by Joey W. Hill
She pressed her bare feet into the braided rug. While she waited for the world to stop spinning, she took the aspirin. She needed to go into the bathroom, clean up, put on her clothes--her armor--and go thank her host properly, then head for home. The Garden Club meeting was pretty much out of the question at this point, unfortunately, but she needed to make Junior League in the late afternoon. She was expected to present plans on their spring festival. Their goal was to raise fifty thousand for the local women's shelter, and she intended to surpass that by at least a fifteen percent margin.
Going into the bathroom, she took care of the necessities, and was pleasantly surprised by her face. She had a small scrape on one cheek from the concrete, and a red mark on the other one from being hit, but it wasn't as swollen and blotchy as she'd feared. Probably because of the ice pack.
It was amazing how the mind could do that, bring back hidden images like a dealer randomly tossing cards down on a green felt table. Now she remembered Dale holding the pack against her cheek, cupping the other side of her face. She'd rested the weight of her head in his hand, as trusting as an infant. He'd murmured to her in his deep voice, soothing as a lullaby.
She abandoned the idea of putting on the clothes. Instead, she wandered out of the room in the T-shirt. His living quarters were apparently the second level of the junkyard office, an efficiency apartment with a small kitchen and living area with TV. When she saw a neatly folded blanket and pillow at the end of the couch, she realized she'd taken his bed. For a man his size, the couch looked none too comfortable, and mortification spiked again. She owed him breakfast, at the very least.
Looking out the kitchen window, she saw an ocean of discarded cars and scrap metal covering several acres. Though it should have been an eyesore, the view possessed a creative energy. The cars' interesting shapes and colors hinted at the stories they could tell, the journeys they'd taken. Dale's presence only added to the interest factor.
He was standing in the gravel yard in front of the office, probably a staging area for customers bringing in cars or metal to sell. He was surrounded by over a dozen dogs of various breeds and sizes, from a trio of Jack Russell terriers that didn't reach his knee to a pair of Rottweiler mixes that pressed against his upper thigh. As she watched, all but two of the assembled dogs sat at his sharp, one-word command, reinforced by a gesture with his finger when one of the Jack Russells hovered a few inches short of sitting. The dog sat. Then Dale winged two tennis balls out over the cars, sending two mixed-breed Labradors charging off after them. The canines lithely dodged piles of metal or cleared them with dramatic leaps to pursue the projectiles.
When they brought them back, dropped them at his feet, he tossed each a treat, then he sent the Jack Russells off in the same manner. He performed the same miraculous feat with all the dogs in two-or three-dog groupings. The waiting ones quivered with excitement, but he didn't even have to glance at them after he told them to sit. They simply obeyed.
As he turned to survey them all at last, she was reminded of a drill sergeant inspecting the troops. His lips firm but eyes dancing, he barked another one word command. "Free."
They took off in all directions. Firing a dozen tennis balls after them, he watched them scramble about in happy chaos to salvage them from among the cars. They brought them back, encouraged by his praise and laughter, the affection he handed out in the form of ear rubs and fur stroking. While he was doing that, she quietly opened the door. There was a metal platform that served as a stoop and porch both, and she sat down on it, letting her legs dangle out from under the railings, crossing her arms on the one level with her chest.
With his manly voice, that laughter was exactly as she expected it to be. A rich sound, a mix of thunder and heady wine. When she settled, he glanced up, giving her the impression he'd been aware of her presence all along. Just like last night at the club.
"Good morning." His gaze coursed over her in the shirt. Though he didn't comment, she sensed he was pleased to see her still in it. Perhaps unexpectedly so. She liked having company in that emotion. All of this was unexpected to her. "There's some coffee on the stove," he said. "Help yourself to a cup and bring me one. I'll be in the potting shed." He pointed, drawing her gaze to it. Then he was moving that way, several of the dogs following him. Others, obviously realizing playtime was over, were wandering off to other pursuits. She hoped those pursuits didn't include lying in wait to eat visitors who'd not yet been properly introduced to them.
