Dash of Peril
Page 12“Yeah, imagine that.”
Margo didn’t understand the dark note in Dash’s voice, and she was too frustrated to care. “They’re all three here?”
“Yes.” His gaze held her captive. “All three.”
It got her back up, the way he sounded more abrupt by the second. “I can manage if you want to—”
He looked away from her, but said, “I’m waiting.”
“Ooookay.” Knowing her father’s intolerance for tardiness, she didn’t want to waste time. She closed the bathroom door in Dash’s face, and came hobbling back out a mere half minute later.
As if searching for signs of distress, Dash looked her over.
On top of relieving herself, she’d also gargled and smoothed her hair one-handed. Neither had helped all that much. Though she felt more alert, she knew the truth. “I’m a mess.”
“With good reason.” Dash took her uninjured arm again and led her toward the bed, where she’d left her panties and yoga pants. He put her hand on his shoulder. “Hold on to me for balance.”
Why not? In one day Dash had already seen her in a more pathetic state than anyone else ever had in her entire thirty years. “Right.”
Going to one knee, he held her panties for her. Black panties with frosty pink lace as decoration. Soooo not the look for a feared lieutenant known for the ruthless demolition of corruption in the force, an ice queen who’d faced down enraged male officers with nary a flinch.
Dash looked up at her, his gaze dark and steady and somehow knowing. “It’s okay.”
Why was she still having sexual thoughts? Because a gorgeous hunk is on his knees in front of you, that’s why. If he had her backed to a wall, this would be the perfect position for him to—
“Believe me, I know,” he murmured low, sending a swirl of heat through her stomach.
“Do you?” She put her hand on his jaw, now dark with beard shadow.
“I’m trying not to think about it.” His attention went down her body. “Yet.”
Meaning later they could both think about it?
Obviously she needed to get laid, and fast. It no longer seemed to matter that Dash wasn’t the right man. In fact, he was starting to look like exactly the right man. He was here, and she had no doubt he could get the job done, that he would probably be quite thorough.
The powerful relief of sex would help to counter the weak way she felt right now.
But would he be willing?
Leaning on him, Margo lifted one foot at a time. “This might sound egotistical, but I’ve never had a man refuse to kiss me.”
“So if I hadn’t just taken a pain pill—”
He sat back on his heels, his dark eyes filled with challenge. “I don’t take orders, either.”
“Orders?”
He straightened before her, so tall, so leanly muscled. And now he had a commanding air about him, something she’d never before noticed with Dash.
He cupped her face in his work-roughened hands. “You’re so used to calling the shots, you probably think you can get by with it in all situations, with all people. But I’m not one of your detectives.”
The steel in his tone gave her a shiver. Muscles going warm and weak, Margo leaned into his chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But of course she did. And of course...he was right.
The entire appeal of one-night stands was the opportunity to be someone else, someone unknown, a woman without a reputation for being so tough.
A woman...not so in control.
“All that aside,” Dash said, “you need a few days to recover. And tasting you here—” he brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb “—makes me want to taste you everywhere.”
“Everywhere?” She hoped he meant what she thought he—
Obliterating her thoughts, he said, “Here,” and brushed his knuckles over her right nipple.
How could she be so sensitive? In the back of her mind, she thought, Because this is Dash.
She breathed harder.
Watching her, he trailed his hand down her ribs and over her stomach, stopping between her thighs. “And here.” His fingertips played over her ever so lightly.
Her bones turned to butter....
Until he said, “But you’re not up for that yet.”
Wrong and wrong again. She wanted him and no paltry injuries would change that. Persuasive arguments tripped to her tongue. “Dash—”
“No is no, honey.”
How...naughty of him, to get her primed when he had no intention of following through.
And why did that just ramp up her excitement more?
“Good girl.” Dash smiled, then took his hands from her body and shoved them into the pockets of the loose cotton pants. His lean jaw flexed. “Now that we’ve settled that, I have a question.”
“Can it wait?”
“Afraid not.” And with no pause at all, he demanded, “If they already had a son, why the hell weren’t your parents happy with you being a daughter?”
* * *
HIS MOM CALLED him the carefree one. His dad praised him for knowing how to relax and when to laugh. True enough, when compared to Logan’s serious persona, Dash was the cheerful, lighthearted brother.
