Dash of Peril

“Thank you. I like your hair, too. It’s always a little messy, and a lot sexy.”

Flirting? “Is that so?”

“You know how you look.” Her gaze moved down to his waistband. “You know how women react to you.”

Other women, sure. But Margo never made things easy. Despite her claims to the opposite, he already knew she was attracted to him. He felt her interest every time she looked at him. But she fought it.

She fought him.

Usually. Now...not so much.

But damn it, given her drugged state, he couldn’t really do anything about it. Or could he?

Pretending it meant nothing at all, Dash pulled both the soiled thermal shirt and the ripped undershirt off over his head and dropped them to the floor. The waistband of his jeans had loosened from extended wear and they hung low on his hips.

Margo’s lips parted. Breathing more deeply, she stared at the worn denim of his fly. Her pale throat worked as she swallowed. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t want you to get messy again now that you’re clean.” More bare than not, he stepped right in front of her, cupped her head in one hand, and used the towel in the other to carefully rub over her hair.

The sweet scent of her shampoo mixed with the warmth of her skin. He breathed her in—and felt himself reacting.

That wouldn’t do, so he concentrated on not getting hard as he continued to towel-dry her hair. “Tell me if I hurt you.” Very carefully, he touched the soft terry towel around her stiches.

When she said nothing, he looked down at her and found her eyes on his abs, her cheeks flushed. He would love seeing her like this more often.

“Feel good?”

“Yes.” She kept her injured arm, wrapped up in the half cast and Ace bandage, tucked up close to her body. With the other arm she balanced herself. Her toes curled into the carpet. “Dash?”

He mimicked her soft tone. “Hmm?”

“Have you ever been married?”

One brow lifted. “No.” And then he wondered... “You?”

“No.” She looked up at him. “Ever been in love?”

“I’m thirty.”

“Me, too. So?”

How to answer her? “I’ve had a few more serious relationships where I thought I was in love, but it never worked out.”

“Why not?”

Apparently a drugged Margo was not only more openly sensual, but also far more curious. “My mother says I’m too particular and too set in my ways.”

Her cool fingers touched his ribs, drifted down to his abs, then hooked in the loose waistband of his jeans. “Particular how?”

He never should have started this ploy. It was difficult enough being near her, wanting to protect her, care for her, and then to have her looking at him with hunger... Yeah, difficult.

But if she planned to touch him, too, he was screwed.

Or rather, not screwed, given she was definitely out of commission for that.

“Why don’t we have this conversation tomorrow, after you’ve gotten some sleep?” Not giving her a chance to object, he dropped the towel and used his fingers to brush back her hair, moving it away from her stitches. Her short, soft waves glided through his fingers. “Better?”

Her eyes sank shut. “Mmmm...” She leaned toward him again. “You have an incredible body. I especially like this happy trail, how it disappears down here—”

“Margo?” Time for another battle. “Hold up, honey.” He caught her wrist and lifted her hand to kiss her palm. “Even warriors wear out every now and then.”

“I’m not a warrior.”

“But you are too hurt for me to take advantage of.”

She snorted. “I wouldn’t let you.”

“You,” he murmured, “are under the influence.” He crouched down in front of her. “I’ll help you get your clothes on, okay?”

She lifted her heavy eyelids to stare at his mouth. “No one has dressed me since I was three.”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”

“No.” She literally swayed. “My parents were strict about independence.”

He didn’t know her parents, but he liked them less by the minute. “Were they strict about other things?”

“About...everything really.” She shifted, winced and went still again. “My family is all in law enforcement.”

“Logan mentioned that once.” Something about her being a fourth generation of cops. Her dad was some hotshot chief of police before he retired early with a medical problem or something.

“I was supposed to be a boy.”

What did that mean? “I’m very glad you’re not.” He pushed back to his feet.

She gave a heavy sigh. “Me, too.”

Needing a minute to get his head on straight, Dash said, “I’m going to go grab the flannel shirt Logan brought me. It’s big enough to fit over your splint and it’ll be easier to get on you than the T-shirt you chose.”

“The only button-up shirts I have are starched dress shirts.”

