Sinful Southern Hero: 2 (6 page)

Abigail entered the room and held a drawing out to Lucy. “I
think this will be perfect. The design has several meanings and they apply to
you. I did something in a similar style on my fiancé a few months back.” She
cast a glance in Dalton’s direction. “Are you staying or going?”

“Staying.”

“Going.”

Dalton and Lucy spoke at the same time.

“I’m staying.” He crossed his arms over his chest and gave
both women a look warning his decision was not up for debate. “This is her
first tattoo and she might need a hand to hold.”

Lucy hissed in a breath and squeezed her eyes shut until she
thought there might be lash imprints on her cheeks. She may have been a bit
cocky when she’d dismissed the pain of having her skin tattooed as trivial.

“Just breathe.” Dalton’s breath was warm on the shell of her
ear.

She’d had her fingers clenched around his hand for last two
and a half hours, grounding herself with his strength and compassion in an
effort to keep from flinching as the needle struck again and again. During the
first thirty minutes, she’d been able to grit her teeth and drift to the
special spot in her mind she’d built years ago, where nothing could reach her.
As the pain persisted, she’d had no choice but to accept Dalton’s calming
touch. Still, she remained more than a little annoyed at Dalton for barging
into the room, refusing to run away from her like any smart man would and being
right about her needing a hand to hold.

Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a hand to
hold for any reason.

“Almost done.” The hint of cheeriness in Abigail’s voice
made Lucy want to explode off the table and throttle her landlord’s pretty
little neck. How the hell could the woman sound so chipper after torturing
someone for three hours?

Dalton gave Lucy’s hand a squeeze, causing her to glance at
his face for the first time since he’d dragged a chair over to the table where
she was spread out like a sacrifice. At first she took the small lines around
his eyes as amusement, but as she studied him, the brightness of his eyes and
the tight line of his lips told her Dalton wasn’t amused at her plight, he was
concerned. Concerned because she was in pain.

She forced her mouth to form a token smile, hoping to calm
him, unsettled by his concern for her and her responding need to comfort him.
What was it about this man? This man with a tattoo on his neck and close-shaved
hair black as midnight? This man she’d caught in a debauched
in flagrante
delicto
—the likes of which she’d previously only read about—with a woman he
claimed was not his girlfriend?

Before she could contemplate the problem named Dalton
further, the snap of a rubber glove being removed forced Lucy’s attention back
to Abigail.

“All finished.” Abigail’s face was flush, as though she’d
enjoyed her work and was anxious to find out if her client, too, enjoyed the
result of her labors. “I think it suits you. The moth, because you’re too tough
to be the kind of woman with a butterfly tattoo, and the gears, because of your
graphic design background…but also because the kind of changes you’ve made and
are still making aren’t the organic kind. You’re forcing a change that’s
needed, no matter how difficult it is.”

Lucy didn’t know if she agreed that she was tough. She’d certainly
never thought of herself as such. She had thought of herself as weak,
terrified, terrorized…but never tough or strong. Whatever the reason, she did
love the tattoo, as much as it hurt to receive. Steampunk wasn’t a culture she
subscribed to, but the palm-sized steampunk moth design in browns, pinks and
blues on her skin was spot-on with her feelings and her life. Abigail had done
an amazing job using the design to disguise the jagged scar on the inside of
Lucy’s right thigh.

Lucy swallowed, pushing her thoughts away from how she had
received this particular scar. Abigail bounced around the room, arranging her
equipment for cleaning, discarding what needed tossed and creating enough
racket to keep Lucy from being lost in a maze of memories. Memories which were
closer to nightmares than reality should allow. “I love it. It’s exactly what I
wanted,” she told Abigail, adding levity into her voice that she didn’t feel.

She felt Dalton’s gaze on her, heating her and inciting a
small shiver at the same time.

“It’s beautiful.” Dalton’s words were husky, quiet.

Lucy felt her nipples tighten, drawing into hard buds
against the soft cotton of her bra. She cast an apprehensive glance at Dalton,
peering up at him from beneath her lashes. He hadn’t relinquished her hand once
the tattoo was finished, and she hadn’t tried to retrieve it. His lips looked
soft, inviting. She drew in a shaky breath, only to be overwhelmed with the
delicious scent of him. The scent of the tattoo parlor, of ink and metal and
antiseptic, lingered in the background as Dalton’s masculine scent took center
stage.

