To her surprise, Tag didn’t argue.
Once he was seated, she looked at Jack and said, “So, which did you choose? I think you said you wanted a couple, right?”
“This strand of barbed wire around my upper arm, for sure,” he said, flipping back a couple of pages in the binder. “And what about this one for my neck?”
She’d had an idea which she thought would look best and was pleased when his choice matched hers. “Good,” she said.
She was close enough to see his cheeks color a bit at her praise. She found his blush terribly sweet. And took a step back.
Sweet and swoo were a dangerous mix. “Anything else?” She tried to keep her tone stiff and professional.
He gave her an odd look but quickly skimmed ahead to one of the upper-torso shots. “This one caught my eye right off the bat.”
She felt her eyebrows shoot upward. “Really?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. It’s one of my favorites, but I don’t do it a lot because it costs quite a bit. And takes me nearly an hour.”
“Is time an issue?”
She glanced at her wrist. No watch. She’d forgotten to put it on. “Um…I guess not. Henna takes longer to dry, so that adds to the overall time, but if you’re sure about using the black…”
“Yep. Positive.” He reached down and picked up a brown paper sack. “I read the printout you clipped to the binder, but nothing in the report has changed my mind.”
Again, she wanted to ask why, but didn’t feel comfortable probing into personal matters in front of Tag. “I’ll give the ink a try, but no promises. We’ll start with your arm. If it comes out okay, then I’ll try another.”
“Excellent,” he said with a smile. “If it works out, I’d like this one right here.” He poked a spot to the right of his heart.
She stepped closer and leaned over to see which image he was pointing at. A rose with a thorny stem and tears dropping from the points. The image cried, “Back off and leave my broken heart alone.” At least that was what she’d been thinking when she’d drawn it.
Bloody thorns. A surefire swoo stopper.
“You got it,” she said, suddenly feeling much better about her decision to do this at home.
A second later, the neighbor dogs started barking.
“Dad’s here,” Tag called.
“Uncharacteristically good timing,” she murmured before dashing to the steps to give her son one last hug. He indulged her—probably to make up for earlier—then he hurried away, clomping down the steps in a noisy descent.
She stood for a moment, then waved when she saw father and son look her way. She didn’t hang around to see if Pete wanted to talk to her. Instead, she walked straight to her supply box and picked up her bottle of mehlabiya oil. She’d already decided to follow her usual procedures even if she agreed to try a different dye.
“I need you to take off your shirt, then scoot the chair closer to the railing. You’ll lean forward and rest your right arm like so,” she said, demonstrating.
“No problem.” His words were muffled and when she looked at him, she saw that he was in the process of yanking off his T-shirt. Arms lifted, he struggled a moment, his bare chest and torso displayed with heart-stopping clarity.
He was a perfect blend of Pete’s leanness and Drew’s roundness. And most women would have killed for that skin tone. No visible tan lines. “Do you go to a tanning salon?” she asked, without meaning to say the words aloud.
Once his head was free, he looked at her. “Pardon? Tanning? God, no. Too busy. But I swim laps. Heated pool, so I can do it year-round.”
A swimmer’s shoulders. Of course. She should have known. Pete had been on the water-polo team in high school when they first started dating.
She cleared her throat. “Can I get you a glass of water or a pop before we start?”
“Water would be good. My body is definitely dehydrated after all that booze last night. I hope I didn’t make too big a fool of myself.”
She shook her head. “I was afraid I might have to tattoo over bruises today, but luckily Mo and Curly left pretty quickly.”
His chuckle was low and intimate. Kat was sure he hadn’t intended it as sexy, but her body reacted as if it was. Damn. He wasn’t making this easy. But she was determined to stay detached and professional. Even if she had to hang out in the kitchen a few minutes and practice yoga breathing.
“Get settled. I’ll be right back.”
