Unrestrained Page 3

  It was his rumbling tone that brought things into focus. The man in the Caddy had tried to take her rings, not this man. This man was trying to help her.

  He gently manacled her wrist, using his hold on it and the arm he slid behind her shoulders to help her sit up on the concrete island. He unfolded her legs so they were stretched out in front of her. She blinked, bemused when he guided her calf so one ankle was crossed over the other. A ladylike pose, rather than sprawled ignominy. It helped.

  "You okay?"

  She focused. "Your eyes aren't dark blue."

  Maybe it was because she was still fuzzy, but she had an impression of several colors. Green at the bottom of the iris, melding into blue at the top. A center ring of gold around the pupil. She knew it was him, not just because of the black T-shirt and jeans and his build, but because of that unique stamp to him. He barely seemed winded after dispatching the two men.

  Her gaze shifted to his hair. It was charcoal colored, with a handsome peppering of gray. She suspected he was a little older than her, maybe late forties. She really had wanted to see his face, and now that she'd been granted her wish, she was having trouble focusing on it. She locked her attention on that granite jaw. That, and his touch, made good anchor points to help her steady. The heat of his palms on her arms was so much better than what she'd felt when she'd slipped her fingers into his glove. She wanted him to keep them there.

  "Answer my question, Athena. Are you okay?"

  "Yes. Just bumps and bruises." Her vision had only blurred when she was hit, so she didn't think she had a concussion. Her cheek had hit the cement, not her skull. She'd have quite a story to tell at the Garden Club luncheon. She'd make them laugh by telling them it was due to an unfortunate run-in with her rebellious rosebushes. She didn't think they'd laugh if she told them it was because of an attempted mugging outside her favorite BDSM club. "It was just a shock to be hit that way."

  "Yeah. That's usually the first hurdle in combat training. Understanding you're going to get hit in hand-to-hand, and you can't flinch from it. You didn't flinch at all."

  "I'd like to say it was bravery, but I simply didn't expect it."

  "Most people don't expect someone to do that to them. Not if it's never happened before. If you had some training, I think you'd have kicked that bastard's ass."

  "Thank you. A nice way of saying I fight like a girl. Would you mind helping me up?"

  He rested his hand on her knee, drawing her attention to the fact that one was knocking against the other. Until he touched it, and then it stilled, with an uncertain quiver. "Let's sit here for another minute or two."

  He was sitting next to her, which would ordinarily be pleasant, but the location wasn't.

  "I'd like to at least move to my car," she said. "This isn't a very comfortable or aromatic position. The gas smell's a little overpowering."

  "Aromatic?" His lips quirked, and they were handsome and firm. "No wonder they call you Lady Mistress. All right, then. Point taken. You're going to lean on me, though. No arguments."

  It wasn't the only reason they called her that. She was Athena Francesca Summers, born of old Southern money, married to Roy "Rocket" Summers. She'd been at his side for over twenty years as the two of them expanded and increased the success of the company he started, Summers Industries, which was now a multinational corporation that also employed thousands domestically. On top of that, she was practically a professional volunteer fund-raiser for various high-profile New Orleans charities.

  Though most at Club Release hadn't known her true identity in the beginning, it wasn't hard to figure out as time went on, since photographs of her and Roy regularly showed up in the business and social columns. Club Release was known for its exclusive membership and small size, which was one of the reasons Roy had chosen it, despite more upscale fetish club choices in the New Orleans area, like the nearby Club Progeny.

  There was no shame in a Southern lady leaning on a handsome male rescuer, but even if there had been, she would have had little choice. Despite the odd calmness of her mind, her legs couldn't support her weight. However, he did more than let her lean. When she expected him to open her driver's side door, instead he bent, slid his arms beneath her and lifted her off her feet. He walked around to the passenger side, letting her down there before he opened the door.

  Roy hadn't been a weakling, but she could count on one hand the times he'd carried her. Worried he might throw out his back, she'd insist he put her down, even though she'd hold on to his neck as she fussed. When he did put her down, she'd compliment his show of manly strength, laughing at the mischief in his brown eyes. Lord, she missed that man's sense of humor.

