Lori Foster - Dash of Peril

Unlike her teasing tone, he sounded far too serious. “Yeah.” He kissed her temple. “I thought of you.”

That would be so nice—if it was true.

Stepping away she went to the windows first to look out. It took her breath away. Across the lake, tall pines guaranteed privacy. She could see his dock, a rowboat tied to the side but a larger boathouse connected. Two benches lined the shore, complete with a kayak stand and bright yellow kayak.

“Do you have a bigger boat?”

“A speedboat, yeah. The other place—the one I’m giving to Logan—was fishing only. No need for anything fast. But this lake is bigger, without the restrictions. I bought the boat when I bought the house, but it’s still winterized. Another couple of weeks and I’ll get it in.”

A door to the right led to a walk-in closet. She strolled to the bathroom off to the left. A pedestal sink, toilet and glass-enclosed shower—with another window looking out—filled the small room.

“The floor is heated. So are the towel bars.” He stepped close, but didn’t touch her this time. “Everything will be warmed up in just a minute if you want to take your shower.”

“I do.” She trailed her fingers over plush towels hanging on the bar.

“I can fix us something to eat while you do that.”

Margo turned to him. Yes, she wanted her shower, and food.

And then she wanted Dash.

Going on tiptoe, she kissed him. Then, drawn by his scent, the taste of him, she went on kissing him. Under her hands, his shoulders flexed as he planted both hands flat on the wall at either side of her head.

He didn’t take over, just let her do as she pleased. She touched her tongue to his bottom lip, licked inside, tipped her head to better fit their mouths together.

His beard stubble was now even more noticeable. She brushed her fingertips over it, enjoying the rasp. Snuggling up closer, she brought her breast to his abdomen, her belly to his groin.

Breathing harder, Dash clenched his muscles and made a small gruff sound of encouragement.

Knowing she had to stop or she’d blow all her plans, Margo inched away. She kissed him once more, a short, damp kiss. Then another. Patting his chest, she said, “I won’t be long.”

It took a second for her dismissal to sink in. With a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan, he stepped back. “You’re wicked. I love it.”

Love. God, how she enjoyed hearing him say that. “You have no idea yet how wicked I can be.” She stepped around him. “But I’ll enjoy showing you. Soon.”

WITH MARGO BUSY UPSTAIRS, Dash put on soup then took his own quick shower, taking the time to shave, as well. Dressed only in jeans—unsnapped—he stood at the counter, making sandwiches when she came downstairs.

Like him, she wore very little, only a T-shirt and panties.

It fired his blood, seeing her like this, so sultry and on the make. For him.

It wasn’t the first time a woman had taken the lead, but it was a first with Margo and because she was special, because he loved her, it ramped up his excitement to an acute level.

He turned, watching her come toward him. “Luckily the fire has warmed the floor. Otherwise your feet would be cold.”

“No.” She walked right up to him and, after a slow perusal of his body, stroked his chest, his shoulder, his chin. “I’m plenty warm.”

Looping his arms around her waist, his hands meeting over her curvy backside, Dash kept her close. She wore no makeup and her naked mouth looked lush. He wanted to kiss her long and deep, but didn’t want to steal her show.

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 fucking 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.”