Dash of Peril

“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.