But then, Miss Maple was not the Miss Maple he had imagined, either, and Ben struggled to readjust to the picture in front of him. In fact, the teacher was young, not more than twenty-five. She was concentrating on something on her desk, and her features were fine and flawless, her skin was beautiful, faintly sun-kissed, totally unlined. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, was the exact dark golden color of the wildflower honey that Ben kept in a glass jar on his countertop.
Of course, she could still be mean. Ben had known plenty of gorgeous women who were mean straight through. You could tell by their eyes, diamond flint and ice.
But then she lifted her eyes, and he was momentarily lost in their softness and their color, an astounding mix of jade and aqua and copper.
Nothing mean in those eyes, he decided, and tried out his best easygoing boy-next-door grin on her.
An unexpected thing happened. She frowned. It didn’t make her look mean precisely, but he understood perfectly how an eleven-year-old boy could be intimidated by her.
“Hello,” she said, “I think you must be lost.” Her voice wasn’t screechy at all. It was quite amazing, with the bell-like tone of a church bell ringing on a cold, pure morning. She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest, as if she had suddenly reached the alarming conclusion she was alone in this end of the building.
Women weren’t generally alarmed by him, but the fact she was here at five in the evening probably meant she was sheltered in some way. The atmosphere in the classroom really was a testament to no life. How long did it take to make a tree like that? She’d probably been in here all summer, cloistered away, working on it!
More’s the pity, since Ben could clearly see her chest was delicately and deliciously curved, though it occurred to him it was probably some kind of sin to notice that about the grade-five teacher, and the fact that he had noticed probably justified the alarm in her eyes.
Or maybe that was nuns a man was not supposed to think manlike thoughts about.
Which she was dressed like, not that he was an expert on how nuns dressed, but he suspected just like that: high-buttoned blouse in pristine white, frumpy sweater in forgettable beige.
He would have liked a glimpse of her legs, since he was unfortunately curious about whether she was wearing a skirt or slacks, but the desk totally blocked his view.
He moved forward, leaned over the desk and extended his hand. He couldn’t think of a way to lean over far enough to see her legs without alarming her more than she already was, so he didn’t.
“I’m Ben Anderson, Kyle’s uncle.” He deliberately turned up the wattage of his smile, found himself wishing he had changed out of his work clothes—torn jeans with the knee out, his company T-shirt with Garden of Weedin’ emblazoned across the front of it.
Miss Maple took his hand but did not return his smile. Any idea he had about holding her hand a little too long was dismissed instantly. Her handshake was chilly and brief.
“You are very late,” she said. “I was about to leave.”
Ben was astounded to find he felt, not like six foot one of hard-muscled fighting machine, but like a chastened schoolboy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kyle slide in the door, and roll his shoulders inward, as if he was expecting a blow. Ben found he didn’t have the heart to blame his nephew for not giving him the note.
“Uh, well,” he said charmingly, “you know. Life gets in the way.”
She was not charmed, and apparently she did not know. “Kyle, will you go down to the library? I had Mrs. Miller order a copy of The History of Khan for you. She said she’d leave it on her desk.”
“For me?” Kyle squeaked, and Ben, astonished by the squeak glanced at him. The hard mask was gone from his eyes, and his nephew looked like a little boy who was going to cry. A little boy, Ben thought grimly, who had seen far too few kindnesses in his life.
He was aware the teacher watched Kyle go, too, something both troubled and tender in her eyes, though when she looked back at him, her gaze was carefully cool.
“Have a seat, Mr. Anderson.”
Miss Maple seemed to realize at about the same time as Ben there really was no place in that entire room where he could possibly sit. The desks were too small, and she had the one adult-size chair.
He watched a faint blush rise up her cheeks and was reluctantly enchanted. He decided to smile at her again. Maybe she was one of those women who liked the real-man look, dirt and muscles. He flexed his forearm just a tiny bit to see if she was paying attention.
She was, because her blush deepened and she took a sudden interest in shuffling some papers on her desk. She apparently forgot she’d invited him to sit down.
“Your nephew is a bit of dilemma, Mr. Anderson,” she said in a rush, shuffling frantically to avoid further eye contact with his muscles.
“Ben,” he offered smoothly, hoping she might give up her first name in return.
But she didn’t. In fact, she stopped shuffling papers and pressed her lips together in a firm line, gazed at him solemnly and sternly, the effect of the sternness somewhat tempered by the fact she picked that moment to tuck a wayward strand of that honey-colored hair behind her ear.
Ben had the unexpected and electrifying thought that he would like to kiss her. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe as a shortcut to the woman underneath that uptight outfit and the stern expression.
She was not the kind of woman he usually went for. And he was pretty sure she was not the kind of woman who usually went for him.
She was the kind of woman where there wouldn’t be any kind of shortcuts at all. If a guy were to date her, it wasn’t going to end in her backyard hot tub after midnight.
Not that Miss Maple would have a hot tub! He regarded her thoughtfully, trying to guess at her after-school activities. Knitting, possibly. Bird-watching, probably. Reading, definitely.
No, she was not his type at all.
Which probably explained why he felt intrigued by her. He wasn’t quite sure when he’d become so sick to death of the kind of women who were his type, though that covered a lot of ground from supersophisticated debutantes, to rowdy party-hearty girls, to experienced divorcees, to free-spirited and very independent career women. None of them intrigued him anymore, and hadn’t for a long time. For a while nobody had noticed, but lately his buddies were looking at Ben’s ability to go home alone as if he had contracted a strange disease that needed to be cured before it became contagious.
The demure little schoolteacher made Ben Anderson feel challenged, the first interest he had felt in what the guys cheerfully called “the hunt” for a long, long time. Or maybe, he told himself wryly, he was looking for a little diversion from his sucks-to-be-you life.
Whatever it was, he now had a secret agenda that was making it very hard to focus on what she was saying about Kyle.
A contract for Kyle to sign. With goals and challenges and rewards.
“Mr. Anderson,” she said, ignoring his invitation to call him Ben. “Your nephew has been held back once and has dismal test scores. He won’t do his homework, and he doesn’t participate in class discussions. But I think he reads at a college level and with complete comprehension.
“If I implement this plan for him,” Miss Maple continued sternly, “it is going to take a tremendous amount of work and commitment on my part. I need to know you will be backing me at home, and that you are willing to put in the same kind of time and commitment.”
Ben had been around long enough to know he should be very wary of a woman who tossed around the word commitment so easily.
He threw caution to the wind. “Why don’t we discuss your plan in a little more detail over dinner?” he asked.
Miss