both of his. The jolt that surged through Annie at his touch was nothing short of primordial, causing such a pure animal-like reaction in her that she actually felt the fine hair on her arms responding. Though her own knowledge of Native American culture was shaky at best, she found herself wondering if this mysterious fellow was part shaman or medicine man.

      What kind of magical powers did John Lonebear have that evoked images of a magnificent beast, part man and part wolf dominating not only the rugged landscape but also the pack that relied upon his cunning? Such a creature was certain to savagely protect what he considered to be his territory.

      Annie withdrew both her hand and her hesitant smile. Hoping that he hadn’t noticed that she was actually shaking slightly from the encounter, she refrained from rubbing away the goose bumps on her arms and drawing even more attention to her involuntary reaction.

      “What exactly can I do for you, Mr. Lonebear?” she asked directly.

      You can remove yourself from my niece’s life and my school and run away from here as fast as the wind will carry you, Johnny was tempted to tell her straight-out. You can pack up your big-city ideas and that enticing perfume you’re wearing and hitch a ride off the reservation before you get gobbled up by some big bad wolf who finds you too tempting a morsel to pass over. And, since you’re asking, what I really want you to do is to kiss me like you’ve never kissed anybody before.

      Where that thought came from, Johnny couldn’t say. He knew only that the visible shiver running through this woman’s body was transferred to his by way of some unseen conduit. His fingertips tingled as if he had foolishly wet them before sticking them into an open socket. His body hummed with an awareness that made him want to divest himself of his skin altogether and to discount the gut feeling that was pulling him toward an uncertain and dangerous destiny. The old ones would say this was undoubtedly a sign that should be heeded.

      A portent not to be ignored.

      More likely a warning from above, Johnny thought wryly. An omen that this woman harbored the kind of prejudice that had shaped him into the man he was. The smile he had considered bestowing upon her a mere moment ago turned into a sneer. Pushing himself out of the doorway, he leaned right into her personal space.

      “What you can do for me, Ms. Wainwright,” he said drawing the “Ms.” into an intentional hiss, “is stick to teaching stained glass and stop putting that pretty little nose of yours into your students’ personal lives.”

      She couldn’t have looked more stunned had he hauled off and slapped her right across the face.

      “Please call me Annie,” she suggested, hastening to set the conversation on a more personal level before attempting to isolate the source of this man’s annoyance.

      “Around here, we like to maintain the formality of addressing our teachers by their last names out of respect for the dignity of the profession,” he informed her coolly.

      If this woman thought she could gentle him like some newborn foal with that soft, coaxing voice of hers, she was sorely mistaken. Just because her name was as simple and welcoming as the very sound of it rolling off her tongue didn’t mean he was about to succumb to her surprisingly down-to-earth