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"Give me your credit card and whatever cash you're carrying. As well as that sparkly ring you're wearing." The driver seemed laid-back, almost conversational about it. Not even particularly aggressive, but then, he didn't need to be. The look in his eyes told her he'd done violence before, and wouldn't hesitate to do it again. "C'mon, bitch. Just give 'em to me and you can go back to your fancy life, order a couple hundred more credit cards."
Of course. Because like all rich people, I simply pull money out of my ass by magic, not hard work. She was smart enough not to say it, but she met his gaze squarely. "No."
The punch in the face was unexpected, jarring. As the world reeled, she thought of the masked man smacking Willow's ass. It had been intended to provoke pleasure as much as pain. This was simple violence, the companion to hate and resentment and all the things that made a person not care what they were doing to another. As a result, a matching response boiled up inside her.
She might have screamed in rage, she wasn't sure. All she knew was she flew at the young man with nails and teeth. She was a small woman in her forties with no fighting skills, so it would be nothing for him to beat her into the ground, but she didn't stop pummeling at him, no matter how ineffectually. His second blow caught her on the temple and she staggered. She was vaguely aware of the other one opening her car door to yank out her purse. She lunged at him and the driver shoved her against the gas pump, the handles jamming into her lower back.
"Stop fighting," he snapped impatiently.
He'd caught her hand, was wrenching at her rings. The engagement ring Roy had given her at a soiree with her family and friends. The twenty-year anniversary band. The plain gold wedding band. His mistake was he was trying to work all three off together, and her knuckles were not the same as they'd been at twenty-one, when Roy had placed two of them there. She screamed in rage, for help, to be noticed, to stop him. She also kicked at him, dropping to the ground so he had to follow her, practically roll with her as she curled around the rings like she was protecting a child.
He grabbed hold of her hair. Again she was struck with the contrast, the way the Master had seized Willow's hair to drag her head back. This man was going to smash her face against the raised concrete dais. She'd be another NOLA crime statistic.
Instead, he was yanked off her and slung back over her car. He hit the hood with a resounding thump, fell off. The BMW might need body work. A flurry of violent activity ensued, punctuated by male swearing. A cry followed a sound like breadsticks being snapped. Then there was a scramble, the two men running back to their car, one limping and the other holding his arm against himself. The Caddy sped away, the driver shouting obscenities out the window, his eyes wild, spooked.
She was trying to get up, but a large hand closed over her shoulder, keeping her down. "Easy, let's take this slow. See what's what." When he tried to uncurl her hands from her chest, she was too disoriented. She made a noise between angry protest and pleading.
"It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you or take anything from you, I promise."
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 thi
nk 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.
