"I'm not sure it's wise to issue threats like that."
"It's not a threat. I won't even have to hunt him down. He spends every Thursday night at Petit Joe's, watching the strippers and paying the girls to suck his dick when they're done. Especially if they went to this school. And the more recently they were students here, the better."
Lara managed not to make a face at that. Barely. She personally found Principal Maitland a little too damp and sweaty for her taste, especially his too-soft hands, but she'd tried to ignore that in the interest of keeping her job here stress-free. Now she'd be thinking about nasty strip-club blow jobs every time she saw him. Or worse, his wife.
"I think you'll find I can understand Kaylee's situation better than you think," she said instead.
"Yeah, about that." He shook his head, and his entire body changed. He went taut. Harder, somehow. His smoke and whiskey gaze turned … predatory. "Who do you belong to?"
"What?" Her heart hammered at her. She could feel it like an actual kick in her pussy. Her temples. Her throat. "I'm not married. I'm barely even dating. I belong to myself."
"That's not what I asked you." He didn't move any closer. And still it felt like he had his big hand wrapped around her throat. "If I strip you down, whose mark am I gonna find on you?"
Lara went numb for an instant. Then something a lot like panic-only much hotter, much brighter-streaked through her. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Which club, babe?" His voice was like steel. Lara didn't realize she'd backed away from him until her butt came up hard against her chalkboard. And Chaser was right there in front of her, blocking her escape. Blocking the whole world. "You ran your mouth pretty convincingly there. What the fuck do you know about the life?"
"I teach high school history. I have an imagination. The end."
"Try again."
She made as if to move and his hands shot out instead, each one flattening on either side of her head, trapping her between him and the chalkboard. And the impossible, immovable wall of his big, tough frame.
Her hands were useless, hanging at her sides in pointless fists. "You're insane."
"I don't think so. Why did you move to Lagrange?"
"There was an open position at the high school here," she snapped at him. "Very nefarious, I know. I applied. When they offered me the position, I got an out-of-state certification. Would you like me to tell you more about the teacher certification process in the state of Louisiana? Because I'm betting you actually don't care all that much."
"I don't believe you." He practically whispered it. "The thing about coincidences is that pretty much? They're bullshit."
"I watched Sons of Anarchy," she told him. "Religiously. Still not a fan of the ending."
His mouth curved again, deadlier than before. "You're full of shit."
He moved his hand then. It was the one connected to that wildly illustrated arm, and Lara could only seem to stand there and watch, frozen, as he dropped it down to her hip. His hand was much too big. It wrapped over her hip bone and made her legs feel like jelly, and then he made it worse by yanking her an inch closer to him.
She hardly had time to bite back a telling little yelp at that, and then he slid his hand around to hold it flat against the small of her back. And god help her, but she felt it all over her body, inside and out. His palm was hot. Hard. And somehow connected to every last nerve in her body.
Worse, she was trembling. She couldn't help it. He was everywhere and he was touching her and sensation swept through her, shaking her, no matter how she tried to lock her own reactions down.
"You got a tramp stamp, Lara?" he asked, dipping his head so he asked that question the way other men might kiss, a whisper that almost touched her lips. "What does it say?"
He was her heroin. And he was right in her face.
And she knew men like him. That was the trouble, wasn't it? That was how this had happened. She'd been so busy trying to mess with him that she hadn't stopped to think what might happen if she was successful. Of course he suspected she had a past in the life. She'd basically erected a neon sign and directed him to the sunbaked deserts of inland Southern California and the Brothers of Goliath MC. She shouldn't be surprised that he suspected she'd tattooed herself in support of the club, or that he'd effortlessly picked the location of that awful tattoo she viewed as her unpleasant reminder of past stupidity.