At His Mercy Read online

  AT HIS MERCY

  by Alison Kent

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  ***

  PUBLISHED BY

  Alison Kent on Smashwords

  AT HIS MERCY

  Copyright © 2011 by Alison Kent

  All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

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  Chapter One

  No matter how many times Lise Kimball told herself the dread in her stomach was nothing, the pressure increased exponentially with every mile she drove. Her life was packed, tossed, and squeezed into her SUV, and there was no way around it.

  Her right rear tire was going flat.

  For the last half hour, her steering wheel had been pulling and the loud thumping noise whirring louder. Finally, she'd accepted the inevitable and put on her flashers, hoping to avoid a rear-end collision while creeping along the break down lane.

  She knew the mechanics of changing a tire, but since this would be her first time and she was going to have to unload a lot of boxes to get to her spare, she had her fingers crossed the tire would hold until she reached the highway exit ahead.

  The fact that the night was dark as burned oil and the oasis ahead well-lighted had her encouraging the steel belted radial to hang in there. And while she was at it, she promised any greater power listening that she would never again trust her vehicle’s maintenance—or any part of her life—to someone who twisted that trust to suit his needs.

  Wouldn’t her soon-to-be-ex enjoy seeing her battling a car jack and a tire iron?

  She wondered how Mark had reacted when the divorce papers had been served at his law office this morning. And then she laughed, the sound tinged with the hysteria she’d been trying to keep at bay.

  She didn’t need to wonder. She knew, and pictured him so clearly her stomach clutched harder, nearly making her sick.

  The tic in his jaw as he ground it. The strain around his mouth as he pressed his lips tight. The set of his shoulders as he held himself in check. Save for the shows of emotion presented to the juries deciding his clients' fates, Mark Kimball's public persona was ice.

  No, he’d strike out later. At the racquetball court. On the freeway between his firm’s downtown Atlanta location and their suburban home. At her. Never with his fists, of course, but with words.

  And he was so, so good with words. As good as he was with silences. As good as he was with his body which he shared only when in his best interest to do so.

  Yeah. She’d had enough. Or rather, she hadn’t had enough.

  It had been weeks, months since the man who’d sworn ten years ago to cherish her until death did them part had visited her bed. Last she'd looked, cherishing went a lot further than seeing to her material needs and whims as he pleased.

  A master manipulator, Mark Kimball.

  But that was all behind her. In front of her stretched the rest of her life and, hallelujah, the beautiful highway exit ramp. She limped down its length, following the blacktop to the stop sign and the beacon of lights which had beckoned her.

  The lights turned out to be big square halogens mounted on tall pines ringing the parking lot of a restaurant and bar. Across the intersection, the exit ramp became an entrance ramp, feeding back into to the highway. Signs indicated a right turn would take her into a town called Danport.

  She didn’t need a town. With patience, the bright lamps shining, and her upper body sculpted and strengthened by months spent in the care of Mark’s personal trainer, she’d be fine.

  Because really. If she couldn't change a tire by herself, she wasn't going to make it very far on her own.

  #

  The screen door catching behind him, Donovan True stepped off the bar’s back stairs and onto the parking lot’s asphalt. He turned for the recycle bins, tossed a bag of longnecks into the first, one of aluminum cans into the other.

  Glass clanked and rattled, breaking, cracking like a shot. The sound brought the two strays who lived in the woods behind the building running as if Pavlov himself had whistled. Both were mutts, one a beagle mix, the other a coarse-haired terrier. Neither wore tags on their collars.

  He hadn’t been able to get close enough to check the collars themselves for engraving. And folks around here weren’t into microchipping anymore than they were into fencing their yards. Danport was a small burg with a mostly rural population. No leash laws. Pets ran free. He got that.

  What he didn’t get was people not seeing to the welfare of what—or who—they’d taken on or been charged with. Whether that something was a dog, another human being, or the business that provided their living.

  Not that he minded living in Danport for now. Or keeping the place afloat for a friend doing time.

  But if Donovan hadn’t been in a position to make the move to Mississippi and the commitment to the restaurant while his buddy learned the truth about drinking and driving at the hands of the state, there would’ve been nothing for said buddy to come back to, The Swamp Pit having gone to the dogs … so to speak.

  At the sound of metal clattering and groaning from the building’s front, Donovan pushed up from the roasting pan of scraps he’d set down for the strays, wiping his hands on the towel flung over his shoulder and heading that way.

  He stopped when he got to the corner because he had to. There was something about a woman stretching—arms reaching high, back arched, long torso twisting to pull her clothes tight—that turned him dumb. And this one … Yep. Dumb as a bump on a stump.

  It was when she bent forward, her ass gorgeously rounded beneath the flowered skirt skimming her calves, that he realized the source of the sounds. She was changing a flat. At least she was trying to.

  Boxes and packing crates and shopping bags and carryalls sat on the ground at the rear of her SUV. The cargo door stood open, the vehicle tilted to the side on its jack.

