by Joey W. Hill
Hey, when we were little, you could have used Barbie dolls as floggers, all that long hair. Ooh, remember the Tiffany doll? The one with ten inches of reversible blonde or black hair? The black hair could be her evil pain side, braided with beads and sharp stuff, and the blond . . .
Madison shook her head, biting back a painful smile, and picked up the package. Given the weight, the clanking she'd mistaken for chain was probably nails or some kind of fastener. Exiting the front door of her store and locking it behind her, she walked down the sidewalk. According to the hours printed on the hardware store window, they opened at seven a.m. Tuesday through Saturday, explaining why Troy had been able to show up in her store so early.
The humid air suggested it was building toward a hot June day, but enough of a breeze stirred the crepe myrtles planted along the sidewalk to keep things pleasant. Around the entrance to the hardware store, hanging baskets spilled out lush falls of petunias, tempting pedestrians to buy.
The door was already propped open with an iron boot brush. A chalkboard sandwich sign had been placed beside it with the day's specials: TOMATO PLANTS, $3, ALL GARDEN TOOLS 20% OFF, FRESH BAKED APPLE PIE AND COFFEE, $1.50.
Heated apple pie was one of her favorite breakfast foods, and she smelled it as she stepped into the shop, past the fan that was angled at the open door to minimize its negative effect on the air conditioning. The next refreshing thing to hit her senses was Troy.
He was stocking shelves. The fact he was perched on a ladder gave his ass a nice taut lift and conjured a visual of him sprawled face down across a bed. He'd be sleeping, wearing nothing but a very artfully arranged sheet. A hint of pale buttocks above it, firm thighs exposed below. His fine toes would be curled against the cotton. One sandy lock of hair draped in his eyes, his lips parted, inviting a lover to press her lips to his, tease his tongue, wake him in all ways. A nice, normal fantasy.
"He's beautiful, isn't he? I've seen women's hands curl into fists at their sides, as if they're restraining an overwhelming urge to touch him."
She jumped, not only because she had company, but because her private thoughts had been intruded upon so accurately. When she turned, she discovered something even more disconcerting.
Her tongue had tangled at the sight of Troy. What she was looking at now stole all words and left only incoherent need, strong enough to close her throat entirely, take her breath.
Yes, Troy was beautiful. Everything a virile young man should be. What was standing behind her was what such a young man could aspire to be, even though she expected few achieved it. It wasn't merely this man's looks. It was everything she sensed beneath them, the inside creating the outside.
Like Troy, he was six feet tall or better, with a breadth of shoulders like she'd expected to happen to Troy with maturity. He wore jeans and work boots as well. The cotton shirt unbuttoned at his throat gave her a glimpse of curling chest hair. She saw Anglo-Saxon in the solid bones of his face, a large man with large hands, a commanding presence. The warm brown eyes that focused on her face held complex things. It would be impossible for a woman to experience anything bad standing inside that gaze. No heartache would dare intrude while she was under his spell. All she needed was to have him nearby.
Red alert! Red alert! Jesus, hadn't she made this mistake enough times already? Rein back crazy and return to reality. He was close to forty, with gleaming, thick brown hair brushed back from that masculine face. She couldn't see how far it fell down his back, but the fact he had it tied back suggested it went past his shoulders. Though she'd always thought grown men who wore their hair long looked ridiculous, as though they were attempting to hold on to vanishing youth, the look seemed right on him. It only enhanced his masculinity, the way it did a desert sheikh, fierce Viking, kilted Scots laird . . . or pirate captain.
Stop. It. She'd told Alice she loved that look in men--just not many men could pull it off.
He did.
For the second time today, she was staring, not responding like an articulate adult. Realizing it, she struggled to recall his remarkable statement about Troy's beauty. Not the usual thing for a straight male to point out. Please God, let him be gay as a maypole.
"Are you two . . . together?"
The word trailed off as his gaze sharpened on her. Christ, even if Matthews was an annex of the urban Charlotte area, she was still technically in a small town, not Boston. "I'm sorry. That was rude."