He tipped up her chin. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” With long strides he left the room to get the bag Logan had brought to him. The cat snored from his bed, oblivious to Dash’s presence. Outside, a weak sun tried to penetrate heavy clouds rolling in. Great, just what they didn’t need—more lousy weather. Work at the current job site would stall for a day or two. Not a big deal since they were right on schedule—a rare thing in the construction business.

After automatically double-checking that he’d secured the front door, he snagged up the bag and dug out the flannel shirt on his way back to Margo.

He found her sitting exactly where he’d left her. Going to his knees again in front of her, he braced himself for what he’d do. “Let’s get you out of this robe first, okay?”

“I’ll be naked.”

Dash put his hands on her hips, his thumbs brushing her thighs through the soft cotton of her robe. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

“You’ll want me.”

He searched her face and didn’t see a single sign of modesty or timidity. “Already do, but right now I just want you to be comfortable.” He untied the belt.

“If you tell Logan or Reese, I’ll castrate you.”

Not so drugged that she couldn’t threaten him. For absurd reasons, that made him feel better. “You think I would?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a great judge of men. Some men,” she amended.

“You can trust me.” He eased the robe off her right shoulder and down her arm until she slipped her hand free.

His blood thickened, and it sounded in his tone when he added, “Believe me, Margo. I would never say or do anything to embarrass you.”

Goose bumps rose on her flesh.

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

Was being cold also considered a complaint? “I’m sorry.” Quicker now, Dash pushed back the material and, except for where the terry cloth draped one thigh and still covered her left arm, she was bare.

His gaze naturally went to her body. He was sympathetic, but not dead. Her uniforms and business suits did a great job of hiding her generous rack. Full, pale, with dusky mauve nipples. Only the bruises painted over her collarbone and shoulder kept him from touching her.

“Easy now.” Breathing more deeply, he stood to gently free her left arm.

Margo said not a word, but her face tightened, her brows pinching together, her lips compressed.

“You can groan, you know.” Dash hated seeing her suffer in silence. “You’re allowed.”

She gave one sharp shake of her head, composed to the bitter end.

To hell with that. “A groan or two won’t make you less sexy, especially when I can see your nipples.”

Nothing.

“They’re very pretty.”

She stiffened.

“And those dark curls between your legs—”

She jerked her head up to stare at him—and groaned in discomfort.

“That’s it.” The way she affected him was so strange, and so appealing. “No reason to hold it in.”

Groaning again, deeper this time, she said, “Damn you.”

The bite in her tone almost made him smile. “Be yourself with me, honey.”

“I am!”

“No, you’re manning up and it’s stupid. You aren’t a man, and you aren’t impervious to pain.” He picked up the flannel shirt but made no attempt to put it on her. He was a freaking saint, standing there before a gorgeous naked woman and still remembering his altruistic motives. “Or is that another family rule? No female attributes allowed?”

“It’s a weakness and there’s no point in advertising it.”

“Huh. Well, if it makes you feel better, I would be groaning.”

She shocked him by pushing to her feet and leaning into him, her splinted left arm caught between them, her right hand flattening on his chest, her fingers in his chest hair. “Kiss me.”

Whoa. He hadn’t expected such an aggressive assault, given her state. “I don’t think so.”

“It’ll make me feel better.”

But it’d kill him—since she couldn’t do anything beyond a simple kiss. “Not a good idea.”

“You don’t want me?”

“You already know I do—” When her hand snaked down his body to cup him through his jeans, he froze.

“Yes,” she said with purring satisfaction. “You do.”

Dash groaned as she cuddled him.

“Better,” she murmured. “Why don’t you groan and I’ll continue manning up.”

Jesus, even boggled with meds she was doing him in.

It took a lot to step back from her exploring hand, but Dash managed it. “I said no.” Her mercurial mood swings had him braced for anything.

But not for her to snuggle up against him. “You’re right, I am cold.”

A perfect segue. He allowed his arms to go around her, his hands to stroke down her silky back to that lush little bottom—God, she had a great ass—before he got it together and raised his hands to her waist, which really was still sexy enough to make him cramp. “Let’s get you dressed and in the bed so you can sleep.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll make use of a quick shower, too. Okay?” Without meaning to, he dropped his hands to her hips.

