Lori Foster - Dash of Peril

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?”

“You call my daughter ‘Margo’?”

Given the woman’s expression, he shouldn’t have. Too late now, though. “Yes, ma’am.” He glanced at her seething father. “I’m not an officer, and she’s not my lieutenant.”

“Damn. What are we thinking?” Her brother gestured for Margo to take the seat he’d vacated. “Sit down already.”

Gingerly, Margo sat.

Dash went to stand on the left side of her chair, near her injured arm.

Her brother took up the other side—and offered Dash his hand. “Since we’re on a first-name basis here...” He smiled. “I’m West. My mother is Marsha, my dad Martin.”

Mrs. Peterson added with bloated pride, “West is head of DVIU.”

Taking his hand, Dash asked, “DVIU?”

Her father filled in. “Drug and Vice Investigation Unit.”

Was that somehow more impressive than Margaret being a lieutenant at such a young age? He’d have to ask Logan. “Nice to meet you, West.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Dash noted that when West ended the handshake, which was friendly, not combative, he rested his hand on Margo’s shoulder.

A show of support? After all that teasing? Maybe. He understood the way with older brothers. Logan often gave him shit just for the fun of it.

But never when he was already down.

“And you, Mr. Peterson?” Dash turned to her father. He looked a lot like Margo, with the same dark hair, but with silver at the temples. Where Margo was slight, the father was a beast. Powerfully built, seasoned, the type of man who liked to make his presence known—in one way or another. “I understand Margo comes from a long line of law enforcement.”

The elder Peterson slanted a venomous look at his daughter. “I’m retired.”

Whoa. What was that about?

“Margo insisted,” West murmured as if sharing an inside joke with Dash.

Margo, for her part, sat perfectly still without even blinking.

Her mother watched Dash with a sharp eye. “What is it you do, Mr. Riske?”

“I work in construction.”

“You’re a laborer?”

Said with a curled lip of disdain. Dash barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The inquisition wouldn’t have bothered him if Mrs. Peterson weren’t so condescending. “When it suits me, sure.”

Margo spoke up. “He owns his own construction company, Mother.”

That renewed her father’s interest. “Is it a large operation?”

Dash shrugged. “Not really. We’re local only, working within the tristate. I employ three crews, around forty-five guys.”

“Commercial or residential?”

“Both.”

“Don’t construction workers spend a lot of time off?” Mrs. Peterson asked.

“Sometimes. But since we’re a design-build firm with in-house design and planning services, we stay pretty busy.”

Mr. Peterson eyed him. “Any plans to expand?”

“Nope.” He and Logan had inherited small fortunes from their grandparents, but neither of them was the type to laze around or serve on a committee. Logan loved the cryptic uncertainty of police work, and he was good at it. But Dash wasn’t the suspicious type. He preferred the simplicity of construction.

With her parents still scrutinizing him, Dash said, “Actually, my brother and I are both pretty well set for life. Generous grandparents with trust funds and all that.” He smiled. “They adored us.”

Margo went wide-eyed.

“I work because I want to, because I enjoy it—not because I have to.”

“But as the owner, you don’t actually work in construction,” Mrs. Peterson wrongly asserted. “You just run things.”

“Running things is actually the hardest part. Paperwork is the bane of my existence. But more often than not, you’ll find me side by side with my crew. I like getting sweaty, using my hands.” He held out his calloused palms, flexed his fingers. “I take a lot of satisfaction in seeing a project come together, whether it’s new construction or remodeling.”

Suddenly Mrs. Peterson’s attention dipped down his body and roamed lazily over his naked chest. “Obviously you stay in shape.”

West said, “I’m guessing his shirt is on Margo.”

Being judicious, Dash said, “Her clothes were a bloody mess, so I played the gallant.” Funny that he’d been so worried about Margo facing her family that he’d forgotten he wore only boxers and drawstring pants. “My clothes were ruined, too, actually. I borrowed a few things from my brother.”

“I assume you’re leaving soon?”

He met Mr. Peterson’s hard stare with one of his own. If the abrupt statement was meant to throw him, it didn’t work.

Before he could reply, Margo stood. “He’s staying until I tell him to leave.”

True enough, as long as she didn’t send him packing anytime soon.

Margo smiled, and then, with her eyes growing a little glazed, she asked, “Anyone want coffee?”

Mr. Peterson left his seat, his attention narrowed at his daughter. “Did you take something?”

“Aspirin,” Dash said.