But right now, his temper simmered near a boil. Not only had Margo slipped out of the bedroom without answering his question—if she even had an answer for something so asinine—but now he also had to deal with her dysfunctional family.
Like detached strangers on a public bus, they politely tolerated each other. He was uncomfortable with them, so how would Margo feel?
At the edge of the couch her mother sat like an ice statue, back ramrod-straight, feet together, hands folded over the purse in her lap and her face as smooth and seamless as plastic surgery could make it. An expensive sweater and pleated slacks emphasized her still-trim figure. Her hair was lighter than Margo’s and without the fun curls. In fact, her hair looked like a damned helmet it was so starched into place. And instead of Margo’s beautiful blue eyes, her mother’s eyes were a lackluster gray.
Her father deliberately took up space, brawny arms stretched out over the back of the couch, expression critical of everyone and everything. His only concern upon arrival wasn’t whether or not Margo was okay. No, he wanted to know only why Dash was there.
Surely not to help, as if such a thing were unthinkable. The ass. Dash imagined the senior Peterson enjoyed cowing others; he had that smarmy type of personality prevalent in bullies. For now, because he was Margo’s father, Dash would give him respect.
As long as the man didn’t push him too far.
Her brother, as tall as the dad but leaner, had a more affable manner. He seemed equal parts amused curiosity and brimming anticipation. The jury was still out on him.
Margo did her best to stand straight and tall as she greeted her family. “Mom, Dad, you didn’t have to come out in this nasty weather.”
“If you hadn’t been sleeping,” her father said, “you’d know the weather isn’t so nasty now.”
“It wouldn’t look right if we didn’t,” added Mrs. Peterson as she toyed with a single pearl necklace.
Focusing on Dash, his tone accusatory, her father said, “Is there a reason you wanted us to stay away?”
“Of course not. I just meant—”
“Damn, sis.” Her brother stepped forward, blocking the father’s view of Margo.
Dash waited, ready to level the guy if he wasn’t gentle enough.
But her brother only inspected her, then gave a half shake of his head. “I’m thinking you should have stayed in the bed.”
“I tried,” Dash said, and even he heard the antagonism in his tone. “But I was sent to summon you forth.”
Expression tight, Margo looked away from him. “Of course. I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Dad.”
Her father sat forward. “Let’s hear it then. Who is he and why is he here?”
The first order of business should have been Margo’s injuries, not her company. She wasn’t an underage girl, and he wasn’t the one who’d hurt her. Dash sawed his teeth together a little more, but seeing Margo’s deer-in-the-headlights expression, he felt compelled to come to her rescue.
“My apologies. I’m Dashiel Riske.” Forgoing their history together, he said, “I was on the road behind your daughter yesterday when the van rammed her car and—”
“Situational awareness, Margo,” her father chided. “You weren’t paying attention.”
Bastard. It wasn’t easy, but Dash said without inflection, “It was more a matter of the icy roads and zero visibility. No amount of situational awareness can prepare you for that type of sudden ice storm.”
Lifting both brows, her brother watched him.
Apparently unused to being contradicted, Mr. Peterson bunched up as if he might attack.
Dash ignored his hostility, just as he ignored Margo’s dismay. “When she crashed, she was temporarily knocked out but came around after I got her car door open. We took cover in an alley. Margo fought them off—”
“Physically?” her brother asked with mock awe. “Guess all that time in the gym is paying off, eh, sis?”
How was it a joking matter? Dash forged on. “She shot at them.”
“Ah, a shoot-out.” Her brother rubbed his hands together. “No doubt she was a crack shot, even with a dislocated elbow.”
“And a concussion,” Dash snarled.
Her brother said, “Pfft. Margo wouldn’t let that slow her down.”
Good God, they were all nuts. She was not superhuman. She was not invincible. Jumping past the reality of her pain, the danger and the hospital visit, Dash tried to wrap it up—so that, yes, he could get her back in bed. “She insisted I return here with her until we knew if it was safe for me to go home.”
Margo gave him a wide-eyed stare.
As far as lies went, it sounded believable enough. He embellished on things with a shrug. “The goons saw my truck and probably read my plates. I’m involved now, so given Margo’s expertise I didn’t argue with her.”
Now knowing that her daughter had been unconscious, that she’d been deliberately rammed, that goons had tried to murder her, her mother said, “Margo?” in an imperious way.
Dash didn’t understand. “Excuse me?”