One day soon, he promised himself.

He should win some type of award for restraint under extreme circumstances. “The doc said I only needed to check you every three hours. Hopefully that can be accomplished without disturbing you too much.”

“And what will you do?”

“I’ll kick back on your couch and watch some TV.” Dash summoned his most serious expression. “Now, what do you say we get the shirt on you, then I’ll help you to step into your panties, then your bottoms.”

Her heavy eyes watched him with suggestion. “The drawstring yoga pants will be easy enough.”

“Good.” He wasn’t really in the habit of dressing women. Undressing them, sure. But never while worrying about causing pain.

“One thing.”

“What’s that?” Stop stroking her, damn it. He ordered his hands to be still.

“Instead of going to the couch, why don’t you stay with me? After your shower, I mean.” Her gaze went smoky. “My bed is plenty big enough.”

Shoot me and get it over with. “I can if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you.”

When was the last time he’d slept with a woman without having sex? Never.

“Now just stand still and I’ll do everything.” Trying not to move her arm at all, he inched the sleeve up and over her swollen hand, her bent elbow encased in plaster, and up to her shoulder. He pulled the shirt around her back and helped her ease her right arm in.

Logan’s shirt swam on her. Dash pulled it together in the front. It was almost as loose as the robe had been.

Aware of his knuckles brushing her body, he started at the bottom, near her thighs, and buttoned it up—past the springy pubic curls, her taut belly, that narrow rib cage and her heavy breasts. “Better?”

Oblivious to the growl in his tone, she said, “Yes.”

“We need to get your sling on you, too.”

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“It’ll keep you from hurting your—”

“No.” She turned away, heading for the top of the bed.

Dash stared for a second before asking, a little desperately, “What about your panties and yoga pants?”

“Too tired.”

Torture. He moved up past her. “All right, then. Let me help.” He folded down the bed, plumped her pillow. “Sit down.”

“You’re awfully bossy,” she complained around a yawn, but she sat and let him help her ease back. Stark pain darkened her expression until she got situated, then she let out a shaky sigh and closed her eyes.

Dash sat on the bed beside her. He brushed back her bangs to see her stitches, and realized she was already falling asleep.

It was a dangerous game to play, but he did it anyway. “What about your family, Margo? Are they glad you weren’t a boy?”

“We don’t complain.”

He had no idea what that meant.

“We’re strong and independent,” she whispered, her voice fading. “You’re expected to do things right. And if you do things wrong...”

She sounded like a lost little girl, and it broke Dash’s heart. “What if you did it wrong?”

She was quiet for so long Dash thought maybe she’d gone to sleep. He stayed still, unwilling to leave her yet.

Her eyes opened. “They didn’t complain when they got me instead of a boy.”

Bastards. It wasn’t easy, but Dash kept the anger from his voice. “What did they do?”

She released a long breath and closed her eyes again. “Petersons accept what they cannot change, and they make the best of it.”

Dash watched her fade away—and decided it was past time for him to learn more about Lieutenant Margaret Peterson.

* * *

THE BRUSH OF DASH’S calloused fingertips against her cheek woke her. Sluggish, she struggled to get her eyes to open. Her drapes were shut so only slivers of daylight filtered in, leaving the room dim.

Stretched out next to her on the side of her bed, Dash rested without a shirt. Nice.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Sorry to bother you.”

She started to move, and pain coursed through her.

Dash’s hands settled on her shoulders. “Shhh...be still.”

Reality crashed in on her. “The wreck.”

“You remember what happened?”

Using only her right hand, she touched her forehead where she’d gotten the stitches. “I remember.” As long as she didn’t move too much or too quickly, the pain abated.

“Good.” He bent and put a butterfly kiss to her forehead. She didn’t quite understand that, but it was nice so she said nothing. “I have to ask you a few things.”

Right. The neuro test because of her concussion. She gave a very slight nod.

Voice husky and deep, Dash went to a series of questions, asking for her name, if she knew how she’d gotten home, the day of the week.

Lastly he asked for her birthday.