“Her eyes look—”

“Jesus, Dad,” West interrupted. “She has a concussion.” He turned to his sister. “And no, Margo, you are not making coffee.”

“If everyone is staying, I am.” Arm held close to her body, she turned to Dash. And smiled at him. “You want to come to the kitchen with me?”

He wasn’t the only one to catch the suggestive way she put that. Dash didn’t know what to do. Maybe giving her the pain pill was a bad idea.

West saved him. “No need. We’re leaving now.” He said to his parents, “Remember we have early dinner plans? Mother, you don’t want to be late.”

Mr. Peterson folded his arms over his chest and planted his big feet. “You’ll return to work tomorrow?”

Forgetting her injury, Margo shrugged, froze with discomfort, then lifted her chin in defiance. “Likely. But I’ll decide that later.”

Surely, Dash thought, the department had restrictions on that sort of thing. Whether her parents realized it, or Margo wanted to admit it, she needed time to recover.

She and her father had a staring contest, and to Dash’s surprise, Margo won.

It helped that Mrs. Peterson showed her impatience by going to wait by the door...without saying a word to her daughter.

Mr. Peterson made an ordeal of checking the thick watch on his thicker wrist. “We have plenty of time but since we’re done here...”

“Thank you for stopping by,” Margo sang. “So kind. So considerate.”

Her brother smothered a grin and shuffled everyone out. He was almost off the porch when he turned back and came to the door, again offering Dash his hand. “Thank you.”

Cold air prickled his bare skin, but Dash stood his ground. “For?”

“Your care, your assistance—and your discretion.” He winked at his sister, and left.

MARGO STOOD IN the doorway and watched as her meddling family drove away. She even waved—but as soon as they were out of sight she closed the door, locked it and turned to find Dash missing.

“Coward,” she mumbled to herself. Yes, the pills made her less circumspect. She wasn’t unaware of her own nature; she felt it necessary to be a control freak, an alpha, and aloof.

But that was for Lieutenant Margaret Peterson.

Margaret was unyielding and in charge. Margaret was cold and calculating. Margaret ruled with an iron fist.

Margo, however, enjoyed the contrast of being a smaller, softer woman—with a bigger, harder man.

Oh, yes—hard. “Dash?” she called, anxious now to see him, touch him and coerce him into returning her touch.

She heard water running in the kitchen and, smiling in anticipation, followed the sound. Wishing she’d put on the sling, she kept her arm and the heavy splint supported close to her body. “You can run, but you can’t hide your big gorgeous self.” She paused. Okay, sure, that was a rather uncensored comment. But who cared? Without the muscle-loosening pain pills she might have only thought it, not whispered it aloud.

And to say it about Dash? Logan’s brother. Logan, one of her best detectives.

Again, who cared?

Dash was at the sink, Oliver winding in and around his legs, when Margo came in. The muscles in his broad back caused a deep furrow over his spine. His shoulders flexed as he filled a carafe with water.

She wanted to eat him up. “There you are.”

“Making coffee.” He glanced at her, did a double take on her expression, dipped his attention over her whole body, then looked away. “Take a seat.”

Instead she propped a hip against the table and watched the play of muscles in his biceps as he got out coffee mugs. Visually she traced his gorgeous upper body down to his sexy tush. She couldn’t help noticing the remnants of a tan, especially where the low-hanging soft cotton pants exposed a paler strip of flesh at the bottom of his spine.

One little tug on that drawstring and the casual covering would drop to his ankles. She warmed and her heartbeat accelerated.

Unfortunately he wore boxers, too. She slightly lifted her left arm, and winced. Still too painful for much use.

So he’d just have to strip all on his own. She could watch.

And enjoy.

“I figured you might want something to eat, too,” Dash said, still not facing her. “Soon as the coffee is done I can—”

Moving forward, Margo caged him up against the cabinet and leaned into him, her cheek against his warm back and her right arm circling around him, her fingers splayed over his washboard abdomen, toying with that tantalizing trail of hair that went down, down...

Lord have mercy.

Dash froze. “Margo—”

Overwhelmed with need, she lightly bit his shoulder blade, licked his sleek, warm skin and felt him shudder.

“You shouldn’t—”

“I can’t resist.” She kissed a path to his spine.

Very gently Dash turned in her hold. “You have to stop that.”

“No.” She leaned into him again, brushed her nose against his solid, lightly furred chest. Could a man possibly smell better than Dashiel Riske? Impossible.