  She leaned against the frame of the door, swamped by the feeling. A near mugging could do that, remind a woman of the practicalities she faced when her husband was dead and no close family lived in the area. No one was directly involved in her day-to-day well-being. Had she even updated her emergency contact numbers in her purse or at the house? If she'd been seriously hurt, would the emergency room have tried to find Roy?

  Oh, for heaven's sake. She wasn't going to fall into this self-pitying drivel. She'd update it tomorrow, choose one of her many friends to be primary contact. None of those friends knew about this part of her life, though. They'd have no clue why she was pumping gas in the middle of the night in a part of town none of them frequented. It didn't really matter, did it? If she needed an emergency contact, she expected discretion wouldn't be high on her list of priorities.

  She noticed her purse was on the edge of the seat, straps dangling to the floorboards, her lipstick a glittering tube of silver on the carpet. It suggested the other man had gotten no further than that in pulling her bag from the car. The one responsible for thwarting him stood at her back, close enough for her to feel his heat. His hand was just above hers on the frame as he waited her out.

  She had a sudden desire to slide her hand up over his, hold on tight, feel that human contact. If he turned his hand to clasp hers, she'd experience firsthand the restrained strength he'd used when he brought that cane down on Willow's flanks, and then again when he'd slid his hand down her bare body, fingers decisively capturing her clit, pushing her over the edge. One more small step, and he'd be as close to Athena as he'd been to his bound submissive.

  "I'd like to thank you properly," she said, staring at that hand. "May I ask your name? Or do you prefer Master Craftsman?" She knew Jimmy had meant it as a joke, a teasing nickname, but it was all she had.

  "Hardly. Do you feel Lady Mistress is a good fit for you?"

  "It was, once." She spoke before she thought about the wisdom of saying so, but watching him had brought such thoughts to the surface, hadn't it? Her legs were trembling again, and her grip slipped on the door frame. "Damn it."

  "Ease in there." He moved the purse to the floor and folded her firmly into the passenger seat. She'd lost her shoes during the scuffle, but he had them. He placed them neatly by her feet. Her toes curled into the rug, the rougher fibers a contrast with the silk of her nylons.

  He shut the door, then came around to the driver's side. He reached beneath the seat to slide it back and accommodate his larger frame before he took the spot. Her purse was still on the console, her keys in the ignition, so he turned the engine over, adjusting the air so a low heat began to fill the car. Though it was a warm enough night in New Orleans, she was shivering. Shock, she supposed, and watched him press the seat warmer for the passenger side. It warmed both the back and backside, and she couldn't help a small sigh of comfort when it responded quickly. German luxury cars were a gift of the gods.

  Her dashboard GPS came up, and he glanced at it, pressing the icon programmed for home. Just like that, he had her address. She wasn't that concerned about it, because he didn't feel like a threat. Not that way. Her gaze fastened onto his forearm, that dark sprinkle of hair. Lifting her attention to the silver hair at his temples, she reached out, touched it.

  Those intent eyes locked with her
s in a way that made her close her hand, lower it with only a brief impression of the soft texture. He held her gaze, unsmiling, until she put the hand back in her lap. She could almost hear the click, the connection made, a mutual understanding of their behavior. His wasn't a surprise to her, not after having watched him in the club. But his reacting that way now told her he wasn't simply a bedroom Dom, one demanding those terms in the boundaries of a defined session, a sexual scenario. Few men had the confidence to pull it off believably outside a structured environment.

  That intel, rather than suggesting she might act with more caution around him, gave her far more unwise thoughts and desires.

  If her reaction had surprised him, given that she was classified as a Domme, he didn't show it. "I'm taking you home," he said, "and then I'll call a cab to get me back to my place. I came with a friend tonight, so I don't have my truck here. Take a hot shower tonight and a couple aspirin. It'll make you feel better tomorrow."

  "Voice of experience?" Her tongue seemed to be too thick in her mouth. "That didn't seem like your first fis-fisticuffs."

  His lips quirked again. "Fisticuffs? Really? Are you a librarian?"

  "Do I look like one?"

  "Depends." His gaze covered her, head to toe, and he took his time about it. "I've had some interesting fantasies about librarians. The kind where I bend them over a stack of books and discipline them with a nice flexible paperback for shushing me one too many times."