"Not where you're from, obviously." His amusement relaxed her, on that point at least. He had a voice that could narrate books. Whether they were romances with quiet whispers in the dark, seafaring adventures that called for commanding roars, or English mysteries needing a sexy, cultured tone with the right pauses for emphasis, his voice would hold attention, making ears strain to catch every intonation.
He crossed his arms and hooked his thumbs under his armpits. "No, we're not together. And not just because you're my preference. I'm training him for someone else, in exchange for blatant exploitation. Home Depot has fifty thousand square feet, but I have Troy. The local ladies turned out in record numbers for my spring gardening sale." He winked. "I even lured some of the males interested in that sort of thing away from the Depot's home decor offerings."
"Do you offer to let everyone touch him?" she asked.
"I wasn't offering that. Just observing how tempting it is to do so."
"Sounds like entrapment."
"A suspicious, intelligent woman. Just my type." His gaze got warmer, warming her inside. Even if flirting with this kind of man was like walking a minefield, it improved her mood. But the ache in her arms reminded her she was holding his package. God help her, she flushed at the unintended mental entendre, and felt as foolish as a teenager.
"Oh, I brought this. UPS left it at my place by mistake."
His fingers brushed hers as he claimed the package. "Sorry, I should have had you put this down right off. It's like a pile of bricks."
Twisting that excellent upper torso, he put the box on the counter. Being solid wood, it looked far more capable of handling the weight than her glass display case. "Clarence--that's our delivery guy--used to leave our stuff over there all the time, though he was usually considerate enough only to leave the lighter parcels."
"Did he have a problem delivering them here?"
"Yes. Alice was far prettier than we were, and she had cookies."
When he smiled, Madison decided it wasn't only Troy who lured women here. The younger women might gravitate to Troy, but any woman who'd graduated past teen crushes would head for this one like a fly toward a bug zapper. This had to be the hardware store's owner, Mr. Scott.
"As her illness progressed," he continued, "Clarence got in the habit of checking in with her first. He'd tell me what kind of day she was having, whether I should check on her. Since she'd get after us if we hovered too much, it was how we kept an eye on her without taking away her sense of independence."
All while her closest relative stayed in Boston, not doing a damn thing for her. It didn't matter that she hadn't known Alice was sick. Madison still had to squelch the overwhelming guilt, as well as the need to listen for condemnation in his voice, look for it in his expression.
"Even after she'd closed the store for good, he'd still occasionally leave a delivery at her door. He knew we'd see it." He regarded the box on his counter. "I think he kept doing it because letting go of the habit is letting go of the person."
She rubbed her temple, a nervous tic she usually tried to control, but today was proving a little too much. He and Troy could drive small-talkers to suicide. "You and Troy don't do chit-chat, do you?"
His eyes met hers. "Given our relationship with Alice, we're already past that, don't you think?"
So he and Troy had been pretty involved in Alice's life. Enough to make "Mr. Scott" assume he could be overly familiar with a family member he'd just met. She was starting to get a worrisome premonition. The authoritative vibes that emanated from him, the fact he knew Alice . . .
Alice, if I'm right, I'm going to kill you. I don't care if you're already dead.
"Troy tells me you're a little nervous about running the store."
"It's not something I've ever sold before, but selling is selling. I worked on a used car lot when I was sixteen, moved on to Sears' appliances, and eventually into stocks and bonds after I earned my accounting degree. I'll get a handle on it."
The same way she was going to get a handle on this conversation. She wasn't going to be driven by hormones, groundless fantasies or shared grief to encourage this beyond a friendly-but-not-too-friendly, neighborly relationship. She needed to figure out a way to make that clear.
As he moved around the counter with a noncommittal grunt, she tried not to notice how the shirt strained over his broad shoulders. The temptation to reach out and touch the curls of coarse hair at his throat was making her fingertips tingle. What would he do? Would his hand close over hers, stop her, those eyes centering on her face, an unspoken command to keep her hands to herself . . . until she was given permission to touch?