Jack watched Kat walk away. Well, walk wasn’t the right word. She seemed to bound with natural grace. She was a petite ball of energy, and he liked her. Her kid he could live without. Sullen. Even with his back to the adults, Jack had sensed the boy’s animosity.
My fault, he thought. I could have handled things better where the bike was concerned.
But what he didn’t know about kids could fill more pages than Kat’s tattoo portfolio. And he was okay with that. There were plenty of women around who didn’t have children. Maybe not quite as many who didn’t want children, but if he kept looking he’d find one.
Someday.
In the meantime, he could appreciate Kat as a woman and an artist. He didn’t know why she didn’t regard herself as an artist, but the sketch he’d picked for his back was gorgeous. A Celtic cross with ivy and some kind of lily entwined around it. He’d been drawn to it immediately, and expected to pay dearly, although she hadn’t named her price yet.
“Hey, Kat, you were going to tell me how much. I want to be sure I have enough cash. I’m assuming you don’t take credit cards.”
She returned a moment later with two large acrylic tumblers filled with ice and water. The one she handed him had a straw. “This way you can drink without moving your neck,” she told him. “When I start on your back.”
After she sat her glass on her worktable, she passed him an invoice with his total bill circled at the bottom. “How’s that look?”
Cheap. He’d add a healthy tip to bring it up to what it should be. “No complaints.” He handed it back. “I have the cash in my pocket. Do you want it up front?”
She shook her head. “Let’s make sure they turn out the way you hoped. Now, for the last time, are you sure I can’t talk you into real henna? It’s a centuries-old tradition and the color is really beautiful as it fades.” She frowned. “Technically, the dye is permanent. The reason it disappears is your body grows new epidermis and sloughs the dyed cells off.”
He shook his head. “If the chlorine in the racket club’s pool doesn’t affect me, nothing will. I swear on my life I won’t sue you if Brian’s stuff leaves a scar. Do you want me to sign some kind of consent form?”
“I would if I had one,” she said, releasing a deep breath. Her sigh had the unintentional result of reminding him of his dream. He took a drink through the straw to ease the lump in his throat. He needed to keep his focus on something other than her charming little body, her smell, her touch. It wasn’t going to be easy, but small talk might help.
“So, tell me more about this Hollywood thing. Are they hiring locals to be extras?”
She put her hands on the outside of his shoulders to get him squared up the way she wanted. He felt tilted slightly to one side, but his view of the hillside was less provocative than watching her move. The reddish dirt reminded him of home. He’d done his share of hiking around Red Rocks.
She used a piece of fabric to wipe the area where the tattoo would go. Her touch was firm and practiced.
“Extras?” he prompted.
“Oh, yes. Sorry. I was visualizing this design and got distracted. The TV show. Right. They are hiring people. My friend Libby put my name at the top of the list.”
“I’ve never been around a movie or television set. They’re not doing this for a couple of weeks, you said?”
“Uh-huh. I don’t know the exact date.”
“But you signed up?”
“Well…um…sure. I can always use the money. As long as the filming doesn�
��t fall during the Sturgis Bike Rally.”
The guy he’d bought his bike from had urged Jack to attend the event. “Motorcyles like you have never seen in your life, man,” the guy had raved. “And the partying. Totally crazy.”
Jack had purposely planned this trip to avoid the mayhem. A fact that would have made Jaydene laugh since his attitude seemed to support her contention that he was antisocial and unadventurous.
“You attend the bike rally?”
“Have for years. I can do a couple of grand’s worth of tattoos when the bikers are in town. A lot of their lady friends want the look, but not the permanence. I do body piercing, too.”
He tried to look over his shoulder to where she was squatting. “Really? Maybe I—”
She used the heel of her hand to push his head back down. “Piercing involves needles. No way around it. Now, sit still. I’m sketching in the gap from my stencil. Your biceps are pretty well developed for a dentist.”
For a dentist. A general assumption he’d come to expect. His wasn’t the most glamorous of occupations, but as a little boy he could still recall how proud he’d been when his father came to the school to inspect his classmates’ teeth. Free. “Just doing my civic duty,” his dad would say humbly.
