She slid off the stool. The shed wasn't large, but she could circle him at close quarters. He was beautiful. Sculpted with hard muscle, as she anticipated. He had some scars. When she was behind him, she lifted her hand over one, but she didn't touch him. Her fingers hovered several inches from a mark that was likely caused by a bullet. She'd noted there was a similar one on his front side, somewhat lower. It had punched through him from a vantage point above, perhaps from a window. Or maybe from the ground, an enemy trying to deflect his charge. The thought of him facing that made her anxiety about this seem absurd.
Did he have scars below the denim as well? If he did, they hadn't hampered him last night when he threw her attacker onto her car hood.
With his shirt off, the jeans belted so they sat at his waist, his ass was molded nicely by the fit. She imagined catching her fingers in his belt loop, closing the area between them to dare one kiss between his shoulder blades. She'd press her body against his so the curve of the firm buttocks pressed against the tight coil happening in her abdomen.
"You can touch me, Athena."
His permission perversely made her draw her hand back to herself. She returned to his front. When she looked up into his face, he was regarding her with that unsmiling look. Her legs quivered, and she realized she was feeling a little lightheaded. She should move back to the stool. Instead, she sank down to her knees in front of him, wanting to study and absorb him from this angle. Feel.
As a girl, she'd gone to see Saturday Night Fever with her mother. She recalled the opening scene, where John Travolta was clad in nothing but a pair of snug dark briefs while styling his hair. The camera angle had been shot from the floor, practically from between his feet. The girls in the audience had squealed at the provocative angle. Her mother had laughed at their reaction.
To capture that view, the camera person had to be kneeling, looking up at him. What if, when the scene was over, the person on their knees stayed there, until he reached down and bade her to rise? Even at that tender age, the idea had captivated Athena. As it did now.
She put a light-as-a-feather hand on Dale's right leg, above his knee. Her gaze coursed up the terrain of his powerful thighs, to the curve of cock and testicles beneath the denim. He didn't wear his jeans tight, but they held to his shape and moved with his body as needed. Just right. She slid her attention to his belt and the layers of muscle above, then lifted her eyes to his chest. He had a mat of fine dark hair, not too thick, but not thin or nonexistent, either. She had friends who tittered over bare-chested twentysomethings, even as they laughed at themselves for ogling men so much younger than themselves. Such men were pretty of course, but a mature man that looked like this would steal her attention any day.
Roy had no patience for the idea of men going to stylists and fussing over their appearance, beyond making sure they wore a clean shirt and shaved. Their faces, he'd clarified to her with a mock scowl as her lips quivered with suppressed mirth, her gaze moving pointedly to his furred chest. She bet Dale would have liked him.
His thigh muscle flexed beneath her hand as he shifted his weight to his right hip. His buttock muscles would tighten from that change in position. She wouldn't mind having her hand there, feeling that transition.
He reached down, brushing a finger underneath the wisps of hair across her forehead. "It's interesting where you ended up, isn't it? On your knees?"
She tensed, but his tone made it a neutral observation. He wasn't mocking her. "Does that have anything to do with what you want to ask me?"
"Yes. Maybe."
He brought her chin up, holding it. As he did, her pulse rabbited, and he registered it, because he increased his grip. Her chin lifted further at the pressure, her neck elongating. She had to raise her haunches an inch or so off her heels. He kept her like that, fingers stroking her jaw. Her stomach quivered harder. With the subtle demand, the power had shifted. Now he was touching her for himself, to see what her skin felt like. To evaluate her.
She wanted to excel in that evaluation. Wanted to please him, with a fierce intensity that spooked her.
"I need to go." She disengaged her chin from his grasp. When she rose, she was still so close she had to brace herself on his hip. His hands went to her waist, steadying her. She stepped away, flustered even more. "I have some appointments this afternoon."
"All right."
She backed up to her stool, to the coffee. Picked up her cup. She'd put it in the sink, wash it out before she left. Then she remembered her intent to take him to breakfast. "I'd like to thank you for your help."