Shit, shit, shit. Seeing the perfect opening to change the subject, she seized it. "I figured someone had sent you a cinder block."
Those attractive lips curved as he fished a box cutter out of a drawer and slit the box open. "Lead. I have customers who pour their own bullets for hunting, self-defense and historical re-enactments, so I keep a supply on hand, along with primers, powder and the like. But there should be something else." His expression brightened. "Right here on top."
He freed the item with remarkable gentleness, revealing a set of antique brass metal hinges. "The supply house for bullet lead also does metalwork?" she asked.
"They're an eclectic enterprise. A mom-and-pop place in Missouri. They even have a blacksmith who shoes horses and makes swords for Renaissance Faires. I've been out there." He glanced up, gave her a distracting wink. "Almost bought an Excalibur replica, but decided on a good wood lathe. The lathe was cheaper."
When he extended the hinges so she could take a closer look, she studied the engraved design. It showed a vine of thorns, interspersed with tiny leaves and loops. "You don't usually see thorns without a rose."
"No, you don't. The potential of the thorns is often overlooked." He set them aside and extended a palm. "Give me your hand and I'll show you."
She curled her fingers, uncertain. This guy was doing weird things to her. She needed to get back to her store. "We haven't even been officially introduced."
"I'm Logan Scott."
She took a step back from the counter before she could stop herself. This was Logan? Trust Logan. Like you'd trust me. Or a soul mate . . . He took care of me until you came.
He'd cared for her sister, all except those last three days? The hospice nurse hadn't mentioned another caregiver, but maybe Alice had told her not to do so.
Goddamn it. She bit her lip. If I hadn't scattered your ashes over the river already, I would mix them in some random cat's litter box, I swear to God.
"Are you all right?"
Tuning back in, she saw nothing in his face that said he knew the contents of that letter. He'd left his hand out, and it would be rude and stupid to act like a frightened deer because of a mysterious reference about him from her sister. But it was way more than that. He had that submissive side of her on its knees, all senses on alert toward his every action. His every desire or demand. Give me your hand.
In the past, it was her own inner yearnings that had led her down unwise paths with men. But this compulsion seemed to be originating from him, a distinct, dangerous difference. She told herself to get a grip. He was going to think she was a freak if she didn't start acting normal.
She put her hand out. Her fingers whispered across his palm as his own closed over them. She'd never thought of a man's touch as unforgettable, but she drew in a breath at the way it felt. Reassuring. Firm and strong. Something that would become a permanent craving if taken away.
"At last," he murmured. "We meet."
The simple statement underlined his close history with Alice, close enough that Alice had talked about her. A courtesy she hadn't offered Madison. Her anger about that couldn't hold, though, not when she saw their contact unlock the abiding pain of deep loss behind his gaze, a pain she understood.
Before that could freak her out--any more than the whole situation was doing--he loosened his grip and turned her hand over. He pressed his thumb against her palm so her fingers half closed over it. With the other hand, he brought the tip of the box cutter to her skin. He paused, watching her adjust to what he was about to do, giving her the chance to draw back. Her pulse was beating higher in her throat, but she didn't pull back. That sent a message so significant, she wasn't surprised to see his eyes darken, his mouth tighten. She relished the reaction.
He pricked her with the point, along the lifeline. He didn't do it hard enough to draw blood.
"A tiny hurt, like the bite of a thorn," he said. "Your fingers twitched, like you might pull away, but when you realized it was bearable, you stilled again." He lifted her hand to his mouth then, brushed his lips over the spot. "Now a reward, a mix of pleasure with pain. It makes you crave a little more of both. Or maybe more than a little."
Giving her a half smile, which didn't lessen the intensity of his gaze, the import of what they'd just both communicated without words, he squeezed her hand before letting her go.
This wasn't flirting, but something way more hazardous. She closed her hand around that touch, put it to her side to hide the tremor in her fingers. "What are the hinges for?" She had to blurt it out, but fortunately it didn't sound as strident as she feared.