Odd, but whatever. She told him because she wanted to return to the oblivion of sleep.

He didn’t let her.

He wanted to know if she’d gotten any gifts, how she’d celebrated...and she told him. She’d bought herself a car, and celebrated alone—as she always did.

Somehow, she knew that had made him sad. She felt it in how he touched her, the murmured words of “next time.” Meaning...what? That he’d be around to celebrate her next birthday with her?

A nice thought.

When next he woke her, he helped her to sit up and insisted she take two aspirin.

“Do you need the bathroom?”

“No.” She sank back to the bedding—with Dash’s help—and closed her eyes.

“You know the drill, sweetheart.”

He used an awful lot of endearments. When she had her wits again, she’d set him straight on that. Anticipating his questions, she said, “I’m Lieutenant Margaret Peterson. Thirty years old. I’m in my own home.”

“Good.” He brushed the backs of his knuckles along her jaw. “Favorite food?”

Sleep tugged at her, and she mumbled, “Mmm, maybe fried chicken.”

She heard his smile when he said, “Favorite color?”

“Sky blue.” Such odd questions, but the sooner she got through them, the sooner he’d let her get back to sleep.

“The last man you slept with?”

“I don’t know.”

Dash hesitated, then asked, “You don’t remember his name?”

“Never knew it.” She let out a long breath. “Names are a nuisance.” When she hooked up, all she wanted was escape from the duty of her own choices. And thinking that, she faded into a dream about faceless men who served a distinct purpose, no strings attached.

Unfortunately, at the height of the dream, the multiple men morphed into one—Dash.

And not a single inch of her was numb.

CHAPTER FIVE

ON HIS BACK, his hands stacked behind his head, Dash stared at the ceiling. After scrounging for food in Margo’s kitchen he’d taken a quick shower and changed into clean boxers and the borrowed athletic pants that Logan had brought him. Typical of Ohio weather, the day brought a big turnaround. Snow and ice gave into a slow melt beneath a blazing sun and milder breezes. The forecast claimed they’d be in the sixties tomorrow.

He’d awakened Margo twice now. An equal number of times Ollie had come to check on her. He wasn’t the type of cat that Dash could play with. Older, slower, set in his ways, Ollie enjoyed a little petting, edible treats and plenty of time for napping in the sunshine.

Oliver was a sweet old guy...taken in by a very tenderhearted lieutenant.

She was such a fraud, charmingly so.

Who’d have ever thought it? He’d bet his last nickel that neither Logan nor Reese knew Margo owned an ancient blind cat who missed the cat box.

They also didn’t know that, when her defenses were down, she was as soft and vulnerable as a woman could be.

The conflicts in her personality left him in turmoil.

He wanted to fuck her. Bad.

From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, all starchy and buttoned-up and in command, he’d wanted to break through her defenses with a good old-fashioned lay.

But he also wanted to make love to her. Endlessly.

He wanted to kiss her from head to toes, lingering at warm, damp places in between. He wanted to show her that she didn’t have to be strong, not with him.

She could lean on him when necessary, and he’d support her, always.

He wanted their relationship to matter.

He wanted to leave an impact in ways both physical and emotional.

Locking his hands to keep from turning to her, touching her, he stared at that damned ceiling and planned his next move. It was going on five o’clock, and in a few more minutes he’d need to check her again.

She was so complex.

While drugged and exhausted, she’d tried to seduce him. He had a feeling that, now better rested, she’d wake with new determination to send him packing.

He was just as determined to stay, to pamper her. To have her.

I don’t know his name.

How could she not know the name of a man she’d slept with? Delirium from her concussion? Forgetfulness because the encounter had happened so long ago? Or lack of caring, because sexual involvement didn’t matter that much to her?

Or...had Margo indulged a one-night stand with a complete stranger? Dangerous, except that she wasn’t a helpless woman. Far from it.

Did she often hang in bars looking to hook up?

He could accept that; she was a beautiful, smart, independent woman, and hey, he understood sexual urges—and the lack of interest in commitment. But his back teeth locked when he thought of her admiration for Rowdy. At least that was one interlude he knew would never happen. Rowdy Yates was many things—a good friend, a dangerous rebel, a terrific business owner.