"Nothing to thank me for." He said it with frank honesty, not as a courteous brush-off. "Any man would have done the same."
"I don't know about that. Plenty would have dialed 911 and left it at that."
"I said a man. Just because you're born male doesn't mean you know how to be a man. Any more than being female makes you a woman. You seem like a remarkable woman, Athena."
She curled both hands around the coffee cup. "I'd still like to thank you. And . . . perhaps talk about what I want at that point. Would you come to my home for lunch on Friday? You already know the address from my GPS, but I can write it down if you don't remember it."
"No worries that I'm untrustworthy?"
She arched a brow. "If you had nefarious intentions toward me, you've had several prime opportunities to execute them."
"God, I love the way you talk. The whole librarian thing."
It was difficult not to give in to a smile with his eyes glinting like that. "If you're simply toying with me, and you do plan to murder me," she advised, "I have a domestic staff there until five. You'll have to cut up my body and bury it in the gardens after they leave."
"So a midafternoon lunch might be more convenient for my diabolical plans."
"Yes, precisely. How about three?"
Two hours to talk to him over a civilized lunch, and then the staff would be gone, leaving the two of them alone. Like now. Yet it was different, wasn't it? This moment had come about by necessity, and she expected he was still concerned about her mental state after the attack. When he came for lunch, that issue would no longer be restraining him. Especially if she behaved the way she'd behaved a few moments ago.
Whether or not he felt it necessary, she knew she had a responsibility to protect him as well. "You can ask Jimmy more about me; he's known me for some time, and of course he knows my husband, who is a member as well. Was a member."
She closed her eyes at the correction, pushed on. "I'd rather you not tell Jimmy you're coming to my home, but other than that, you can ask him whatever you like. I'll call him and tell him it's okay. If you change your mind and decide not to come to my home for lunch, I understand, but I hope you'll let me take you out to lunch or dinner one day. You might have been doing what your code of honor dictates, but my gratitude--and my own sense of honor--needs to be satisfied as well."
The blue color of his eyes intensified when he smiled, the green becoming more vibrant, the gold ring around the irises more rich. She could devote hours to studying his eyes, or watching him pot plants. She imagined him transplanting the young seedlings once they sprouted, handling them so tenderly. She thought about the way he'd touched Willow's arm, the gentle power to it. Despite his teasing, she had nothing to fear from him. Not like she had from those men last night. His danger to her was a far more personal thing.
She was a lamb, inviting the lion into her pasture while she lay down and waited to see what he would do. She liked the feeling. It made her anxious, too. Once she was back in her car, on her way home, would she doubt herself? Think she'd blown the whole situation out of control, misrepresented herself?
He tore a sheet off a notepad he had mounted on the wall, and plucked a pencil out of an old coffee mug on the bench. Scribbling down a phone number, he folded it over and extended it, holding it between two knuckles. "This is my cell, if you need to change the when and where."
Maybe he recognized her thought process. He'
d just given her a tentative out. She could take him to a nice restaurant, order a good wine, and make sure she had commitments later in the afternoon to keep it a limited, one-time engagement. She'd see him at the club in a month or so. That would be a sufficient lapse to restore a proper perspective. Then, if she still felt the way she felt now . . .
"Three p.m. at my place on Friday," she confirmed. "I'll leave my cell number on your kitchen table, in case you have a change of plans."
He nodded. "I'll look forward to it. If the conversation you want to have with me goes the way I expect, I assume I'll be doing more of the telling from that point on."
His voice was a quiet rumble, but she'd been right about the cuffs on Willow's arms being unnecessary. His words and his gaze alone effectively pinioned her in place. The small room became exponentially smaller, cinching around her with that heated promise. She was feeling too much, too fast.