  Was he trying to steady her with the teasing? Giving him a silly smile, she leaned forward and put her finger to her lips, trying to summon a suitably stern librarian expression. "Shh."

  He closed his hand over hers and brought the one finger to his lips, brushing a kiss over the pad. They knew what type of animal they each were, and they'd met through a sexually focused club, so this type of flirtation was meaningless. Two Doms teasing one another with no intent to engage. Except as he continued to hold her wrist, his eyes became more serious, while her fingers loosened, becoming more pliant.

  "The name doesn't fit anymore, does it?" he asked. "That's what you were saying."

  She swallowed, sat back. As she did, he let her slide free. She looked out the window. She'd been maudlin earlier. Sad, Jimmy had called it, but still dangerously mawkish. Now was not a time to make impetuous decisions. "You don't need to take me home. Use the car to go back to your own place, and by that time I'll be steady enough to drive. No sense in inconveniencing you by trying to get a cab out to my place this time of night."

  When he said nothing, she settled deeper into the seat, closed her eyes, and crossed her arms over herself. "All right?"

  "You're no inconvenience. And I'll see how you're doing when we get to my place. My name is Dale. Dale Rousseau."

  "Rousseau." She smiled, eyes still closed. The warmth of the car was making her drowsy. Her trembling had stopped. Things were slowing down again, the fog returning. "'Nothing is less in our power than the heart, and far from commanding, we are forced to obey it.'"

  "Intriguing choice. 'To live is not merely to breathe; it is to act; it is to make use of our organs, senses, faculties--of all those parts of ourselves which give us the feeling of existence.'"

  "A Master who knows his Rousseau. Thank you, Dale."

  She wasn't sure if she was thanking him for knowing Rousseau, for driving her home or for rescuing her from the two thugs, but it didn't matter. A lady always offered her thanks for a kindness, and so far he'd been nothing but kind.

  It just showed the depths of her capricious mood that she yearned for the part of him she'd seen earlier in the evening--when he'd been far less kind.

  TWO

  Athena opened her eyes. She didn't recognize her surroundings. The room was small, probably the size of her walk-in closet, though in all fairness, her walk-in closet was the size of a small bedroom. The quilt over her was clean, the mellow ivory of the white fields suggesting advanced age. It had a blue and brown wedding ring pattern. There was a braided rug on the floor with the same colors. The nightstand, the only other furniture in the room, held an old-fashioned alarm clock, the round kind with hands showing the time. Instead of a.m. or p.m., there was a dial just above the fulcrum of the arms, showing a sunrise for morning. She expected it would slowly shift into a full sun afternoon view, then a moon and starry sky picture for night. She remembered having one of those when she was younger.

  The carafe by the bed held cold water, the ice partially melted and condensation collected on the glass sides, absorbed by the folded cloth on which the carafe sat. She saw a note next to the clock, propped up so she could see it in her current position.

  Sit up slow. That's an order. Take the aspirin. Do you remember your name? My name?

  She saw the two pills by the note. Dale . . . that was his name. Dale Rousseau. She certainly remembered her own. He'd woken her up a few times in the night, made her say it, made her tell him the name of the club, her favorite New Orleans restaurant, what color the sky was.

  Slowly, things started coming back. She'd dozed off in the car. She hadn't woken until he opened her passenger door. At that point, she thought she'd merely nodded off at the gas station, and still expected to find herself there. Instead, she'd blinked blearily at the chain-link gate in front of the car. Three strands of barbed wire ran along the top. From the silhouettes of old cars piled up behind it, it appeared to be the entrance to a junkyard. However, the forbidding appearance was meliorated by a wisteria-covered arbor, which graced a separate gate onto the property for foot traffic. A wooden sign stood next to that, telling her in cheerful yellow letters she was at Eddie's Junkyard and Temporary Home for Good Dogs. A whimsically animated car and puppy had been painted side by side beneath the lettering, both grinning at her.

  "Is there anyone waiting for you at home, Athena? Someone I can call? Answer me."

  His hand was on her face, commanding her attention the same way his words were. How did he know her name? She must have told him. Or maybe Jimmy had. "No. No one knows I'm out tonight. No one to call."

