Dash of Peril

She didn’t need makeup to look good. With her dark brows and long lashes, her high cheekbones, she looked sexy as hell no matter what. The bruises that had marred her fair skin were finally fading. How long would it be before the memory did the same?

Trailing her fingers down to the waistband of his open jeans, she murmured, “I’m starving.”

“A double entendre, I hope.” Subtly, he let his hands drop a little more, and lazily stroked her ass. Firm, silky... He needed her naked. With him naked. No more reservations between them.

Smiling, she stepped away and went to the table. “How soon until we eat?”

So she wanted to drag out the inevitable? Good. He wanted to savor things, too. “It’s ready now.” More than willing to play the game, which only built the anticipation, he served her.

They each took their time eating, talking. Oliver roamed the house, surprisingly at ease in the unfamiliar setting. He especially seemed to enjoy the fireplace and after a main-floor reconnoiter, he went back to doze on the hearth.

Seeing Margo like this made Dash want to know everything about her. “What were you like as a little girl?”

“I already told you.” Done with her food, Margo sat back, her legs crossed, her posture relaxed as she sipped on her sweet tea. “I was competitive and stubborn and independent.”

That much hadn’t changed, but now, having met her parents, he wondered how they’d dealt with a headstrong little girl—that they’d apparently never wanted in the first place. “Were you a tomboy or a girlie-girl?”

She traced a fingertip in the sweat on her glass. “A little of both maybe. I wanted to do all the things that West did—but I also liked playing with the occasional doll.” She tipped her head, thinking back. “I liked to dress like a girl, too, but it wasn’t always appropriate.”

The image in his mind was so adorably cute, he couldn’t help but imagine how their daughter might look. He’d want her to have Margo’s features, her big blue eyes. “How so?”

“When competing, a skirt can be a problem. So more often than not I was in jeans or shorts. I remember that I seemed to stay dirty, either from tussling on the ground or climbing a tree or forever running and getting sweaty.” She smiled to herself. “Mom stopped buying me shirts in pink and yellow and lavender and instead stuck with brown and gray because she said at least then the dirt stains didn’t show.”

It took all Dash had to keep his scowl hidden. “Did you like ribbons in your hair? Ponytails? Braids?”

Without any real deliberation, she touched the soft curls over her ear. “Maybe when I was really young. But my dad cut my hair when I was seven, and I’ve kept it short ever since.”

“Your dad cut your hair?”

She looked up, her eyes meeting his. “Dad always cut West’s hair. He’d use the clippers on him every other week it seemed. Then once, when West was about thirteen or fourteen, I followed him to the creek. He and some other boys were jumping from rock to rock, just looking at the fish and crawdads, screwing around like boys do. I tried to follow him, but I slipped and landed in the mud.”

That familiar ache expanded in his gut again. “Your parents were mad?”

“Mom wasn’t home when West took me in. He was afraid I was hurt, but I knew I wasn’t. I just had a skinned-up knee and a few scrapes and bruises—and all that mud.” She shook her head. “Dad ordered me into the bath, and when I was done, he made me sit in the kitchen chair while he cut my hair.”

Thoughts churning, heart aching, Dash slowly sat forward. “With scissors?”

For the longest time she didn’t answer, then she shook her head. “No. He used the clippers.”

Dash wanted to kill him. Every muscle in his body went taut with the need to take the older man apart. She’d been a child, a little girl with scrapes and bruises and a need to fit in.

But her f**king father had humiliated her.

“You don’t need to look so upset.” Her gaze moved over his face. “I learned so much that day.”

“You were only seven years old.”

“And stubborn as a mule.” Again she touched her hair. “Mom was furious when she saw me. She said we’d all be gossiped about. They had a big fight about it. It was one of the few times I saw her win. Even West was mad about it. Dad said he was wrong and I could grow it back.”

But she hadn’t. Comprehension dawned. “You cut it after that?”

His conclusion made her smile. “Every single time. I even got a whooping once for it, but I did it again the next time anyway. I figured Dad wanted it short, so by God, I’d keep it short.”

She really had been a handful. And he was glad. That backbone had kept her safe, helped to protect her heart, and made her into the woman he now loved. “Clippers?”

“When they didn’t hide them from me. Once when they did, I used scissors and it was so uneven, it was worse than just shearing it off.” Her smile went crooked. “I was so bad.”

“You were—are—so proud.”

She didn’t deny it. “Finally Mom gave up and started taking me to a salon so they could at least keep the short hair styled. They convinced me that some curls would be nice.”

“Very nice.”