Dalton’s scent was that of a real man. Of wood shavings and
clean sweat and leather. It was intoxicating, and Lucy wanted to breathe him in
until her memory was scoured of her ex-husband’s scent. Ross, who smelled of
starch and gun oil, hatred and deceit.

“You’re beautiful, Lucy. Whether you cover your scars or
not, you’ll always be beautiful.”

She snapped her focus from his lips to his eyes and found
them filled with emotion and determination. No one had ever looked at Lucy like
that. No one had ever called her pretty, let alone beautiful. Lucy was chubby
and her hair, though she’d always liked the strawberry-blonde color, was unruly
and disheveled most of the time. “I’m not beautiful,” she whispered, suddenly
uncomfortable. “You don’t have to say that.”

Dalton’s jaw clenched and he stood, releasing her hand in
favor of fisting his hands and pressing them knuckles-down on the table at her
hip. He leaned over her, bringing his nose close to hers. “Don’t accuse me of
lying. Woman, I don’t spill bullshit just for the sake of it. You may not know
it, maybe no one ever told you, but you are beautiful. Shit, I haven’t been
able to take my eyes off you since the day you walked into this shop.”

He paused to lightly run a finger over the temporary bandage
now covering her newly inked tattoo. When had Abigail applied the bandage? And
how the hell had Lucy been oblivious to her ministrations? She cast a quick
look around the room, finding Abigail had left, abandoning Lucy with Dalton…in
a small private room with the door closed.

“I like this,” Dalton continued, now stroking a finger over
the bare skin surrounding the bandage. “I like the tattoo, but I don’t like
seeing you hurt. Watching you get this, sitting aside while someone hurt you… Christ,
baby.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and when they opened they blazed,
reminding her of blue flames at the base of a fire. She didn’t know what to
say, what to feel. It was damn shocking to realize someone wanted to keep her
from pain, rather than inflicting it. Then she remembered the bondage-loving
blonde and the rough way Dalton had handled her, spoke to her. Lucy was pretty
sure he’d been spanking the woman, none too gently, before Lucy had arrived at
the back door.

An odd mix of disappointment and relief swirled in her gut,
realizing with Dalton’s sexual tastes as they were he must not be interested in
her that way. After all, he’d been pretty damn aroused while hurting the blonde
bondage queen, hadn’t he? Granted, the woman looked as though she enjoyed the
rough treatment, but still.

If Dalton had such an aversion to causing Lucy pain—which
spankings surely would, wouldn’t they?—then how could she possibly satisfy him?
Not that she planned to, or wanted to. Of course she didn’t, that would be
crazy. The man got off on pain, right?

Her brow furrowed, considering for the first time she didn’t
know exactly what his preferences were and maybe they weren’t as bad as she
imagined. She needed to do some research, find out the parameters of a Dom/sub
relationship, and what exactly it meant. Could she push aside her fear and let
him take charge? Could she set her past aside and allow him to restrain her?
Maybe tie her hands behind her back and bend her over his sturdy oak table as
he’d done to the other woman? The clenching of her sex at the thought said it
was a possibility.

“Babe, what are you thinking about?” He tucked a stray lock
of hair behind her ear with gentle fingers. “You’re flushed. You okay?”

Lucy raised her hand and laid her palm against Dalton’s
slightly stubbled cheek. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t let him close. Couldn’t
let anyone close to her if she wanted to keep him safe. Being close to her
would only make him a target for Ross, and she wouldn’t do that to Dalton.

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his in a brief
caress before drawing away. She swung her legs over the edge of the table,
forcing Dalton to move back, then stood and faced him. “Thank you, for today.
For everything.” She stared into his blue, blue eyes and tried to memorize
them, the way they shone with whatever emotion he felt.

When Dalton shifted like he was about to step toward her,
she raised a hand to stop him. “We can’t see each other anymore, Dalton. I mean
it, stay away from me.”

“No way, babe. I—”

“Stop,” she cut him off. “Please.” She squeezed her eyes
shut and felt a tear slide down her cheek. “I couldn’t bear it if something
happened to you because of me. Don’t ask me to, please. Ross is my nightmare,
my problem, and I won’t drag you into it with me. I can’t.”

