Dash of Peril

CHAPTER THREE

DASH RELATED EVERYTHING to Logan, then told it again to Reese, then to the uniformed cops. Everyone wanted to know everything—repeatedly. He paced, hungry, tired, and as Reese had accused, fretting.

Because he didn’t sit, Logan got up to prowl the hallway with him. “So you met Margo at a bar?”

“Yeah.” For the fifth time. “I was looking for her and found her and...” He waved a hand. Logan knew the rest, for crying out loud.

“I thought you were done with that.”

On a humorless laugh, he said, “No.” He’d tried, damn it. He’d spent the holidays visiting his folks with Logan and Pepper. Of course their parents adored Pepper. She was unique, beautiful, blunt and a perfect match for Logan. Unfortunately, his mom had seen Logan all happily married...and wanted the same for Dash.

“So you’re still interested in her?”

Logan didn’t sound happy about it. Thanks to his mother’s attempts at hooking him up, he’d taken to hiding out in his cabin on the lake. The solitude hadn’t been as peaceful as usual. He’d given up, and instead gone through a string of one-night stands.

But that ended up a waste of time because none of the women measured up to Margo. So he’d started shopping anew for a retreat cabin. One without memories of Logan and Pepper.

“She’ll need some help for the next few days.”

Logan frowned. “Who?”

Pushing past him, Dash headed back to the waiting room. “Margo.”

“Peterson can take care of herself and she won’t appreciate you trying to coddle her.” Logan kept pace beside him.

“Wrong.” Dash shoved his hands in his pockets to keep his fists from showing. “She wouldn’t appreciate you coddling her.”

“But you’re different?”

“Damn right.” He had to believe that. “Now stop needling me.”

“I wasn’t,” Logan said in that ultracalm tone that for some reason had Dash on a ragged edge tonight. “What can I do to help? Want me to go grab you a few things? Your shirt is a mess.”

With Margo’s blood. Jesus. What the hell was taking so long? “A shirt, socks, maybe a razor—I’d appreciate it.”

“No problem. My house is closer to the hospital than yours. I should be able to get back before you and Peterson leave here.”

Dash was taller, so he couldn’t share Logan’s jeans, but he said, “Throw in a pair of sweatpants or something, will you? I’ll do some laundry in the morning.”

“If Peterson lets you hang around that long.”

When Dash glared at him, Logan bit back a smile and raised his hands in surrender.

“I’m sure she’ll welcome you with open arms.”

Standing in the doorway to the waiting room, Reese asked, “Who? Peterson? Is that a joke?”

Dash shouldered past him, almost making Reese spill the coffee he’d just refilled. Normally he could take their jokes about Margo having ice for blood and balls to rival any guy.

But not tonight.

A minute later, Reese came in and sat across from him. “Logan headed off to get some stuff. Said he’d be right back.”

Had they found something more wrong with her? Was that the holdup? Was she even now headed in to surgery? Would someone let them know if that was the case?

Reese’s phone rang and for the next few minutes, Dash had to listen to his muted conversation with his wife. Until recently, Dash hadn’t envied his brother or Reese for their marital status.

But now... He got up to pace again but got only as far as the door when Reese spoke.

“Alice said if there’s anything she can do to help, let her know.”

Dash nodded. “Thanks.” He propped himself against the wall. “How’s the kid?”

“Doing good.” Reese sat back in his seat and sprawled out his long legs, then started rubbing his left thigh where an old bullet wound still pained him during times of fatigue. “Finally over the flu, poor little guy.”

So that’s why Reese looked so beat. “Few sleepless nights?”

“Alice is a wonderful mother hen. And Marcus... Well, it still breaks my heart to look at him.”

Meaning both Alice and Reese had stayed attentive to Marcus’s needs.

Dash said only, “Yeah,” because there were no other words adequate enough to cover it all. At only nine, Marcus had seen a world of hurt. His dad was now behind bars, where he belonged, and his junkie mother had died from an overdose.

But if anyone could make Marcus whole again, it was Reese and Alice.

Silence filled the waiting room for a few minutes, and then they both heard the squeak-squeak-squeak of rubber-soled shoes approaching. Dash met the guy halfway—but that didn’t stop the doctor. Still walking, he asked, “You’re with Margaret Peterson?”

“Yes.” Dash trailed him back into the waiting room, where Reese had sat forward in anticipation.

“I’m Dr. Westberry.” He held out a hand, so Dash took it.

“Dash Riske. I’m a...friend.”