“Before Dad cut it, the weight pulled it straighter. But no longer than it is now, the curl takes over.”

“I love your hair.”

“Thank you.” She sat forward, her chin on a fist. “It’s a reminder to Dad that I know how to win. In fact, he told me once that while he regretted cutting it, he knew I’d learned from it, that I had figured out how to turn the tables on people who tried to hurt me.” She went quiet. “That’s the closest he’s ever come to giving me a compliment.”

Nice insight from an abusive father. “Was he right?”

“Yes.” Straightening, no longer so introspective, she lifted her glass for another drink. “With every step I took through the department, there were people who wanted to knock me down. Usually they ended up regretting it.”

She’d tempered that fierce defense to opposition with extreme loyalty to those who deserved it. Like his brother, and Reese. Now Rowdy and Cannon.

“So.” The ice in her glass clinked as she set the glass down. “You donated significant money to Cannon’s rec center?”

In the normal scheme of things, Dash didn’t like to talk about finances, and he especially avoided conversations about donations. But he wanted to know everything about Margo, and that meant she deserved to know everything about him.

He folded his arms on the tabletop. “I’ve donated a few times now. Logan also.” His shrug didn’t begin to cover how little the gesture meant. “I can afford it. It’s easy to see how important it is to Cannon and to the kids who hang out there, so why not?”

“That’s very generous of you.”

This was where things got dicey, where he had to face his own shortcomings. “Actually, it’s not.” He didn’t want to deceive her with misconceptions, so he tried for brutal honesty. “Donating money, especially when it doesn’t even put a dent in my finances, is easy. Too easy. It’s the people like Cannon, the ones who give their time and energy to a project, who really make a difference.”

“Without the cash donations, Cannon couldn’t do it.” She continued to study him. “But you know, it’s nice that you downplay it.”

She’d totally misunderstood. “I’m not.”

A smile brightened her eyes. “Sometimes, Dash, you’re just too wonderful.”

That made him scowl. “Damn it, I’m not. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Not only have Logan and I never done without, we always had the best of everything. Our folks are awesome. They’re the ones who helped our grandparents set up the trust for us because they didn’t need the money. Soon as each of us turned twenty-one, we got a substantial inheritance. Not that we’d been struggling before that. Hell, Margo, we were spoiled.”

“And yet you work.” Margo again sipped her drink. “You have your own business.”

For some reason, it bothered Dash that she gave him qualities he didn’t possess. “I told you, I don’t do well with idle time. Plus I like the physical labor.”

“Yeah, you sound like such a pampered, spoiled, rich kid.”

Was she baiting him? His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say that exactly. It’s just that I...” What? Frustration brought him out of his seat and he began clearing the table. “I’ve been really blessed.”

“And look at how that negatively affected you. You are so lazy, so self-indulgent.” Teasing humor filled the insults with irony. “You only ever think of yourself.”

He closed the dishwasher and, staying near the cabinets—away from her—turned to scowl. “I am self-indulgent. Especially where my personal pleasures are concerned.”

“Women have come easy to you, haven’t they?”

Damn it, she still smiled as if the whole thing were a joke. “Yeah, they have. With good reason.”

“Because you’re so gorgeous,” she mused. Her gaze dipped over his chest, then down to his unsnapped fly. “And such a stud in the sack.”

That only annoyed him more.

“But I’m glad.”

Glad?

With sensual intent, she left her seat. “Now I get to be the recipient of all that expertise.”

He opened his mouth—then closed it. No way would he argue that, not when she’d once thought he’d be boring.

“But,” she added, “I’m not so bad myself.”

Oh, hell no. He did not want to hear about her with other men. She might be able to take it, but he couldn’t.

He started to tell her so, but when she reached him, she only hooked a finger in the front belt loop of his open jeans and tugged him closer. “I think it’s time I proved it to you.”

Going on tiptoes, she caught his mouth—and damn, the lady knew how to kiss.

His heart threatened to punch out of his chest, and with her fingers right there, so close, his dick jumped to attention.

Flattening her left hand on his ribs, she stroked him, up to his chest, down over his abs. Her mouth continued to consume him, so much so that he barely realized what her hands were doing until his jeans loosened more.

Sliding both hands around to his back, and then down, she pushed the denim below his ass.

Freeing her mouth, she stepped back to look at him. She started with the top of his thighs, then slowly looked up to his erection, his stomach, his ribs and his chest, his throat. “You are so impressive.”

Dash braced his hands on the counter behind him, his fingers curling over the ledge, bracing himself against the searing, suggestive heat in her eyes.