Lucy turned quickly and jerked the door open before Dalton
had time to formulate a response. She ran to her office, not caring that she
probably looked like a lunatic, crying and dashing through the hall. She swiped
her keys off her desk, shoved her laptop into her shoulder bag and took off
toward her apartment. Self-preservation called for space between her and
Dalton. She’d never be able to push him away, save him from Ross, if he kept
looking at her like he cared, like
he
wanted to save
her
.

No, this was for the best. Being alone was a state Lucy had
come to accept as safest for everyone. She was shoring up her resolve,
convincing herself of this truth as she reached her apartment and slid the key
into the lock. All the while, she wanted nothing more than to turn back toward
the shop and run, run until she ran right into Dalton’s strong arms.

As she took the first step into her apartment, a swift,
blinding pain exploded behind her right ear, as if her skull were about to
split wide. Then, as quickly as the pain came, a too-familiar darkness
surrounded her, eclipsing all conscious thought.

* * * * *

Dalton stood beside the tattoo table where Lucy had been
reclined only moments before, his booted feet rooted to the tile floor,
watching as the cheap wooden door swung open and bounced off the wall before
swinging shut once more. The sound of Lucy’s rushed footsteps echoed loudly in
his mind, even through the closed door.

“Fuck,” he groaned, placing his calloused hands, fingers
linked, atop his head and looking to the ceiling as if it held the answers to
the complicated woman intent on pushing him away.

He wouldn’t go after her, not now. Time. Lucy needed time to
deal and he’d give it to her. Not too much, her safety was at stake and a
strange knot of worry twisted in his gut at the thought of her on her own,
alone and scared.

Dalton shook his head, trying and failing to break the hold
Lucy had on him. He couldn’t explain why she’d captured his attention, held it
and sparked a protective instinct within his core that’d make a caveman proud.
As he opened the door and strode through the hall toward the exit, he tried to
convince himself the concern he felt was nothing more than the concern any male
would feel when a fragile female was threatened and unprotected.

Lucy wasn’t Dalton’s type. She was curvy when Dalton had
always sought out slim. She was skittish when he liked confident. A redhead
when he preferred blonde or brunette. Broken and healing when he’d always
shunned those women in favor of someone uncomplicated. Lucy was a forever girl.
Dalton only did casual. Even his longstanding arrangement with Rachel didn’t go
any deeper than sex. He wasn’t proud of it, but didn’t worry over whether or
not Rachel made it home okay after leaving his house. He didn’t call her to ask
how her day was, he didn’t care.

Dalton climbed in his truck and lowered the windows. Maybe
the heat of a summer day sun would bake his brain back to normal. Doubtful, but
worth a try.
I’ll go back to the work site, find the most physically
exerting job needing done and concentrate on sweating this shit out of my
brain.
At least until quitting time, then he’d track Lucy down and lay it
out real simple for her. Whether she liked it or not, she had Dalton. On her
ass—hopefully someday
in
her ass—and watching her back, Dalton would be
there until that dickhead ex of Lucy’s was out of the picture for good.

When he swung his truck into the lot next to the work site,
a few of the men on his crew paused what they were doing to stare at him, brows
raised as if they hadn’t expected him to be back. The surprise on their faces
irritated the hell out of him and told him he hadn’t been around enough
recently. Since Lucy rolled into town with her soft curves and wild red hair,
Dalton realized he hadn’t been taking care of his business like he should.

Right. He’d put a stop to that shit right freakin’ now. Lucy
needed time to settle down and he needed to put in some solid work and stop
acting like a lovesick teenager. He snagged his dented metal toolbox from the
back of his truck and slapped a hardhat on his head. As he strode into the
partially completed structure, he exchanged a few chin lifts and grunts in
greeting with his men, then he got to work.

* * * * *

Lucy woke with a groan. She struggled to orient herself.
After drawing in a shuddering breath, she opened her eyes and then quickly shut
them again as the room spun. At least she knew she was still in her apartment.
Fisting the worn-thin comforter covering her bed, she tried to remember.

I opened the door and…there was someone…

Shit, she couldn’t remember.

I know I saw someone. Then something hit me…

Lucy placed a shaking hand on the large lump behind her
right ear. She winced as the featherlight touch sent a jolt of pain through her
skull. Her fingertips came away wet and she groaned again at the sight of the
deep-ruby liquid slicked across her skin. With Lucy’s history of injuries, she
no longer had an aversion to the sight of her own blood.