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.

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 like 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 functioning, 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.

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.