He stepped forward. The T-shirt she was wearing had a pocket, and he slid the piece of paper she hadn't yet taken from him into the narrow space. Since the pocket lay over the crest of her breast, she shivered when the paper's edge teased her nipple, even beneath the thin cushion of her bra. As she drew in a breath, her right breast rose against the side of his hand. She hadn't intended that, but he tilted his head to look. His other hand touched her waist, sliding up to capture the left breast, weighing it in his palm. She had fairly sizeable breasts for her frame, something Roy had enjoyed immensely, and the pleasure that came into Dale's expression as he captured one in his strong grip made everything in her liquefy.
"Lovely," he said. "Keep the T-shirt. I like the way you look in it." Then he stepped back, fingers whispering away from the cotton. Her flesh yearned, but she managed not to totter toward him. Instead, she gave him what she hoped was a calm nod as she picked up the coffee once more, moved toward the door. Placing her hand on the screen, she glanced back at him.
"You know, I could be a serial killer myself. I might have all sorts of weapons. Guns, a grenade launcher."
"A grenade launcher? Cool. I'd accept the lunch invitation for that alone." He winked at her.
She shook her head at him. "I knew you'd been in the military. Which branch?"
"Anything with testosterone loves a grenade launcher," he corrected her. "What's not to like? But yes, I've served. Retired SEAL."
Hearing she'd guessed correctly restored some of her confidence. She was still steering the boat, her judgment engaged. It also terrified her a little, because if that was true, she might be headed toward whitewater rapids, too intrigued by the potential ride to turn back from the danger of her boat being overturned.
He'd effectively defused the moment, but she still felt like he'd spread heated wax over her exposed skin, especially when he met her gaze once more.
"I hope you won't cancel, but if you do, Athena, I don't require any explanations. Not at this stage of the game."
The lazy threat behind those last words was clear. Clear enough to give her another shiver.
THREE
Roy, can you believe Mel Harper is still trying to get me to step down as board president?" Athena chuckled grimly as she pulled weeds from around the marble setting for his memorial statue. Watching Dale's efforts had inspired her to plant a few new flowers. Though she had a landscaping crew to maintain the estate grounds, this quiet corner with its small hobby garden and a bench for reflection was hers to manage. At least once a week, she came here to talk to Roy, do some weeding and thinking, and make sure the area remained interesting. Experimental groupings of shrubs and flowers alternated with seasonal plantings and decorations. At Christmas, she'd put a small lit tree near the statue, along with a group of garden gnomes to represent elves. That would have made him laugh.
She didn't believe the soul lingered with the body, but if Roy came by, she wanted him to see that she was thinking about him, remembering him with as much joy as sadness. The bronze had been fired with a handful of his ashes, the rest scattered in this section of the garden. In the statue, he was golfing, in midswing, his face crinkled with that good-humored look that said he expected a slice that would plunk the ball right into a sand trap. She'd never had any passion for the game, so it was one thing they rarely did together, but she'd clearly remembered that expression from the couple times she'd accompanied him. He was an abysmal golfer, so bad the club pro had given up on him. She'd wondered why he continued to play, when he succeeded at almost everything else he did. Roy had shrugged.
Ah well, life will knock you on your ass now and then. Gives you a reason to prove you can get up, right?
One night, she found a different use for his golf clubs he'd appreciated. She'd used one of the irons to tap his inner thighs while he was tied up, pressed the club end against his balls, lifted his chin with the shaft.
"You'd be proud of me. I met with Mel after the budget meeting and told him if he was so set on being president, he'd better plan my murder, because that would be far easier on both of us, versus all this wrangling in every meeting. I told him to let me know if he decided to go that route, so I could unleash my flying monkeys on him."
After a startled moment, Mel had chuckled, with charming self-deprecation. You called my bluff, Athena. Roy told me not to underestimate you. I guess I've been testing you. My apologies.
"Maybe we'll have a little less passive-aggressive dart throwing now, at least from him. Larry's still a pain in the ass, but that has more to do with his desire to get under my skirts than higher on the board. I wish he wasn't such a damn good financial manager. Now, don't get riled up." She waved her hand at the statue. "I can handle him. You know I can."