The doctor looked at him over his glasses, sized him up, then turned to Reese.

“Detective Bareden. Peterson is my lieutenant.”

“I see. There’s no family present?”

Dash shook his head. “No.”

“Okay, then.” The doctor opened a clipboard to peruse notes. “The good news is that she’ll be fine. No nerve or bone damage. No surgery needed. But we had to reduce—that is, put back in place—her elbow.”

“I’ve heard that hurts like hell,” Reese said.

“Very painful, yes.” The doctor scowled. “She refused a sedative, but we gave her something for the pain both before and after. She’s still going to be in very real discomfort for a few days at the least.”

“Why did it take so long?” Dash asked. “Her head was bleeding, too, and she might have other injuries—”

Looking back at that damn clipboard, the doctor said, “On top of the tests to check for injury to the arteries and nerves in the arm, and the possibility of broken bones, we also evaluated her head injury.”

“And?” Reese asked.

“We didn’t find any other damage. We stitched her head, and a nurse cleaned up some of the blood.” He looked at each of them. “She has a concussion. It would be best if someone could stay with her tonight.”

Dash took a step forward. “Me.”

One brow lifted, Reese looked at him.

Gaining steam, Dash said, “I’ll be staying with her. Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Yes, well, if she agrees for you to be there, you’ll need to monitor things. Every two hours while she’s awake, every three hours while sleeping, do a neuro-check—ask for her name, the date, make sure she knows where she is. Make sure her pupils are equal.”

Dash listened as the doctor gave more details, ready to do whatever needed to be done.

“I gave her a prescription to control the pain, so if you can, make sure she uses it. It’ll help her to rest.”

Dash had no idea how she was supposed to rest if he had to wake her every few hours, but he’d do it all the same.

Tiredly, the doctor sank down to a seat and finally closed the clipboard. “She’s in a splint to keep her elbow bent and to prevent her from moving it. The sling is to help her support her arm, but she can remove that when it’s more comfortable for her. However, she has to wear the splint, she cannot move her elbow and she should keep it elevated as much as possible. Ice every couple of hours during the day for swelling.”

“Got it.”

Somewhat skeptically, the doctor said, “It’s important that she not be too active for the next few days. We don’t want to risk a new injury.” Then half under his breath, he added, “Not sure how you’ll manage that one, but I wish you luck with it.”

Reese grinned. “Did she give you hell?”

“Let’s just say she has a very strong will.”

Dash didn’t see any humor in the situation. “Anything else?”

“She’s been given instructions to follow up with an orthopedist in three days. Overall we prefer to keep immobilization limited otherwise we see too much stiffness in the joint. She’ll be told then when she can remove the splint entirely and start light exercises to regain range of motion.”

“Is she going to be out of commission for long?”

“Most achieve full activity in four to six weeks.”

Reese whistled. “She’s not going to like that.”

Dash knew it was true—and dreaded the frustration she’d feel.

The doctor pushed back to his feet, his clipboard tucked to his side. “Overall, she should be fine.”

Dash again shook his hand. “When can I see her?”

“The nurse will let you know. Shouldn’t be too much longer now.”

After the doctor left, Reese scrutinized him. “You need some rest, too, you know.”

“Says the guy who’s been up with a sick kid.” Now that Dash knew Margo would be okay, the exhaustion sank in. He dropped into the chair beside Reese.

It didn’t make any sense for him to be this invested. Okay, sure, he hated to see anyone hurt, especially a woman. He would always do what he could to help someone in her situation.

But he felt so much more than mere concern for another person. Only family had ever engendered this much caring.

But Margo wasn’t family. She wasn’t even a casual date.

If she got her way, they’d be acquaintances and nothing else.

Dash didn’t plan to let her have her way.

Reese snorted. “I was going to suggest you let your brother take her home so you can catch a few hours sleep before you start playing Florence Nightingale —”

“No.”

“—but given your expression, I think I’ll save my breath.”

“Good plan.” Margo would kick Logan out, and then she’d never let Dash in. Dash had to take advantage of her current vulnerability because once she had a chance to catch her breath, she wouldn’t admit to needing help. “Don’t worry about it, Reese. I’ve got it covered.” He pulled out his cell phone and called his foreman. Owning a company meant he could take days off when needed.

And though Margo might not realize, it also meant he was used to calling the shots. She might run roughshod over most men, and intimidate others, and she probably mistook his good humor for weakness—but very soon, Lieutenant Margaret Peterson would get to know him better.

And she’d learn that appearances seldom told the whole story.