She lingered, watching the flex of his powerful body as he moved across the yard in his well-fitted T-shirt and jeans. Then, thinking she might get caught staring, she rose. She'd reached her embarrassment threshold for the morning. No need to let the cup overflow, though it might be worth it. She watched him an additional moment, her hand on the door latch. There was something about the way he moved . . . Yes, there. He had a very slight limp. She hoped he hadn't hurt himself coming to her aid.
She went back inside. When she fished her brush out of her purse, she discovered he'd left her a care package next to it. A new toothbrush, lavender face soap and new canvas sneakers in her size. When and how had he acquired all that? During any conscious memory she had of the night, she remembered him being there, but she supposed he could have slipped off for a little while, if there was a store close by.
She used the brush in her purse to fix her hair. Roy had always thought the light brown color was like the color of a winter forest. She'd added dark blond streaks at a certain point to mask the gray, and he'd teased her, saying she'd added birch to the forest. Finding a clip at the bottom of her purse, she pulled it into a tail at her nape and combed out her bangs, making herself as presentable as possible without a shower. She zipped herself into her sea green fitted skirt, keeping the T-shirt loose over it, and added the canvas sneakers, blessing his consideration. She wasn't yet steady enough to handle her three-inch heels.
She put her bra on under the T-shirt, then knotted the shirt at her waist. The blazer and blouse were far too formal for the situation. That was what she told herself, rather than the possible truth that the scent of his shirt, the indirect connection with his solid body, was another steadying influence she wasn't yet ready to relinquish.
Going back into the kitchen, she poured him a coffee. The pleasant smell had been part of what eased her mind when she woke. It didn't seem reasonable that a kidnapper would indulge in something as reassuring as a morning coffee ritual, right? She snorted at herself.
He'd told her to bring him coffee. Not "would you bring" but "bring me a cup." Was that simply his mode of communication, or something else? Still testing?
She was pouring it, wasn't she? Though it was the polite thing to do, that wasn't why she was doing it. She stopped, pressed her palms to the counter on either side of the cup. Think about what you're doing, Athena. Don't be rash. Any more than you've already been.
Since she didn't know if he used sugar and cream, she brought a sampling of both. A typical bachelor, he had a bowlful of single-sized condiments on the kitchen table from various restaurants. A jar served as a vase for cut wildflowers. She recognized the types from groupings that sprouted up among the cars. The wildflowers and the wedding ring quilt weren't exactly proof of a woman's touch, especially given the age of the quilt, but it showed his appreciation of things that could make a home more comfortable for him as well as guests. Roy had possessed that awareness. A man's man in every respect, he still enjoyed touches of color and would give his opinion on rugs or bedding, or help her decide where to hang a picture for best effect.
As she moved down the outside steps, she saw he hadn't used the term potting shed randomly. The man gardened. A vegetable plot was fenced off near the shed so the dogs couldn't trample or dig up the growing plants. To her personal delight, there was also an adjacent flower garden, landscaped in a crescent around the vegetables. It had a profusion of blooms native to the area, as well as some more exotic ones. He'd studied his English gardens, because it looked li
ke one of their cottage styles, the heights of the plantings arranged so the taller flowers in back gave way to shorter plants that drew the eye in a slope toward the vegetables.
Former military, gardener, dog trainer and junkyard operator. As well as an extraordinary Dom. A man guaranteed to pique the interest of any intelligent, breathing woman, and she fit both those qualifications. If she was giving him his due, she might owe the latter state to him. She wasn't sure how last night might have turned out if he hadn't intervened, but in the rage of that moment, she knew her attacker would have had to render her unconscious or kill her to take her rings. It was extraordinary, what a person didn't know about herself until faced with such a situation. If he was still alive, she could well imagine Roy's concerned expression, his strong hands holding her. He would have given her a little shake, fussed at her. Christ, Athena, it was just jewelry. Promise me you'll never do something that stupid again. You're more important to me than a bit of glass.
