Page 2 of Lawless in Leather

She knew who he was. The other one. She’d met Alex Winters—he of the shirt/blazer/jeans/GQ good looks—when he’d interviewed her for this position. She’d met Lucas Angelo—six feet plus of immaculate suit, gorgeous Italian model face, and divine blue eyes—when she’d been talking to the team doctor about the training plans for her dance squad. But she hadn’t yet met the last of the three men who’d bought the Saints.

Malachi Coulter. She’d wondered about him. A girl would have to be made of stone not to wonder what the last third of the trio might be like when the first two were so delectable. And she’d never claimed to be made of stone. Not in the slightest.

Though the man walking toward her might be. His expression was pretty stony. It didn’t make his face, which was angles and jaw and deep dark eyes, any less appealing. He looked, as her grandma might have said, like a big ol’ parcel of man trouble. Her favorite kind. Or rather, her former favorite kind.

Bad boy written all over him.

Pity he was sort of her boss. No. Not a pity. A very good thing. It would help her remember that bad boy was her former preference. Still, regardless of her stance on bosses or bad boys, there was nothing to say she couldn’t enjoy the view. Or the irony of his approach being backed by a song about men who drove you crazy.

She summoned her best knock-’em-dead-in-the-back-stalls smile as he reached her and extended her hand. “Hi. I’m Raina Easton, your dance director.”

He didn’t take her hand. She raised an eyebrow. He didn’t change his expression. She sighed and dropped her hand back to her side. “What can I do for you, Mr. Coulter?”

“I didn’t clear anyone for the field this morning.”

Damn. His voice fit the rest of him. It rumbled pleasingly. It made her girl parts want to shake pom-poms and she wasn’t a cheerleader. Imagine what it might do if he didn’t sound so pissed.

She squelched the thought. She wasn’t going to imagine any such thing.

“The dance practice schedule was agreed a week ago,” she said, wishing she wasn’t in practice clothes and very flat dance sneakers. With a few-inch boost from her favorite heels, he wouldn’t loom over her quite so much.

“You’re supposed to get a security clearance from me before entering the stadium.”

Oh dear. He was going to be one of those. Tall, dark, and grim. Pity. She didn’t do humorless. Life was too short for men who couldn’t make you laugh. And right now she didn’t do men at all.

“I’m sorry, nobody told me.” She tried a smile. “I swear we’re not some other team’s troupe sneaking in for illicit practice.” She was tempted to add a line about it being pretty hard to conceal a weapon in a crop top but figured that would be pushing her luck. Besides, if he announced he was going to search everyone, she’d likely be trampled by the dancers behind her stampeding to be first in line.

Mal’s gaze lifted, scanned the women behind her, then returned to her, looking no more pleased than previously. “Other baseball teams don’t have cheerleaders.”

He sounded like he thought that was a very good thing. She wasn’t going to let on that she agreed with him. Alex Winters was paying her a boatload of money to whip his dancers into a lean mean cheering machine, and she was keeping her opinions about cheerleaders and baseball being sacrilege firmly to herself. She had plans for that boatload of money. Which meant she also had to make nice to Malachi Coulter. “Dance troupe, not cheerleaders,” she said, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. “Now, we’ve only got another hour of practice. Can we stay or do you need us to leave?” She hit him with another smile.

“You can stay,” he said after a pause in which the only noise was the pounding of drums and squealing guitars as the song on the sound system built to a crescendo. “But come and see me when you’re done.”

“Sure,” she said after a little pause of her own. “I look forward to it.” Then she turned back to the dancers so she wouldn’t watch him walk away.

Two hours later, Raina finished slicking on lip gloss and decided that she’d needed to stop procrastinating. She’d spent longer than she should showering and changing after the practice session and talking to the women in the squad. She’d only met most of them a week ago at the auditions and she was still trying to get a feel for their personalities and strengths. They could all dance. She’d put her foot down about that and nixed a couple of the more blond and busty candidates who had looked freaking spectacular but had been less than blessed in the coordination and moving to music with some understanding of the basics of a beat and rhythm department. But just being able to dance wouldn’t necessarily turn them into a team fast enough for her liking.

It took time for personalities to gel and right now it wasn’t helping her cause that the best dancer of them all—the truly stunning green-eyed, dark-haired Ana—was shaping up to a be a diva of the pit viper temperament variety.

Still, this was a rush job and she didn’t have time to hire any more dancers, let alone give up one as good as Ana, so she was just going to have to do her best. Think of the very nice chunk of change she would be earning and give up on the idea of spare time for a couple of months.

But none of that changed the fact that she still had to beard the boss man in his den, so to speak. The tall, dark, grumpy, and disturbingly handsome boss man.

No chickening out just because he’d sent her hormones ratcheting into high alert.

Damn it.

He had that bad-boy vibe practically radiating for miles around him. There was the slightly too long hair. The jeans and T-shirt I don’t care outfit. Alex Winters had worn jeans and a dark-gray blazer when she’d met him, but his jeans had been 100 percent designer. Whereas she was pretty certain that Malachi Coulter’s were well-worn Levi’s that had come by their faded patches and mysterious stains honestly.

There was also the tattoo snaking down his arm. She hadn’t let herself focus on the design, only noticing the bold color and geometric black edges before she’d looked away.

And if she’d had to put money on it, she would have bet a fair portion of her next Saints paycheck that the big black motorcycle she’d spotted in the parking lot earlier belonged to him, too. He was, after all, wearing a well-worn pair of biker boots.

So the bad boy. Even if he was bad boy made good—he was part owner of a baseball team—he was still a bad boy.

And she’d sworn off bad boys.

Pity.

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