GETTING HER CLOTHES OFF was the hardest part, especially that damn leather glove. Her fingers had swollen so badly that they had to cut it away. After that, the meds they gave her kicked in and although they didn’t obliterate the pain, they did make it more manageable.

Now if only they could medicate her frustration and worry.

By following her, Dash had become a target, same as her. Never, ever, did she want to involve him like this. He wasn’t a cop, wasn’t equipped for the danger about to come their way.

But every time that worry wormed into her mind, she recalled Dash’s quick thinking and capability in fending off two armed men. She remembered how he’d cared for her without being condescending. She recalled his concern, and how he’d deferred to her.

Such a nice surprise. And sort of...a turn-on. Thinking of Dash was easier than concentrating on her aches and pains.

Through the long process of X-rays, exams, setting her elbow and the numerous tests on her noggin, he’d stayed with her at the hospital.

Why would he do that? She wasn’t an infant in need of help. She could have taken a taxi home. It especially unsettled her when she found out Logan had brought Dash a change of clothes and toiletries because Dash planned to go home with her.

And now her two top detectives knew it.

It was so humiliating, and so...comforting, that she almost couldn’t bear it. She had not come from a family of coddlers. Pep talks, commonsense commands and a good push in the right direction were given at times of need.

Nothing else was needed or expected.

Her family knew she’d been injured, but none of them were willing to run out in the predawn hours to check on her. During a very brief phone call, her dad had asked, “You’ll be okay?”

Without a single hint of pain in her voice, she’d replied, “Yes, sir, of course.”

She could hear the approval in his voice when he said, “Good. We’ll talk later.”

That’s how mature adults treated minor injuries. Not that Dash seemed to understand the protocol. She was a lieutenant, for crying out loud—the youngest woman ever promoted to that rank in their city. She was not a frail, helpless civilian.

She didn’t need anyone fussing over her.

But he’d stayed anyway, and by the time they got out of the hospital, her head stitched and her arm snug in a splint and sling, the sun was already on the rise.

Slumping against the passenger door, her left arm cushioned by his coat, Margo kept her eyes closed. That was easier than seeing his concern.

“We’re almost there,” Dash said softly.

Red splashes of dawn glistened off every ice-covered surface of road, trees and buildings in blinding display. It amplified the ache in her head. Each small bump in the road made her elbow throb. She had more bruises than she could count. Over her entire body, a never-ending pulse of discomfort tried to claim all her concentration.

But a few minutes later, with Dash pulling into her driveway, Margo had other things on her mind, more important things.

Thanks to her, Dash was now in danger. Would he be safer away from her—or with her? More importantly, would his presence hinder her from doing what needed to be done?

What she damn well intended to do.

“Easy,” Dash told her as he parked. He circled around the hood of the truck and opened the passenger door. The ground looked a fair distance away and she dreaded the effort it would take to get back on her feet.

She half turned, and Dash carefully slid one arm under her thighs, the other behind her back so he could lift her out. He handled her weight without a single sign of strain, cradling her against his broad, warm chest.

A lesser woman would have stayed put and let him carry her in.

She had not been raised to be a lesser woman.

“Thank you.” She truly appreciated the assistance since his truck rode so high off the ground. The very prospect of hopping out made her ache all over. “I can walk from here.” I hope.

At close range, his deep brown eyes took her measure. “You’ll insist?”

“Yes.”

“Shame, since I like holding you.” He treated her to a molten look, and then slowly bent so that her feet touched the ground. He continued to hold on to her until she’d steadied herself. Tucking her coat back around her, he asked, “Okay?”

It hurt to breathe, but she nodded.

“So stubborn.” He reached in to the floor and snagged up her purse, the stuff Logan had brought him and the bag of her bloodied clothes. The clothes she would pitch, but thank God he’d had the foresight to retrieve her purse from her car.

Her brand-new ruined car.

That alone warranted a groan, but she bit it back and tried not to drag her feet along the lit walkway to her front door. Because of the splint and sling, her coat was only draped over her left shoulder and the bitter wind easily tore it away again. The borrowed scrubs were no barrier at all and the chill cut right through to her bones. Tiredly, she readjusted her coat again.

Dash transferred his load to one hand and with the other wrapped her up close. “Come on. The last thing you need is a cold on top of everything else.”

Given her hectic work schedule, she got home at all different hours. The outdoor lights were automated, set to come on at dusk and go off again at dawn. She had plenty of mature trees that blocked the rising sun in the front, but they’d be flickering off very soon.

