Dash of Peril - Lori Foster

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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.”

      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?”

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