And a loyal family guy. He would never cheat on Avery.

Dash was still sorting through his thoughts when he heard the soft moan.

He went still at first, then turned his head to look at Margo. Was she dreaming?

In a sensual, lithe movement, she arched her neck a little.

Fascinated, alert, Dash went up on his elbow to better see her.

She made a soft sound, and her lips parted.

“Margo?”

She shifted, gave another throaty moan....

A knock sounded on her front door.

Damning the interruption and determined not to wake her, Dash moved silently from her bed and out of her bedroom. He quietly closed the door behind him. Whatever Margo was dreaming, she’d have to continue on without his absorbed attention until he got rid of her company.

* * *

A BIG, ROUGH HAND touched her face, her ear, down her throat and to her shoulder. “Wake up, honey.”

No, she didn’t want to leave the dream. But even as she fought it, the sensation of Dash’s mouth on her belly, her thighs, began to recede. She tried to hold on, and whispered, “Please.” She needed a conclusion.

She needed release.

As if from far away, Dash’s voice called to her. “C’mon, baby, open your eyes.”

His voice was so compelling, so husky and warm.... “Dash?”

“I hope all those soft hungry sounds were for me.”

Oh, God. His amusement cut through the last remnants of the dream. She cracked one eye open—and knew the pain meds had worn off. “You turned me down.” Sunlight sliced through her brain and her arm felt like throbbing lead. She bit her bottom lip to stifle any wimpy sounds.

“Shhh, it’s okay.” He helped her to sit up, put a pill to her lips and tilted a water glass until she swallowed.

Discomfort engulfed her.

Dash caressed her shoulder. “How about you proposition me when you’re not hurt?”

“Snooze you lose.” But speaking of hurt... “Was I run over?”

“Close.” He tipped up her chin. “And let’s be clear here. I wasn’t snoozing. I just want to know that it’s you coming on to me, and not the drugs.”

Margo dismissed everything he said when she saw his face. She knew immediately that something was wrong. She straightened, flinched as she readjusted her arm and asked, “What’s the matter? Did I snore?”

“Yes, but I didn’t mind.” He gave her a grim yet sympathetic stare. “Actually, your relatives have come to visit.”

Unfair. She barely had her eyes open. Before facing her folks she needed a little time—like twenty-four hours—to get it together. “You let them in?”

“Should I not have?”

Right. Like Dash could have kept them out. “Of course.” She chewed her lower lip. “Oliver?”

“When he heard the knock, he ducked into the kitchen under the table. I checked on him. He’s okay, just laying low.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t trust her father alone with her cat. Actually, she didn’t entirely trust her mother, either.

Curious, Dash watched her. “You’re welcome.”

She cast about for an idea on what to do next, but couldn’t seem to get beyond the fact of Dash sitting there, shirtless, barefoot, loose drawstring pants hanging low on his lean hips, looking so...delicious. Especially after that stirring dream.

Her splitting head and the thump, thump, thump of her arm, coupled with a visit from her mom and dad should have obliterated any and all carnal urges. Nonetheless, with Dash so close, smelling so incredibly good and watching her intently, she felt the burn of need.

What disturbed her most was that it wasn’t all sexual need.

She’d been asleep for hours, but he had stayed with her, gently caring for her.

Caring for her cat.

Who did that? She should have been outraged because really, she didn’t need anyone.

But some dormant female trait told her that it was nice to have the attention anyway. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had taken care of her.

She didn’t know if anyone ever had.

Before Dash, before this particular moment, she wouldn’t have let anyone.

Dash glanced at her closed bedroom door, then back to her. “Not that I don’t enjoy a little banter with a sexy woman still in bed, but don’t you think we should get a move on? Your father struck me as the type who wouldn’t mind intruding.”

“Perceptive.”

“I am, but he’s also as obvious as the hair on an ape.” As if he hadn’t just insulted her father, Dash reached an arm around her waist. “Let me help you up so you can at least get into your panties.”

The realization that she was bare-bottomed almost leveled her. Lieutenant Margaret Peterson—naked except for a man’s shirt. With her parents only a room away.