“Nice place.”

Ha. Dash hadn’t looked around; ever since the doctor had allowed him behind the curtain at the hospital, she’d felt his constant attention focused on her.

No one had ever scrutinized her as he did; it went beyond the intimate way a man watched a woman he wanted. What it meant, she didn’t know for sure because she’d never encountered it before.

She knew Dash was worried because he only smiled when he knew she was watching. But the emotion in his eyes held more than worry—and it unnerved her, making her uncomfortable in a very foreign way.

They reached the front door and, knowing it’d be futile, she turned to face him. Maybe it was the pain meds or the confusion from the concussion—or even plain-old indecision. But she hadn’t been able to work up a credible way to refuse him. Not that he’d really asked for permission. Because the doctor announced she shouldn’t be alone given her concussion, Dash had volunteered himself to babysit. Now that she’d had some time to get her thoughts together, she decided he’d be safer well away from her.

And she’d be safer...without his presence making her feel things she shouldn’t.

Staring him in the eyes, hoping she sounded convincing, she said, “Thank you for the ride.” She lifted her chilled fingers for a handshake—and Dash grinned.

Folding her fingers in his and drawing her hand to his chest, he asked, “Is that your way of trying to get rid of me?”

Yes. “You don’t need to stay.”

He shifted so that his body blocked the wind, stepped close enough that his broad shoulders shielded her from daylight. “Would you rather have Logan or Reese?”

She shuddered at the thought. “No.” If it was truly necessary, she did have family. Albeit, not anyone she’d want around when she wasn’t 100 percent. But she had an alarm she could set, and—

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“No.” What a stupid idea. When did she have time for a committed relationship?

“Then I’m it, right? The doc said you couldn’t be alone, so if you make me leave, I’ll have to call my brother, and he will probably call—”

“All right!” She winced, pain slicing into her brain. Damn him, he knew she didn’t want her detectives seeing her in a debilitated state. “Do not call Logan.”

“I won’t,” Dash soothed. He lifted her purse and spoke in a rough whisper. “Your keys are in here?”

She was too cold, utterly fatigued and achy to debate this on the front porch. And contrary to common sense, she was also a little relieved that she wouldn’t be alone tonight. Eyes squeezed shut, she nodded. “Side zippered pocket.”

“Hang in there, honey. I’ll have you inside in a moment.” He set down the bag of clothes, located the keys and unlocked the door.

Immediately, Oliver stepped out, rubbing his downy white head against her shins.

Dash went still. “You have a cat?”

He could see that she did. “No, he must’ve broken in. Quick, call the cops.”

“Smart-ass.” With a little more incredulity, he said, “You have a really old cat.”

At the sound of Dash’s voice, Oliver halted, then hunched his back and hissed.

“He’s my puppy-cat.” It hurt like hell, but Margo bent down to him. “It’s okay, Ollie.” She stroked his head, tickled under his chin. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go in.”

It wasn’t easy to walk with the cat winding nervously in and out around her ankles. She stumbled her way to the sofa and gingerly sank onto the cushions so that Ollie could join her. He jarred her injured elbow when he leapt up beside her. She gritted her teeth and let him butt his head on her free hand, then rub the length of his body against her uninjured arm.

Dash closed the door and now, with him inside her home, the reality of her situation really hit. She looked at him, saw him watching her curiously, and wanted to curl up and sleep for days.

Instead she said, “Ollie is blind.”

Dash stayed silent, but his expressive eyes gave him away. He thought her softhearted.

Sweet.

He thought she was gentle, like most women.

She should disabuse him of those notions ASAP, but she didn’t have the energy. Not right now.

Almost like a reminder of what they’d just endured and how proficient he’d been under pressure, Dash still wore the shirt with her dried blood all over it. Disheveled brown hair and beard shadow added a rugged edge to his good looks. Even holding a purse didn’t detract from his machismo.

She swallowed. “When I got him, Ollie already had a long list of medical issues, but he was so affectionate, such a big loving mush, that I couldn’t turn him away.” Maybe she was softhearted after all, at least when it came to her cat. “We suit each other.”

“Because you’re a big loving mush, too?”

Yes. “That’s not what I meant.” But what had she meant? She shook her head.

Dash let it go. “He lost an eye?”

“Yes.” Ollie tilted toward her, demanding she pet him harder, wanting her to use both hands. Poor guy. No way for her to explain that he’d only be getting one-handed pets for a few days. “He can’t really see out of the other. He survived a tornado but was so damaged that his original owners couldn’t care for him anymore. They already had to rebuild and...”

