Free At His Mercy by Alison Kent Page A

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 her 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