  Her domestic staff left at five p.m., so her nights were her own. If she wasn't there when they arrived tomorrow, they wouldn't think anything of it. They'd assume she'd left early for the office, or to handle her never-ending list of errands and social engagements. Technically, no one would miss her for a couple of days. It was a stupid thing to tell a stranger, but when he told her to answer him, she did, without thought. She was usually mature enough to make the distinction between erotic fantasy and intelligent reality. Maybe she'd take a nap outside this nice junkyard before heading home.

  He returned to the car, drove it through the now-open gate. The next thing she remembered was him sliding his arms under her legs and back, lifting her out of the car with the same ease he'd lifted her at the gas station.

  "So strong," she mumbled. "But don't hurt your back. I can walk."

  "You'll stay at my place tonight," he said shortly, ignoring that. "You're in no shape to drive, let alone be at home by yourself."

  Well, he'd obviously been right about that. Coming back to the present and what must be his guest bedroom, she sat up slowly, feeling every ache. Looking in the mirror was probably going to be a bad decision, intensifying the mortification she was starting to feel. Good God. She stayed on top of every detail of her life. She was a problem solver. She didn't throw good judgment to the wind and trust a stranger to care for her the way a child would. But that was exactly what she'd done. How much vodka had she had in that Diet Coke? Not enough to impede her judgment to that extent. She was very prudent about that type of thing. If she'd overindulged, she never would have driven. She would have called a cab. Which in turn would have made all of this a moot point.

  She cut herself some slack on the whole mugging scenario. She had made the wrong choice there, but it had been a calculated one, thinking she was close enough to the club to be safe. But then there was her behavior in the car with him, touching his hair . . . the things they'd said to one another,
the subtle clues she'd given with her responses, or lack thereof. He had very nice hair, thick and soft. Those silver strands tempted a woman's fingers.

  Looking down, she realized she was in a man's T-shirt and her panties, and that was it. Her clothes had been hung up and left on the hinge of a closet door. Her bra and stockings were folded into a neat pile on her shoes. They sat on an old wooden rocker. At the foot of the bed was a trunk. Her purse was there.

  He'd changed her clothes. She was wearing his shirt, because it smelled like him. English Leather, mixed with a mint-based soap. When he'd carried her, she'd also detected cinnamon, perhaps his toothpaste, or maybe he was a fan of Big Red gum. It brought to mind the macho, cowboy-styled commercials for it. He was a good fit for that. English Leather and Big Red. One hundred percent testosterone, all the way.

  Modesty wasn't a big issue in a BDSM club, given that submissives were often fully naked and even Dominants could wear provocative outfits. Environment dictated comfort zone, however, and realizing he'd undressed her in his home, in his guest bedroom, made her feel far more vulnerable than if he stripped her on Club Release's public floor and flogged her.

  That image ran a new shiver up her spine. It wasn't so much what he'd done to Willow that titillated her. It was how he did it. He made all of the trappings--whip, cane, restraints, frame--seem unnecessary, as if he could have held Willow in place with a look alone, taken her to that state of mindless submission by the sheer force of his will.

  She'd commanded Roy, tied him up, punished him, but she was always Athena, his wife, role-playing a Mistress to him. At least that was how it felt to her. Roy could get deep into it, but she didn't think he'd ever completely lost himself the way Willow had lost herself to Dale.

  Could she have given that to Roy if she'd done something differently? Had she ever noticed him looking longingly at other scenarios, where things became more intense, where the Dommes were more fully in control? Where it was more natural to them?

  Don't do this to yourself, Athena. He loved you and you loved him.

  She touched the worn cloth of the dark blue T-shirt, and a memory surfaced. Dale's capable hands moving over her, removing the trim suit blazer she'd worn, the shell blouse, the bra beneath. Had his hands lingered, caressed her breasts, slid down her body, learning what he was going to claim? As she became more awake, her memory was fine-tuning, and that wasn't part of it, so the vision was apparently her fantasy addition to the scene. A good thing, too, since the line between that particular fantasy and its reality would be a clear demarcation between Good Samaritan and creepy predator.