Dash of Peril. Lori Foster

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