“And,” Dash said, his brows pinching down, “he was a member of their family.”

That’s how she’d always looked at it, too, but she didn’t want to harshly judge others who’d been through so much. “He’s mine now.” And she would never abandon him.

Dash came farther into the room. “Will it spook him if I get too close?”

“Yes, but don’t take it personally. He still has nightmares from the horrors he went through.” Ollie pawed her thigh in time to his loud rumbling purr.

“Nightmares?”

“He’ll start crying at night like something is wrong. But the vet says he’s fine. Usually he just needs to wake up enough to realize he’s safe.” With me. Her arm throbbed more insistently. She needed to bathe, change her clothes and get some rest.

But what to do with Dash?

Her modestly-sized home shrank with him in it. Where would she put him? He would overflow the couch, and she didn’t have a guest bedroom...

“How do you get him to settle down again?”

She wanted to sleep, not talk, but complaints had never been accepted in her family, so she sucked it up and put on a good front. “During the bad nights, I’ll hold him a while and finally he’ll go back to his bed.”

“He doesn’t sleep with you?”

She drew her hand along Ollie’s back all the way to the end of his tail—just the way he liked it. “His choice. I’ve never forbidden it.”

By small degrees Dash seated himself on the sofa. The cushions dipped with his weight. Denim stretched over his strong thighs. He brought with him the scent of man and the brisk outdoors. How could she possibly be aroused right now?

“You called him your puppy-cat?”

At the moment, even his deep voice seemed a turn-on. What the hell was wrong with her?

Ollie turned his head toward Dash, sniffed the air and backed up into her side, reminding her to reply.

“Being blind hasn’t stopped him. He’ll listen to me and follow me everywhere I go, just like a happy puppy.”

“Cute nickname.” Carefully, Dash held out his large hand. His fingers were long, his palms calloused. A working man’s hands. “Your voice and presence must reassure him.”

“Yes.” Those hands had touched her gently in the alley, brushing back her hair, skimming over her bruises—taking her gun from her. Sexy, competent, compassionate.

What would it be like to feel those hot palms firmly moving over her naked body?

“Margo?”

She struggled to get her gaze up to his face. “Ollie doesn’t take well to strangers.” But Ollie didn’t strike out with his claws. He sniffed Dash’s palm for the longest time, and when Dash slowly turned his hand over, Ollie butted his head into him for a pet.

Her traitorous cat liked him!

And there was Dash’s beautiful smile. That particular tilt of his mouth affected her like a touch in secret places.

She shuddered, and Dash lifted a brow. “You okay?”

“Yes.” Maybe. She cleared her throat to remove the huskiness. “I can’t believe he’s letting you pet him.”

“I love animals and they know it. Helps with winning them over.”

Margo could only stare as Ollie sidled closer to Dash and began his loud, rumbling purr—the purr he saved for special moments of affection.

“Yeah, you’re a good boy, aren’t you, Ollie?” As he’d watched her do, Dash brushed his hand over Ollie’s head to his back, all the way to the tip of his tail, while Ollie arched in bliss. “You like that, don’t you, my man?”

Her parents disdained her cat, or disdained her for loving him, yet Dash seemed pleased to have the cat’s approval.

It had to be the meds, but damn it, her eyes grew wet. “You haven’t yet been exposed to his bad habits.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“He sometimes misses the cat box.”

That turned Dash’s smile into a soft chuckle.

A chuckle. Oh, God, how she liked the sound of that. She squirmed in her seat.

Dash gently rubbed Ollie’s ear...leaving her mesmerized. “Given he’s blind, I’d say if he’s hitting it fifty percent of the time, he’s doing pretty good.”

Not understanding her reaction to him, Margo said in distraction, “I put a large rubber mat under the box. When he misses, it doesn’t hurt anything.”

“He looks like he’s going to nod off.” Dash treated the cat to another long stroke. “Soft fur.”

“He’s a rag doll.” To divert her concentration from Dash’s gentle touch, Margo looked away at the clock on the wall. Nearing 7:00 a.m. “He was probably frightened when I didn’t come home, so he hasn’t slept as much as usual. Before he goes to sleep, I need to feed him.”

“Why don’t I take care of that for you?”

How easy would it be to let him take over? Too easy. “I can do it.” Now that her arm was encased in the splint, she could walk without jarring it. But even the smallest movement amplified the ache in her head.

Dash moved around in front of her, caught her under her arms and easily brought her to her feet—without causing her any more pain.