Years later—after the accusation and brouhaha—people had speculated about his father’s motive for volunteering to do the school exams.
Jack closed his eyes and concentrated on the strange feeling of a pen lightly dancing across his skin. The heat from her hand was there, too. The sensation was utterly sensuous and hypnotizing.
He wasn’t sure how or when, but the next thing he knew Kat was shaking his opposite shoulder. “The first one is done, but I think we’re going to have to move inside before I do the one on your back and your chest. The wind’s come up. Feels like rain.”
Rain? Not a good thing for a biker.
He blinked and sat upright, a little groggy from his nap. “I fell asleep.”
“I know. Happens all the time. The applicator works like a micro massage or something.”
His embarrassment eased. He picked up his shirt, but she grabbed it from him. “This ink is drying fast, but not that fast. Why don’t you go inside and check out the design in the mirror? See if the black ink is living up to your expectations.”
He stood, covering his yawn with his left hand. She held the door open for him. “The bathroom is straight ahead, first door on the left.”
The vanity was spotless, but also jam-packed with juvenile toiletries—boy kind. A comic-book hero toothbrush. Some other action-figure soap dispenser. Two hairbrushes. Two tubes of toothpaste. Neither was the kind his father would have approved of.
He turned sideways. The image on his bicep was larger, and much darker, than it had looked in the picture. The black seemed to shine like newly spilled tar. He assumed the brilliance would fade pretty quickly. What surprised him was how vibrant and dynamic the design looked when he flexed.
“What do you think?” she asked from the doorway.
“I’m beginning to understand why people get tattoos. This is great. I love it.”
“Phew,” she said, wiping an imaginary bead of sweat from her smooth brow. “I’m glad. The gothic barbed wire has a lot of detail.”
He looked at her in the mirror, standing close enough for him to see but not close enough to actually make contact with him. He found it funny that she remained so aloof after she’d just spent twenty minutes touching him. He wondered if her edginess was because of the small space he’d inadvertently invaded.
When her gaze met his, he saw for the first time just how blue her eyes really were. Like a Rocky Mountain lake reflecting the sky on a sunny day. Gorgeous.
She quickly retreated and motioned for him to proceed ahead of her. “We should probably get to the others right away. I want the ink to have time to dry before you take off. It could be a problem if you got caught in a storm.”
He looked around as he returned to the kitchen. The living room was small—about the size of his office waiting room—but every bit as neat as the other parts of the house he’d seen. Probably a tough accomplishment with two young children. He could see stacks of board games under the coffee table and what looked like an Xbox or some video-game apparatus. Although his office manager stocked several of the latest games for their younger clients, Jack had never owned one. His father hadn’t approved. He thought video games created fat, lazy kids.
Kat’s son wasn’t fat. Jack couldn’t speak to the kid’s ambition.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine. Although I’m a little embarrassed. I can’t tell you the last time I took a nap.”
“It was after eleven when you left the bar.”
“And then I stuffed myself with chicken-fried steak. It was delicious, by the way.” He even took a photo of the monster-size plate covered in white gravy. Rib-sticking, a heart attack on a plate, as he’d heard people say.
He lowered himself onto the straight-back chair that Kat had carried inside. “Let me put this pillow on the table. Rest your forehead on it and put your hands in your lap. Do you think you can hold this position for half an hour?”
“I’ll try.”
She cocked her head as if surprised by his answer. His sister often accused him of being too honest. “Girls like a little mystery, Jackson. You don’t always have to spell everything out in black and white.”
Maybe, but hyperbole wasn’t his style. Which was why he felt compelled to set the record straight where Kat Petroski was concerned. “You know I’m not an experienced biker, right?”
She looked up from the binder she’d brought into the kitchen and set on the counter beside the sink. “Pardon? Oh, right. I already guessed that.”