Pushing back the sudden tears, she took a breath and moved onward toward the potting shed. The Rottweilers lay in the shade on the western side, tongues lolling. One of them rose to meet her, padding over to sniff at her legs, circle her. After that ritual, he allowed her to stroke his large head, his soulful eyes fixed on the coffee she was carrying.
"You've already had your caffeine fix this morning, Rom. Go lay down with Sheba."
The dog huffed, then moved back to the shade, collapsing into a ponderous pile of sleek furred muscle next to the other dog.
Dale probably had a great singing voice, but she suspected the gods who'd designed that riveting deep timbre had intended one primary use for it. Issuing commands. She stepped into the shed to find him at a workbench, up to his elbows in a bag of soil. When she placed the coffee on the edge of the bench, out of his way but within his reach, he glanced at it, then nodded to a stool. "You can sit there."
"Thank you. The first thing I should do is apologize for my abysmal behavior last night," she began. "I'm not usually that irresponsible around a total stranger."
"The first thing you should do is drink your coffee." He sent a pointed look toward the stool. "Sit."
She slid onto the stool. He had a sturdy wooden flat on the bench, and he'd arranged eight plastic inserts into it, with a half-dozen spaces in each. He divided the soil among them before he began to drop seeds into each opening. Though he had big hands, they handled the tiny seeds with gentle care. As he pressed the seeds below the blanket of dirt, the activity spread the smell of earth and growing things through the shed. Watching him kept her tranquil and quiet. She sipped her coffee.
He dusted off his hands over the soil bag and wiped them on a rag before he picked up his coffee. He didn't use the sugar or creamer she'd provided, so she assumed that was for the benefit of his guests. He preferred his black. She'd remember that. And ignore why she was making such mental notes.
"You weren't irresponsible," he said. "You were disoriented after a traumatic event. An event you handled well. You kept your cool, fought back. You looked pissed, not frightened. The only time you looked rattled was when you thought he was going to get your rings."
She gripped them in reaction, reminding herself they were there. "I need to take them off, put them in a safe at home. It's foolish to wear them, especially in that environment."
"It tells men you're still off-limits, that you haven't figured out what you want. Or if you want anything." Dale lifted a shoulder. "Under those conditions, it makes sense to wear them."
Athena took another sip of the coffee. Since she liked hers with some cream, a little sugar, it had a lighter texture than Dale's, like dark caramel. "So you know about my husband."
"Yes. I'm sorry."
No elaboration, but sincerely meant, which impacted her more than a hundred words. It made her throat ache, the coffee burn on the way down.
"I was looking for you in the parking lot. That's how I saw what was happening." He met her surprised gaze. "The way you looked at me in the club, I thought you wanted something from me. I came to find out what it was."
She nearly blushed, telling her she was desperately out of practice at this. At the club, blunt communication was typical and vital, no subtleties or beating around the bush. There might be flirtation, like what they'd briefly indulged in the car, but when clear information was needed, things were straightforward.
She should tell him he was mistaken. Compliment him on his work with Willow, make some polite chitchat, offer to take him to breakfast to thank him for his help, and that would be the end of it.
A refined woman to the bone, she was courteous to everyone, no matter what she felt. I'm fine, how are you, how are your children? Always doing the right thing. She didn't see that as a shortcoming, as so many seemed to feel it was these days, those who preferred to wear everything they were on the outside, like dirty underwear. She took pride in who and what she was, but this moment called for something different, a side of herself she hadn't explored . . . ever.
He was waiting for her answer. Since even in this different environment she was feeling the tug of that influence he'd had over her last night, it suggested it was more than a flight of fancy. But then she'd been thinking about this for a while, hadn't she? She'd just lacked the motivating agent. A hot and sexy Dom who rescued her from a mugging.