So tall and leanly muscled. Other than the ruined shirt and beard shadow, no one would know that Dash had been up all night with her. The comparison to her present pathetic state made her want to throw up. Or maybe that was the concussion, too.

She could not be this pitiful.

Not with him. Not ever. “You don’t need to stay.”

He followed her sluggish path to the kitchen. “We already sang this tune, remember?”

“You can’t treat me like an invalid.”

“Trust me, Margo, that’s not how I see you.” When she stopped and stared at him, he held up his hands. “Sorry, but I can’t help it. Even wounded, you’re impressive.”

Her back teeth clenched. “That’s a joke, right?”

He lowered his hands—and his eyes. Taking her in from breasts to thighs, he said roughly, “No.” He looked up at her face. “It can be frustrating as hell, but overall I like it that you’re not the average woman.”

She absolutely could not have this conversation right now. “Fine. Suit yourself.” She pointed to a cabinet. “The cat food is in there. Open him up a can, but put it on a big plate by his water fountain.”

Dash looked at the gurgling water bowl. “That makes enough noise for a...” Realization dawned. “A blind cat to find.”

She turned away from his admiration. “I need a shower.”

“No.”

Disbelieving, she stared at him.

“You aren’t supposed to get the splint wet.”

Here we go again. “But I can’t sleep with blood in my hair.”

He stepped up behind her. “It’s not as bad now that the nurse cleaned you up, but...” He touched his fingertips to her short hair, skimmed those rasping fingertips down her throat to her shoulder. “How about I run a bath for you?”

“I can’t wash my hair in the bath.”

“You’ll ruin the splint in the shower, and you’re not supposed to get the stitches wet.”

“I’ll take the splint off.”

“No.” He quickly amended that with, “Be reasonable. You could end up back at the hospital. Three days, the doc said. Wear it three days and then maybe they’ll move you into a brace.”

It annoyed her that he was right. “Oliver is impatiently waiting to be fed.”

She felt Dash’s hesitation, then he said, “Sorry, boy.”

Already missing the heat of his body, Margo turned to watch as he took a can out of the cabinet and peeled off the lid.

He glanced her way. “If you take a bath, I could wash your hair.”

“In your dreams.”

Ollie smelled the food and began an impatient meow, winding in and around her legs.

“I have dreamed about it. At least the part where you’re naked and wet.”

Her breath strangled in her chest. She was already on the ragged edge. She didn’t need Dash adding to her confusion.

As if he hadn’t just said something so outrageous, Dash opened three cabinets before finding the plates. He dumped out the food and put it down for the cat. “C’mon, Ollie. Here you go, kitty.”

Margo stood there, the last of her resources quickly fading. “If you think for even one second that I’d—”

“Margo.” Dash watched Ollie dig in, then straightened again to face her. “I take it you haven’t looked in a mirror lately, have you? You’re sort of impersonating the walking dead.”

She knew that. The gash on her head had only required five stitches to keep it from scarring. It had swollen like a goose egg, then settled to a mere bump that caused purple, blue and green bruising over half her forehead. Her makeup was only partially washed off and the dried blood had her short hair sticking out in odd little clumpy curls.

A yawn took her by surprise, and even that—stretching her mouth wide—hurt like the devil. The yawn ended in a broken groan and she muttered, “Feel a little like the walking dead, too.”

Sympathy softened his voice. “I can only imagine. But you know, blood and bruises and lusty groans of pain have a way of discouraging a guy from making a play.”

“I thought you said I was impressive.”

“You’re still standing, right? Most people would be curled up and crying.”

Trying for a sneer, she asked, “You?”

“I’m getting there.” His warm smile curled her toes. “It’s past time for your pain meds.” He dug the bottle out of his pocket and shook out a pill. “Water?”

She hesitated for far too long before nodding. “Thanks.” With any luck the pain medicine would numb her enough to let her sleep after she got clean.

He filled a glass and carried it to her. After she’d swallowed the pill, he tipped up her chin. “If it makes you feel any better, I promise you don’t have anything I haven’t already seen.”

She was so worn out, she had a feeling she’d pass out the second she got settled somewhere. Which probably meant a shower really wasn’t a great idea. “Fine. Run the bath if you want, then stay out of my way until I’m done.”

“Spoilsport.” He started down her hall, peeking into each room, studying her spare bedroom, then her home office, until he finally found the right one. “A shallow bath. And I’ll be right outside the door waiting...just in case you change your mind.”