“Because the bike looks new?”
She danced a fingertip across the fabric of his jeans. “Your leathers aren’t broken in. But, hey, you have to start somewhere. It’s not a comment on your ability to handle the bike or anything.”
She picked up her stencil and leaned forward. The smell of ink and something delicious, like oatmeal cookies, filled his nostrils.
Damn. Between her touch and her scent he was going to be lucky if he managed to keep from making a fool of himself. He turned his chin so he could see the door of the refrigerator. A small collection of school photos were grouped in one corner, with the rest of the space devoted to art projects and papers. A spelling test with a big red A-plus on it. A kid’s pencil sketch of trees and a very large bird, probably an eagle.
He couldn’t remember his mother ever hanging a single thing he or his sister produced anywhere in the house. She wasn’t the sentimental type, his father once told him. “Mom lives in the moment. It’s a good place to be.”
But at the moment, soft hands were touching his back and a faint breath tinged with wintergreen drifted across the hair on the nape of his neck. Gooseflesh formed across his arms.
“Are you chilled? I can close the window. Probably should, anyway. Sometimes the rain doesn’t give you any warning.”
“I’m fine. Maybe you should skip the one on my chest. Would you believe I left my rain gear in my hotel room? Talk about unprepared.”
She shrugged. “Worst case, you can put your bike in my shed and I’ll give you a ride to Deadwood. I need to pick up my check from the bar.”
“You’re not on duty tonight?”
She leaned down to his level and shook her head. The saucy curls bounced. Up close he could tell the sun-streaked colors varied from very light cream to burnt gold. He’d never been drawn to blondes, but that bias didn’t seem to apply to her.
“I was filling in for a friend last night. I’d work there more often—the money’s good—but finding a sitter is always a challenge.”
“What about your sons’ father?”
“Fathers. Plural. Two boys. Two ex-husbands. And as much as I’d like to say Pete and Drew are totally committed to making sure their sons’ mother gets an occasional break, I’d be lying.�
��
He couldn’t help but smile. She didn’t sound as if she expected things to be any other way. He wondered why.
“Can’t you write that kind of arrangement into your custody papers?”
“Oh, that’s how things started out, but life intrudes. Younger siblings develop rashes. Stepmoms have second and third babies. Schedules change, and since I remember what it’s like when divorced parents bicker, I try to keep things on an even keel for my boys. Even if it inconveniences me.”
He found that commendable. Heroic, even.
He’d been thinking a lot about what constituted a hero. Even before he knew for sure he was coming to the Black Hills, he’d read about some of the local characters, like Wild Bill Hickok. Was his enduring fame due to the circumstances surrounding his untimely death? Or did his legacy stem from a code of honor he’d held to dearly until that fateful night in the Number Ten saloon?
Jack wasn’t sure, but the idea of exploring off the beaten path came back to him. “How long have you lived in the Black Hills?”
“All my life. I was born in Spearfish, but between my parents’ divorce and my own marriages, I’ve lived all around. Custer. Sturgis. Belle Fourche. Rapid. You name it, I probably lived there.”
“So, if I wanted a tour guide who could show me the real Black Hills, you’d be the one to hire, right?”
She bent down to his level again. “I’ve never done that before.”
“Would you be interested?”
“Do you mean I’d drive you around in my car?”
He shook his head. “On my bike. It came with an extra helmet. You could give me a running history of the area and tell me where to go.”
She frowned slightly as if thinking over the proposition. “When?”
“Tomorrow? If it doesn’t rain.”
“Well…Jordie is supposed to go to his dad’s tomorrow for a week, and Tag has another two days of camping scheduled, so I suppose I could. But I couldn’t do it for free.”
“Of course not.” He did some quick math. Eight hours. Forty dollars an hour seemed fair. He quoted her the price.
“Seriously? Deal.”
She flashed a bright smile, then quickly ducked her head and went back to work. “No more talking. You’re making my ink dry too fast.”
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