Dash of Peril

CHAPTER FOUR

DASH LEANED AGAINST the wall outside the bathroom, listening to the occasional ripple of water. In his mind, he could almost see her, so strong and brave and independent.

But equally small and soft and so badly hurt.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his gritty eyes, trying to fight off the exhaustion. Now that he had her back in her own home, safe and sound, the adrenaline dump left him weary. “You okay in there?”

“I won’t melt in warm water, if that’s what you mean.”

“You’re not getting the splint wet, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

Hearing the strain in her voice, he wanted to curse. She’d taken clean clothes in with her, but he had no idea how she would manage to get dressed. The doctor claimed her arm would cause considerable pain for at least a few days.

Struggling in and out of the tub, washing her hair, soaping up her body...

Damn, but the visuals were killing him.

“Margo? You sure you don’t need any help? You have to be hurting.”

“I’m okay.”

Damn it. Why wouldn’t she trust him a little? Okay, sure, letting him bathe her would cross a few boundaries, especially considering the lack of intimacy they’d shared.

But they were both adults. True, damn it. “We’re both adults,” he said aloud.

“Go away.”

Was there a funny note to her voice? Something more than discomfort?

He pushed away from the wall, paced a few feet and came back. He felt ridiculous, fretting outside her door, waiting for her to admit that she needed him. “I understand why you think you have to be so tough.”

Nothing.

“Logan and Reese treat you like you’re Superman, or the Hulk or something equally macho.” Most of the time he doubted Logan and Reese ever noticed her as a female.

“I prefer it that way.”

He had a feeling she would prefer everyone see her as a hard-ass. When it came to him, she was doomed to disappointment.

He waited another five minutes, then said, “You need to come out now, Margo.” Much as he relished the thought of assisting her, if she fell asleep in the tub she could end up hurting herself more.

“I am.”

He clenched at the sound of water sluicing over her body. “Be careful that you don’t slip on the wet floor.”

Seconds passed in tense silence. “Hey, Dash?”

She sounded a little drunk, and that alarmed him. “Yeah?” He reached for the doorknob.

Voice slurring, she said, “If you could use only one word to describe me, what would it be?”

He dropped his hand again. Had the medicine affected her that quickly? Probably. He’d always thought drugs were a no-no with a concussion, but apparently things had changed. That, or the pain of her dislocated elbow trumped the concussion.

Resting back against the wall, he fought a smile. “One word, huh?”

“Just one.”

He chewed his upper lip, giving it quick thought, then decided she could handle the truth. “Fuckable.”

Silence.

He waited. Margo wasn’t herself right now, not with everything she’d been through. Her injuries and the powerful pain medicine...if she were any other woman he’d be treating her with kid gloves. But this was Lieutenant Peterson, the ballbuster, and he knew her well enough to know she’d detest sympathy.

When the door opened, he slowly straightened in anticipation.

She hadn’t really dried her hair and little rivulets of water ran down her silky neck and disappeared into the collar of a large, soft robe that fit over her splint and was only loosely tied around her petite frame. Without makeup, the stitches and bruising were even more obscene.

His heart gave a soft thump—and he knew he was a goner.

Even fatigued, she tilted up her chin. “So...not impressive, as you said earlier?”

He could see the fogginess in her gaze; it took away some of her edge, making her softer, more accepting. It nearly leveled him. “The meds have you loopy.”

“Maybe. I can hold my liquor, but...” She stumbled, and Dash caught her right arm, up high near her breasts, carefully steadying her again. “The Peterson family doesn’t indulge weakness.”

His brows pulled down. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“We’re not pill takers.”

“Even prescribed medicine?”

“Meds are for wimps.” She leaned into him. “A strong person toughs it out.”

Who the hell had come up with such an asinine rule? “An intelligent person follows doctor’s orders.”

She didn’t acknowledge the truth of that. “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone I took pain meds, okay?”

“I’ll make you a deal.” He cupped her face, drawn by the warmth and silkiness of her bruised skin. “I’ll keep your secret as long as you continue to take them when you need to.”

“We’ll see.” She smiled sleepily—and with sexual intent. “Now, about that one word...”

Knowing what she wanted, what she needed, Dash drew his gaze from her naked mouth to her shadowy blue eyes. “I’m sticking with fuckable.” His thumbs moved over the delicate hollows of her cheekbones. “But impressive would be right behind it.”

Their gazes held for the longest time.

She leaned toward him. “Washing my hair one-handed wasn’t easy, especially with those stupid stitches in the way.”

“You should have let me help.” Another trickle of water trailed down her neck. “I can at least dry it for you.”

Staring up at him, practically begging to be kissed, she finally nodded.

Before he forgot his good intentions or she regained her usual starch, Dash stepped around her into the bathroom. He bent to drain the tub—something else she couldn’t manage—and picked up a spare towel.

He saw the discarded scrubs half-sticking out of a clothes hamper—and her clean clothes sitting on the side of the sink with the sling on top. It struck Dash that other than the splint she was naked beneath the robe.

He jerked around to look at her again. Though small, she had noticeable curves, the back view as curvy as the front.

As if she felt his hot stare, she said, “I have bruises.”

His chest tightened. “Want to show me where?”

With a helpless shake of her head, she whispered, “Everywhere.”

He moved up behind her, his hands at her tiny waist. He would have loved to kiss each and every mark, but not with her like this. “I’m going to help you now.”

“How?” A shiver ran up her spine—and no wonder.

Wet hair and exhaustion and only the robe for covering.

Dash grabbed her clothes, then guided her forward. “Come on. Let’s go to your room.”

Her small bare feet left damp marks in the plush carpet as she moved ahead of him. “Where’s Ollie?”

“Curled in his bed in your living room, sound asleep.” Just as she’d said, the cat ate, cleaned himself, then snuggled down to sleep. “What about you? Are you hungry?”

“Not enough to stay awake.”

Without his prodding, she went past the home office, the spare bedroom and into her own room to gingerly sit on the foot of the bed.

Dash gave a quick glance around—and didn’t find a single surprise. Everything was as orderly as he’d expected it to be, her comforter a neutral cream color without the adornment of throw pillows, her nightstand and dresser clutter-free. He didn’t see a single speck of dust or a shoe out of place.

With Logan being a cop, he recognized the quick-access safe in the corner of the room. Since Reese had taken her weapon in the alley, he wondered if she had other guns locked in that safe. It was big enough to hold a rifle or two...and more.

“I’m cold.”

Dash took in her bare calves and feet, her narrow wrists, her slender throat. So fragile, but still so strong. “Does anything hurt besides your head and arm?”

“Pretty much everything. But it’s not bad.”

Or were complaints of any kind as taboo as medicine? Had she come from a family of stoic martyrs?

“Your legs? Shoulders?”

Damp lashes shadowed her big blue eyes. “Mostly my arm and head.”

If she weren’t drugged, Dash doubted she would admit that much to him. “Okay. I’m going to dry your hair first.” Otherwise it’d just get her clothes wet. “Then we’ll get you dressed and you can sleep.”

“It’s short, so it doesn’t take long.”

Feeling equal parts tender and horny, Dash set her clothes on the bed beside her. “I like your hair, Margo. A lot.” He ran his fingers over her head. Her hair, in a Halle Berry sort of style, was curlier wet, but when dry it looked silky soft and feminine—a great contrast to her shark persona.

“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.