"A commissioned piece I'm making. I have a woodworking shop here on the premises. I'll show it to you sometime, if you'd like."
"Okay. Maybe. If it's no trouble."
"Maybe" was an escape hatch, but in truth, she needed a reprieve from all the empty spaces where Alice was supposed to be. She was antsy for human contact, no matter how unsettling. Though she obviously couldn't afford a lot of one-on-one exposure with Logan, she couldn't deny she wanted to find out more about the man Alice had said she could trust.
"You're no trouble. Though I expect if you chose to be, you'd be the kind of trouble that a certain type of man would relish."
Okay, time to start putting him off balance before she teetered right off this seesaw. She cleared her throat. "Were you and my sister ever . . ."
Given that everything coming out of his mouth was like a shovel thrust into the bottom of her emotional well, flinging muck out over the top, it seemed a little pointless to be tactful, but she found she couldn't say it outright. Fortunately, he understood what she meant.
"No. Her interests lay elsewhere, as did mine." His gaze did that sharpening thing again, spearing the fluttery place beneath her rib cage.
"I think we should choose another subject for now." Though she really had no idea what subject they were talking about, her instincts told her the topic was fraught with peril. "You said you were training Troy. Does he work at another store?"
"No. I'm a training Master at the local dungeon. Being under my tutelage is a requirement of his Mistress."
Bull's-eye, direct arrow. She'd been right about the fraught-with-peril thing. It took a Herculean effort not to leap all the way back to the door, the way she had the day she almost stepped on a snake sunning on the top step of their family's back deck. His gaze remained on hers, steady. He was waiting for her reaction, like a damn scientist studying a hapless rat in a glass box. On top of that, he'd done it right in the middle of the mainstream public.
She stole a flustered glance around the store. A couple of men, apparently contractors, seemed engrossed with selecting parts down one aisle, while a pair of women were having pie and coffee over in the refreshments area. None of them seemed to be staring, but then, maybe it only seemed to her like a herald bellowing an announcement in the public square. In fact, only one person other than herself seemed to have picked up on the disc
ussion.
"Those nails aren't going to stock themselves, Troy," Logan said. "You're not part of this conversation."
As he spoke, Logan never shifted his attention from her face. Yet despite the apparent mildness of the comment, the undercurrent had the effect of a cattle prod. "No sir," Troy said immediately. In her peripheral vision, she saw him busy himself with the stock, acting as if he'd donned supersonic noise-canceling headphones.
Logan's tone of command affected Madison as well, holding her in place like a hooked fish. But hearing he was a training Master brought forth another memory, something that hurt. It doesn't mean anything. It's not real to him.
"It's all right," he said quietly. "I wasn't trying to shock you."
She knew that. She was well attuned to people trying to manipulate her emotions, and he wasn't setting off that alarm. Alice might have told Logan about Madison's cravings, but it didn't mean he was privy to her sister's posthumous plottings. Alice was gone and Madison could set him straight about all that, right here, right now.
She summoned a hard smile. "Sorry. You took me by surprise. This is still new to me. I'm not as knowledgeable about these things as Alice was. I don't have her instincts."
"We all have an instinct for Dominance and submission, Madison." He nodded toward Troy. "But if you'd like to expand your knowledge, you're welcome to come help me with Troy's next training session."
Very matter-of-fact, and helpful. It made sense, right? With a BDSM section in the store Alice had left her to run, the obvious assumption would be she had at least a business-level comfort with it. However, going anywhere with Logan that involved restraints and whips screamed bad idea. The last time she'd been to a club, she'd been with her sister, not a charismatic male sexual Dominant.
"I don't know." She glanced back at Troy, considering all the things that "training" might mean. "I'm not into hurting anyone."
He looked down at her hand, the one he'd pricked. "Pain and pleasure are often interchangeable. Regardless, every step is consensual. He lets go of as much control as he desires. Under the right conditions, the more control is relinquished, the more freedom is found. You're welcome to simply watch, Madison. Friday at eight."
"We'll see. I have a lot to do, and if I'm tired that evening . . ."