When it came to the advances of other men, Roy had been clearly protective. My wife. My Mistress. Jimmy had once told her that a lot of people new to the scene didn't realize that men who needed to experience submission could be just as possessive of their significant other as any male. You don't turn in your man card just because you need to be tied up and spanked, he'd declared.
"It looks like we'll be seeing an overall profit this year, despite the economy. I'm going to adjust the employee bonuses accordingly and bump up the healthcare contribution. Oh, Tessie Maddox in Shipping had twins. Can you believe it? That poor girl. Her husband's not worth the time of day, but I notice Jesse over in Receiving has been babysitting for her, running her errands. I'm not one to argue with the 'what God has brought together, let no man tear asunder,' but I tend to think that hormones brought Tessie and her husband together, not divine power. Jesse's a much better match for her. I guess we'll see if Tommy Lee becoming a father will make him a man."
She thought then of Dale, what he'd said about being a man. She was mature enough to know one heroic rescue at a gas station didn't guarantee he was a man a woman could count on a hundred percent--heroism in a relationship was sometimes as much about being there to help unload the dishwasher as to rescue her from a mugging--but it was an impressive start.
Of course, what she was considering with respect to him, was it the same thing as pursuing a serious relationship? If she went the way her mind was going on it, it was definitely safer to keep this a compartmentalized thing, restricted by a lot of boundaries that wouldn't cross into her daily life. Many club sessions fit into that mold. Two people coming together for a specific purpose, a mutual need, for a couple of hours once a week or even less often. Sometimes those people were married to other people, or, if the person they played with was their significant other, the club was the only place they exercised the Dom or sub tendencies.
No matter her thoughts on the long term, it was smart to approach it that way from the beginning. If it evolved beyond that, fine; she'd cross that bridge when it became necessary, but it was best to start with low expectations, one focused goal.
But what was her goal? With Dale, even during that brief moment in the potting shed, things tended to get off track, started to cycle around his indomitable will, not because he was imposing it on her, but because she slid under it like
an umbrella in a rain storm.
"Mrs. Summers?" Her cell beeped, the speaker feature turned on. "Your guest is here."
"Thank you, Lynn. Show him to the gazebo and make sure he has a drink. Bring out the hors d'oeuvres. I'll be right there, soon as I wash my hands."
Time had escaped her. Glancing at her slim gold watch, she realized he was right on time. "Well, here goes, Roy. I'm nervous as a girl on her first date. I bet you're laughing, old man."
She kissed her fingertips, pressed them to the foot of the statue. "I love you, baby." Then, pushing aside the familiar weight of sadness, she moved away from the area, headed for the guest house behind the pool area. She washed her hands, checked her hair and makeup. Removing the coveralls she'd been wearing to protect her blouse, she slipped on the skirt she'd hung up in there earlier, prepared for this eventuality.
With any other guest, she would have been waiting near the door to personally greet them. A twinge of hostess guilt struck her for not doing the same with Dale. However, she'd been jumpy as a cat since noon, so she'd needed to do something. She could lie to herself, say it was the residual tension she sometimes nursed after board meetings, mostly due to dealing with personalities like Mel's, but the truth was it was all about Dale.
She'd thought long and hard about the question she'd ask him. There was no requirement that she ask it, but she already knew she was going to do so. As a result, tiny manic frogs were jumping in her stomach.
Beyond that, for the first time in over two years, an attractive man she desired was coming to have lunch with her, and his parting words were practically branded in her mind--at this stage of the game . . . I have a feeling I'll be the one doing the telling. She wasn't even going to count how many times she'd thought about his firm caress of her breast. He'd touched her as if he already owned her.
She touched that same place, taking a deep breath as she did so. "I am forty-six years old," she told the mirror. "I am Athena Francesca Summers, a grown woman. If I simper, giggle, blush or do something equally ridiculous during this meal, I will stab myself with my own fork. So there."