A wry thought, but it was more than that. Something about the way he handled himself, both as a Dom and a man, steadied her. He made her feel it was okay to say what she wanted to say. When she was ready to say it.
"Yes, I do want to ask you for something. But I need to think about it."
"Fair enough." He put down the coffee, settled back against the bench, crossing his arms over his chest, a relaxed pose that highlighted the easy power of his body. "So Jimmy says you were a pretty amazing Domme to your husband."
To your husband. It was a specific way to put it. She stilled beneath the penetrating look. She'd fantasized about him having dark blue eyes, but the reality was far more exceptional. A casual glance, like her dazed perception last night, would suggest they were hazel, maybe green. In another light, a pale blue. But the truth was his eyes contained all those colors, blues and greens like the ocean itself, touched by sunlight with that gold ring around the pupil.
"My buddies used to razz me by calling me 'Merman,'" he said. "They're distracting as hell, I know."
She smiled at the grumpiness. Only a straight man could get irritated about having beautiful eyes. Looking back down at her coffee, she traced the rim of the cup with her manicured nail.
"Have you been looking for a new sub since your husband?" he asked. "Is that why you were at the club?"
"Are you offering?" She tossed the smile his way, the tightness of it matching the feeling in her chest.
He chuckled. "Not hardly. But when you were watching last night, your focus seemed different . . . for a Domme. Technique interests me. Maybe you just need to talk it through with a fellow Dom, someone you know you're not intending to top. Removes the pressure. Like an actor going over his lines with a neighbor, rather than having to do it with his costar right off."
"Perhaps." She needed to move the conversation away from this direction. She hadn't denied she was looking for a new submissive, but in truth, such a thought hadn't crossed her mind since Roy's death. Not once in those two years, not once since she'd returned to the club, no matter how many unattached male subs had met her gaze briefly, extending the invitation. As Jimmy said, she'd been an amazing Domme. With Roy.
Never again. She'd had that thought last night, hadn't she?
He set aside the coffee. Before she could anticipate what he was doing, he removed his shirt in one fluid movement, set it aside. When he put his hand to the belt of his jeans, she wondered if he was going to strip it all off, but he was merely resting it there, shifting his weight to one hip. "Okay, no pressure. Take a look, evaluate me. Pretend I'm a sub. Let me feel it, the way you take control."
If her tongue was currently fun
ctioning, she'd say the same thing she would if he'd offered her a shot of Jack at nine in the morning. It was too early in the day for this. Of course, maybe the Jack would help her. She was in a different environment, with an unpredictable and overwhelming man. There was no way she could summon the focus, the control, for what he was suggesting.
However, she routinely handled herself in demanding board meetings, at the podium of fund-raisers attended by well over a thousand people. She knew how to genuinely smile for hours, remember a hundred different names and the key details about the people attached to them. She could coordinate or defuse complex situations, put people at ease, draw them to her with warmth and direct them toward her goals. She knew how to connect to them in ways that brought out their better sides. She took personal pride in figuring that out for each individual, so that they felt so good about signing a contract with her company, or writing a check to make the world a better place, they'd do it again.
But this wasn't like that. It wasn't even comparable to how she'd been a Mistress to Roy. Then she'd had his pleasure uppermost in her mind. Dale was asking her to treat this as an exercise, no one to please or understand but herself. She had no precedent for that.
From his demeanor, she was sure that any attempt to politely distance herself from the situation would be met with a frank response that left her as vulnerable as if she were sitting naked at the Garden Club. She heard the clank of the collar and tags of one of the dogs scratching outside.
She'd faced unexpected situations where she needed to adapt, evaluate and organize her response quickly. She could think on her feet. That, and the earlier feeling, the one that made her think she could tell Dale anything she was thinking, gave her the courage to test these waters, to see if she was right about what she was truly wanting.