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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.
    Roy hadn’t been a weakling, but she could count on one hand the times he’d carried her. Worried he might throw out his back, she’d insist he put her down, even though she’d hold on to his neck as she fussed. When he did put her down, she’d compliment his show of manly strength, laughing at the mischief in his brown eyes. Lord, she missed that man’s sense of humor.
    She leaned against the frame of the door, swamped by the feeling. A near mugging could do that, remind a woman of the practicalities she faced when her husband was dead and no close family lived in the area. No one was directly involved in her day-to-day well-being. Had she even updated her emergency contact numbers in her purse or at the house? If she’d been seriously hurt, would the emergency room have tried to find Roy?
    Oh, for heaven’s sake. She wasn’t going to fall into this self-pitying drivel. She’d update it tomorrow, choose one of her many friends to be primary contact. None of those friends knew about this part of her life, though. They’d have no clue why she was pumping gas in the middle of the night in a part of town none of them frequented. It didn’t really matter, did it? If she needed an emergency contact, she expected discretion wouldn’t be high on her list of priorities.
    She noticed her purse was on the edge of the seat, straps dangling to the floorboards, her lipstick a glittering tube of silver on the carpet. It suggested the other man had gotten no further than that in pulling her bag from the car. The one responsible for thwarting him stood at her back, close enough for her to feel his heat. His hand was just above hers on the frame as he waited her out.
    She had a sudden desire to slide her hand up over his, hold on tight, feel that human contact. If he turned his hand to