  She’d gotten that far, but watching her throw her full weight into the tire iron, he realized she’d hit her limit. He had to give it to her for trying. He’d seen grown men three times her size struggle to break an impact wrench seal.

  She stood again, yelled as she kicked at the tire, then hands on her hips, turned to face the bar. That’s when she saw him coming. Looking over, she lifted a hand, a weak wave, the smile on her mouth less nervous and more self-deprecating and defeated.

  "Hi. I was just about to see if Danport might have a mechanic before I called Triple A."

  Yes, Danport had a mechanic. But Donovan didn’t want the man getting close to this one’s tires. "Will a good Samaritan do?"

  "As long as you’ll let me pay you for your time. Or at least let me …" She stopped, looked from the towel in his hands to the apron at his waist before taking in the empty parking lot. Shrugging, she looked back. "I was going to add, ‘Buy you a drink,’ but it looks like I may be too late."

  He bent for the tire iron. "It’s never too late for a drink."

  She grabbed at a strand of hair whipped by the wind. "I guess that means you’re the boss."

  He stood slowly, watched as she tucked one trim ankle behind the other, her skirt floating around her bare legs. The fabric was summer sheer, and he could see right through it. Her knees, her thighs, the rib of he
r panties at her hip.

  His breath hitched as he met her gaze, desire a snake wrapped around the base of his spine. "Donovan True. At your service."

  "I’m Lise. Lise Kimball." She paused, one heartbeat, two. "At your mercy."

  Chapter Two

  "Bye, Nova. See you tomorrow at lunch."

  "Noon on the dot, or I’m docking you."

  "Eleven fifty nine, then. Just to be safe."

  "Fine, but sucking up won’t cut short your shift."

  The bartender disappeared into the kitchen, his laugh growing distant. Lise startled as the back door slammed like the lid of a coffin closing. The echo bounced and faded, the establishment's sound system between songs, the room silent except for her and Donovan’s breathing. Unlit except for the neon beer signs above the bar.

  The light from the parking lot halogens filtered through the wooden blinds on the windows, striped the floor’s worn linoleum like prison bars. She looked at her drink, knowing she was free to go. The amber liquid and ice cubes, dizzily reflecting the colored logos, kept her there, as did an inappropriate longing.

  For a reason she couldn’t put a name to, staring into her scotch was easier than meeting the gaze of the man on the stool beside her. He’d changed her tire, helped her reload her belongings, been a complete gentleman every step of the way.

  It was only when he looked at her without speaking that the nape of her neck tingled, that gooseflesh pebbled the skin of her arms. That her nipples tightened.

  It had been forever since the quiet lust in a man’s eyes had aroused her, and she feared having her hunger used against her with calculating intent.

  She’d left because Mark had done so. Weakened her with her own needs. Withheld the intimacy she longed for. Worn her down until he’d shaken her confidence, stolen pieces of her she wasn’t sure she’d ever get back.

  Ridiculous, really, to fear anything of the sort. Her savior was a stranger. They weren’t involved. She was here for a drink before they said their goodbyes. That was all.

  She canted her head to the side, tucked her hair behind her ear. "I thought you said your name was Donovan."

  "It is." He laced his fingers around his glass, the hair at his wrists dark. Dark, too, on the far edge of his hands. Broad hands. Capable. "Nova’s a nickname."

  She thought for a minute. About his name. About his hands. Wondered if they’d feel rough on her skin. If he’d be clumsy, or if he’d know how to touch her. If he’d know where. "Like a Christopher going by Topher?"

  "Someone would do that?"

  "There’s an actor …"

  He snorted. "That explains it."

  So arrogant. So sure. She twisted on her stool, crossed her legs, swung her foot as the music started up again. Brushed the loose denim at his ankle with each pass of her sandal to the beat. "And Nova? Explain that."

  He chuckled, a deep rusty sound. It scraped her nerves, dangerous, damaging. "That would mean admitting to behavior I’m not particularly proud of. And since it involves an ex …"

  A nova. Exploding. Bursting. Shivering, she found herself asking something unplanned yet … necessary. "Is there a current?"

  His eyes on his drink, he shook his head, and when she finally glanced over, she was in time to see the corner of his mouth twitch with ... Regret? Sorrow? Anger? His profile told only the edge of the story, but the tension was sharp and made her want more.

  "I decided to keep things simple while I’m here."

  While he was here? "By here you mean …?"

  "Mississippi."

  Hmm. Rootless? Drifting? Like herself? "So you don’t live in Danport?"

  "Just temporarily. The bar belongs to a friend who found himself in a bind. I told him I’d hang out a couple of years until he’s back on his feet."

  A couple of years? "That’s some kind of generous."

  "I had the time."

  His comment raised all sorts of questions, especially coming on the heels of the one about keeping things simple. Two years without a lover? Was that what he’d implied?

  "Lucky man, having you for a friend."

  "So I keep telling him," he said, lifting his drink. The ice cubes rattled when he returned the glass empty to the bar, the lead crystal heavy as it struck the polished wood. Lise took the sound as a sign.

