But the most significant deciding factor had nothing to do with any of that. Dale was appealing to her as a friend. His concern for his man was genuine.
“Didn’t he think it was a little odd, you wanting to do a job interview here?” she asked.
“Didn’t tell him it was a job interview.” Dale grunted. “I told him you were looking for a security guy, and that he could come along with me tonight, get a sense of you. If it worked out on both sides, you could set up an interview at your company. He’s gone with me a few more times to my regular club, though always as a non-player. He never asks to go, but if I offer, he tags along. So tonight probably didn’t raise any flags for him.”
Ros sighed. “What’s his name?”
“Lawrence Barrera Gatlin.”
Lawrence, a name whose Latin roots came from a town known for its laurel groves. She knew that, because the mythology behind the laurel was why she, Abby and the rest of the ladies of her executive team had named the domestic violence shelter they’d founded Laurel Grove. It meant refuge, safety, protection. As well as triumph over adversity.
It had also been named after the woman they’d loved. That they couldn’t save.
Well, shit. She wished she wasn’t the type of person susceptible to signs from the universe. But the universe liked to stick its mega-sized foot up your ass when you ignored those signs.
“All right. Invite him over. Then you two take a hike.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Matt murmured. She wrinkled her nose at him.
“Mess with me, I’ll tell Savannah you flirted outrageously with our big-breasted waitress.”
“She won’t believe you.”
“I’m in marketing. I can convince people to trade their last dime for dogshit.”
He chuckled again as Dale made a gesture toward the mezzanine. Ros glanced that way in time to see Lawrence straighten with a nod, another lingering look at her. Then he disappeared into the shop, shouldering past a couple subs she knew. That comparison in body types told her she’d been right about his height. He wasn’t a towering six foot plus. He might be about five-seven, five-eight. She was just over five feet in her bare feet, so with her heels, she’d be close to eye level with him.
She preferred to take control of a man far more physically powerful than herself. As he emerged onto the main club floor and came toward their table, she knew that wasn’t going to be a problem. The shirt straining over his shoulders and biceps had told her the truth. He was solidly built, all compact muscle. He worked the jeans well with his confident stride. He moved exactly as she expected, a man trained for one of the most elite special forces in the world.
There were more shadows here, so the smooth, close-cropped beard was darker, a roast coffee brown. It matched the simply styled but well-cut hair, layered and clean on the sides and nape. She suspected he’d acquired that style recently, because most active SEALs seemed to keep their hair a little shaggier.
As he reached the table, his eyes brushed over hers, held.
“Munch, this is Rosalinda Thomas,” Dale said. “She goes by Ros.”
As they regarded one another, Matt and Dale rose. Matt gave her one last slight nod. Then it was just her and Lawrence.
Munch. An interesting nickname. She’d figure that out another time.
As she studied him without saying anything, Lawrence did the same. Maybe it was the venue, or maybe Lawrence took his time studying someone before saying hello. She appreciated the silence.
His eyes were green. Traces of gold highlighted the color, some darker flecks. She wondered if she’d also see glints of blue-gray in there, depending on the light. True green eyes were rare, and usually a compendium of color shades.
As a Mistress, she could study a submissive however long she wished. She wondered what would happen the first time she told him he couldn’t look at her until she gave him permission. The thought made her glossed lips curve. The instant flicker of awareness in his gaze ignited an answering tingle in her chest. The anticipation of a beginning.
Ros offered her hand. “Hello, Lawrence.”
His closed over hers the way a strong man’s did, carefully, but with a firm surety. His fingers were blunt and warm, the cuticles kept trimmed but not manicured. She noted a certain speculation in his expression, as if he were absorbing the way her fingers folded and fit inside the grip of his. She liked being held by a man who knew how to do it. With the right mix of sexual hunger and respect.
“Hello, Rosalinda,” he said.
Her smile deepened at the hint of challenge. He’d deliberately ignored Dale’s direction about calling her Ros.
He was a sub all right. Just the kind she liked.
Chapter Two
She gestured to the three empty chairs at the four-chair table. “Have a seat.”
He pulled out the one to her right, turning it so it was facing her. As he sat down, the spread of his knees flanked her top crossed leg. He was leaning forward, one arm on the table, the other hand draped loosely against his thigh. It was within fingertip reach of her shin bone. Electricity ran through her skin as she thought of him stretching out one of those fingers, running it down that straight line. But she gave him an unamused look, deliberately surveying his proximity.
“Fancy yourself a player, Lawrence?”
“No, ma’am. Lot of white noise out here. Didn’t want you to have to strain your voice to be heard.” He gave her a half smile. “Didn’t want to shout at you, either.”
“I rarely have to raise my voice to be understood.”
“I expect that’s so.” He cocked his head. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
A question with so many answers, particularly in this environment, but she pushed their surroundings away. Instead she focused on what his body language was saying to her, the tone of his voice, his expression. There was an edginess to him, the nerves working beneath the skin. From how intently he was regarding her, there was a deeper drive to his question, whether he realized it consciously or not.
“What do you want to do for me, Lawrence? I don’t mean the job. Don’t waste my time by playing dumb or claiming you’ve no personal interest in the things that happen here.”
As Dale said, they’d been eying one another for the past half hour. She didn’t believe in pointless small talk. He didn’t say anything right away, but his expressive eyes inspired her to adjust, drag her nail across the top of that dangling hand. It left a scrape mark, and his gaze flicked to it before coming back to her face.
“Ask me for what you want,” she said. “The way you feel it.”
His mouth tightened. So did his shoulder muscles, his fingers half curling. A man poised, receiving a signal that put him on alert.
“I’d like to know what you want,” he said. “The way you feel it. If you’re of a mind to tell me.”
“I do love the way you deep South boys phrase things,” she responded. “I want you to be quiet until I answer your question.”
Curiosity crossed his expression, but she noted some of the edginess eased, a good sign.
She relaxed deeper into her chair, her hand now resting on the table at her side as she returned to her leisurely perusal. Those shoulders and biceps were worth an additional look. A side trip across his chest noted the shirt was open one button at the throat, revealing the hint of chest hair. With his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, she could enjoy the close-up look at his forearms. His hands looked strong, the nicks, tan and skin texture indicating a working man. The top knuckle and fingertip of his left-hand pinkie was missing.