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.
She gave a heavy sigh. “Me, too.”
Needing a minute to get his head on straight, Dash said, “I’m going to go grab the flannel shirt Logan brought me. It’s big enough to fit over your splint and it’ll be easier to get on you than the T-shirt you chose.”
“The only button-up shirts I have are starched dress shirts.”
He tipped up her chin. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” With long strides he left the room to get the bag Logan had brought to him. The cat snored from his bed, oblivious to Dash’s presence. Outside, a weak sun tried to penetrate heavy clouds rolling in. Great, just what they didn’t need—more lousy weather. Work at the current job site would stall for a day or two. Not a big deal since they were right on schedule—a rare thing in the construction business.
After automatically double-checking that he’d secured the front door, he snagged up the bag and dug out the flannel shirt on his way back to Margo.
He found her sitting exactly where he’d left her. Going to his knees again in front of her, he braced himself for what he’d do. “Let’s get you out of this robe first, okay?”
“I’ll be naked.”
Dash put his hands on her hips, his thumbs brushing her thighs through the soft cotton of her robe. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”
“You’ll want me.”
He searched her face and didn’t see a single sign of modesty or timidity. “Already do, but right now I just want you to be comfortable.” He untied the belt.
“If you tell Logan or Reese, I’ll castrate you.”
Not so drugged that she couldn’t threaten him. For absurd reasons, that made him feel better. “You think I would?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a great judge of men. Some men,” she amended.
“You can trust me.” He eased the robe off her right shoulder and down her arm until she slipped her hand free.
His blood thickened, and it sounded in his tone when he added, “Believe me, Margo. I would never say or do anything to embarrass you.”
Goose bumps rose on her flesh.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
Was being cold also considered a complaint? “I’m sorry.” Quicker now, Dash pushed back the material and, except for where the terry cloth draped one thigh and still covered her left arm, she was bare.
His gaze naturally went to her body. He was sympathetic, but not dead. Her uniforms and business suits did a great job of hiding her generous rack. Full, pale, with dusky mauve nipples. Only the bruises painted over her collarbone and shoulder kept him from touching her.
“Easy now.” Breathing more deeply, he stood to gently free her left arm.
Margo said not a word, but her face tightened, her brows pinching together, her lips compressed.
“You can groan, you know.” Dash hated seeing her suffer in silence. “You’re allowed.”
She gave one sharp shake of her head, composed to the bitter end.
To hell with that. “A groan or two won’t make you less sexy, especially when I can see your nipples.”
Nothing.
“They’re very pretty.”
She stiffened.
“And those dark curls between your legs—”
She jerked her head up to stare at him—and groaned in discomfort.
“That’s