  She was mobile again, though she wasn’t leaving Danport without replacing the tire. Just her luck she’d hit another nail on the bridge over Lake Ponchartrain if she drove the rest of the way to New Orleans on her spare.

  Tempting fate more than she had already wasn’t wise. It was time to find someplace to stay for the night. She gathered her purse from the bar to her lap. "Thanks again for the rescue."

  Still staring at his glass, he nodded, his eyes hooded, his lashes long, dark paintbrush fans. Gorgeous. Tempting. If she didn't get going …

  "What time do you open tomorrow? Maybe I’ll swing by for lunch before getting back on the road." Reluctance kept her pinned to her seat, as did his nearness, his muscled thighs spread, his waistline trim. "I’d love to pay for a meal since you won’t let me pay for your help."

  "You’re staying the night then?" he asked, his voice gruff.

  He sounded equally torn, as if they both knew her leaving was for the best though her staying … She wasn’t staying. She couldn’t stay.

  She had a room waiting for her in New Orleans and a new life to start. "I have to get a tire. I don’t want to risk another flat without a spare. I guess Danport doesn’t have a Marriott?"

  "No, but there’s a bed and breakfast a block off Main. Place called Barrett’s."

  She glanced at the clock above the bar. "It’s so late."

  "I know the owners. I’m happy to give them a call, tell them you’re coming."

  "You think they’ll have a room?"

  "They always have rooms."

  That didn’t surprise her. "Then it looks like I’m at your mercy yet again."

  "I’ll call, but one thing first?"

  "What?" she asked, her chest tight with the effort to breathe.

  He swiveled toward her, put out one hand, desire thick in his gaze when it settled on hers. "Dance with me."

  #

  Donovan wasn’t sure why he’d made the suggestion. No, that wasn’t true. He knew exactly, and it had everything to do with keeping her close. Keeping her here. He wasn’t ready to let this one get away.

  She’d brought a cool breeze with her into this pit stop of thick swamps and heat. She was unexpected. She was a moment in time he hadn’t known he needed.

  Mostly, though, he was caught up in the thought of her being at his mercy. She had no idea the heat that coursed through him at the idea of hearing her beg.

  Her fingers slid along the surface of his palm in response to his request. "A dance as payment for your services?"

  "I’m not looking to be paid for my services."

  "What are you looking for?" she asked, just as the next playlist he’d programmed queued up. The music was a mix of blues and jazz. New Orleans music. Sweating music. Grinding music.

  "I hadn’t been looking for anything," he told her honestly, the snake around his spine tightening to the wail of the sax. "Not before tonight."

  He guided her away from the bar to the square of floor in front of the dark corner stage. There hadn’t been a single band booked to play when he’d taken up the managerial reins, and he’d done nothing to change that.

  He was here to do a favor for a friend, sure, to keep The Swamp Pit running. Booking shows wasn’t part of the deal, however, because he was also here for himself, to recharge. To take the two years, finish writing the books which remained on his contract, and decide if it was time to switch gears.

  The barrage of constant input—from reviewers, from his editor, his publisher, from fans—was doing a bang-up job of stripping the joy from his work. His True Believers thrillers had been a sweet ride. Monetarily, he was set for life. Creatively, not so much.

  Burnout wasn't the proble
m. Neither was writer's block.

  The problem was control. Caught up by success, he’d let it slip away, given the power over his life’s work to others. He needed to get it back. Needed the satisfaction that came with running the show. Even if it meant walking away and starting over.

  Enough. His arms were wrapped around a beautiful woman, her heartbeat synced to his, her breath soughing like a whisper beneath his ear. Her breasts were high and firm, and pressed to his chest like an offering. And her voice was low when she spoke.

  "I'm sorry if I stirred something you'd rather leave settled."

  Her comment brought him back to the present, and to the only time he wanted to think of. He pulled away to look into her eyes. "Don't be sorry. Stirring can be a very good thing."

  Her smile came slowly, her lashes lowering to hide what the smile couldn't. Longing. Hunger. Uncertainty.

  He pressed her close, swayed with her, against her, the music like silk ties binding them. Words would do nothing but get in the way so he answered her with his hands, his fingers, his cheek against hers, his thighs tangled with the fabric of her skirt.

  One song became another and the hour grew late. Late enough that the thermostat kicked to its overnight settings. The ceiling fans, timed to follow, spun to a stop. The air stilled. Their body heat rose.

  Perspiration dampened her neck and chest, and he breathed deeply of the arousal that bloomed on her skin. He hardened, his breathing rough, his pulse ragged.

  She shifted slightly, her hip nudging toward his fly, noticing his length. Lingering. "Can I ask you a question?"

  The music’s bluesy bass notes thrummed along the surface of his skin. "Of course."

  "I’m curious about something you said. I just don’t want to cross any lines."

  "Something tells me that’s not going to be a problem."

  "What did you mean by keeping it simple while in Mississippi?"

  He weighed a full confession of his sins against a simpler answer and gave her the latter. "It’s a small town. Seemed a good move not to get sleep with the clientele."