without a shirt. Nice.
“Hey, sleepyhead. Sorry to bother you.”
She started to move, and pain coursed through her.
Dash’s hands settled on her shoulders. “Shhh...be still.”
Reality crashed in on her. “The wreck.”
“You remember what happened?”
Using only her right hand, she touched her forehead where she’d gotten the stitches. “I remember.” As long as she didn’t move too much or too quickly, the pain abated.
“Good.” He bent and put a butterfly kiss to her forehead. She didn’t quite understand that, but it was nice so she said nothing. “I have to ask you a few things.”
Right. The neuro test because of her concussion. She gave a very slight nod.
Voice husky and deep, Dash went to a series of questions, asking for her name, if she knew how she’d gotten home, the day of the week.
Lastly he asked for her birthday.
Odd, but whatever. She told him because she wanted to return to the oblivion of sleep.
He didn’t let her.
He wanted to know if she’d gotten any gifts, how she’d celebrated...and she told him. She’d bought herself a car, and celebrated alone—as she always did.
Somehow, she knew that had made him sad. She felt it in how he touched her, the murmured words of “next time.” Meaning...what? That he’d be around to celebrate her next birthday with her?
A nice thought.
When next he woke her, he helped her to sit up and insisted she take two aspirin.
“Do you need the bathroom?”
“No.” She sank back to the bedding—with Dash’s help—and closed her eyes.
“You know the drill, sweetheart.”
He used an awful lot of endearments. When she had her wits again, she’d set him straight on that. Anticipating his questions, she said, “I’m Lieutenant Margaret Peterson. Thirty years old. I’m in my own home.”
“Good.” He brushed the backs of his knuckles along her jaw. “Favorite food?”
Sleep tugged at her, and she mumbled, “Mmm, maybe fried chicken.”
She heard his smile when he said, “Favorite color?”
“Sky blue.” Such odd questions, but the sooner she got through them, the sooner he’d let her get back to sleep.
“The last man you slept with?”
“I don’t know.”
Dash hesitated, then asked, “You don’t remember his name?”
“Never knew it.” She let out a long breath. “Names are a nuisance.” When she hooked up, all she wanted was escape from the duty of her own choices. And thinking that, she faded into a dream about faceless men who served a distinct purpose, no strings attached.
Unfortunately, at the height of the dream, the multiple men morphed into one—Dash.
And not a single inch of her was numb.
CHAPTER FIVE
ON HIS BACK, his hands stacked behind his head, Dash stared at the ceiling. After scrounging for food in Margo’s kitchen he’d taken a quick shower and changed into clean boxers and the borrowed athletic pants that Logan had brought him. Typical of Ohio weather, the day brought a big turnaround. Snow and ice gave into a slow melt beneath a blazing sun and milder breezes. The forecast claimed they’d be in the sixties tomorrow.
He’d awakened Margo twice now. An equal number of times Ollie had come to check on her. He wasn’t the type of cat that Dash could play with. Older, slower, set in his ways, Ollie enjoyed a little petting, edible treats and plenty of time for napping in the sunshine.
Oliver was a sweet old guy...taken in by a very tenderhearted lieutenant.
She was such a fraud, charmingly so.
Who’d have ever thought it? He’d bet his last nickel that neither Logan nor Reese knew Margo owned an ancient blind cat who missed the cat box.
They also didn’t know that, when her defenses were down, she was as soft and vulnerable as a woman could be.
The conflicts in her personality left him in turmoil.
He wanted to fuck her. Bad.
From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, all starchy and buttoned-up and in command, he’d wanted to break through her defenses with a good old-fashioned lay.
But he also wanted to make love to her. Endlessly.
He wanted to kiss her from head to toes, lingering at warm, damp places in between. He wanted to show her that she didn’t have to be strong, not with him.
She could lean on him when necessary, and he’d support her, always.
He wanted their relationship to matter.
He wanted to leave an impact in ways both physical and emotional.
Locking his hands to keep from turning to her, touching her, he stared at that damned ceiling and planned his next move. It was going on five o’clock, and in a few more minutes he’d need to check her again.
She was so complex.
While drugged and exhausted, she’d tried to seduce him. He had a feeling that, now better rested, she’d wake with new determination to send him packing.
He was just as determined to stay, to pamper her. To have her.
I don’t know his name.
How could she not know the name of a man she’d slept with? Delirium from her concussion? Forgetfulness because the encounter had happened so long ago? Or lack of caring, because sexual involvement didn’t matter that much to her?
Or...had Margo indulged a one-night stand with a complete stranger? Dangerous, except that she wasn’t a helpless woman. Far from it.
Did she often hang in bars looking to hook up?
He could accept that; she was a beautiful, smart, independent woman, and hey, he understood sexual urges—and the lack of interest in commitment. But his back teeth locked when he thought of her admiration for Rowdy. At least that was one interlude he knew would never happen. Rowdy Yates was many things—a good friend, a dangerous rebel, a terrific business owner.
And a loyal family guy. He would never cheat on Avery.
Dash was still sorting through his thoughts when he heard the soft moan.
He
