“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 ni**les. 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 ni**les.”
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 it.” The way she affected him was so strange, and so appealing. “No reason to hold it in.”
Groaning again, deeper this time, she said, “Damn you.”
The bite in her tone almost made him smile. “Be yourself with me, honey.”
“I am!”
“No, you’re manning up and it’s stupid. You aren’t a man, and you aren’t impervious to pain.” He picked up the flannel shirt but made no attempt to put it on her. He was a freaking saint, standing there before a gorgeous naked woman and still remembering his altruistic motives. “Or is that another family rule? No female attributes allowed?”
“It’s a weakness and there’s no point in advertising it.”
“Huh. Well, if it makes you feel better, I would be groaning.”
She shocked him by pushing to her feet and leaning into him, her splinted left arm caught between them, her right hand flattening on his chest, her fingers in his chest hair. “Kiss me.”
Whoa. He hadn’t expected such an aggressive assault, given her state. “I don’t think so.”
“It’ll make me feel better.”
But it’d kill him—since she couldn’t do anything beyond a simple kiss. “Not a good idea.”
“You don’t want me?”
“You already know I do—” When her hand snaked down his body to cup him through his jeans, he froze.
“Yes,” she said with purring satisfaction. “You do.”
Dash groaned as she cuddled him.
“Better,” she murmured. “Why don’t you groan and I’ll continue manning up.”
Jesus, even boggled with meds she was doing him in.
It took a lot to step back from her exploring hand, but Dash managed it. “I said no.” Her mercurial mood swings had him braced for anything.
But not for her to snuggle up against him. “You’re right, I am cold.”
A perfect segue. He allowed his arms to go around her, his hands to stroke down her silky back to that lush little bottom—God, she had a great ass—before he got it together and raised his hands to her waist, which really was still sexy enough to make him cramp. “Let’s get you dressed and in the bed so you can sleep.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll make use of a quick shower, too. Okay?” Without meaning to, he dropped his hands to her hips.
One day soon, he promised himself.
He should win some type of award for restraint under extreme circumstances. “The doc said I only needed to check you every three hours. Hopefully that can be accomplished without disturbing you too much.”
“And what will you do?”
“I’ll kick back on your couch and watch some TV.” Dash summoned his most serious expression. “Now, what do you say we get the shirt on you, then I’ll help you to step into your panties, then your bottoms.”
Her heavy eyes watched him with suggestion. “The drawstring yoga pants will be easy enough.”
“Good.” He wasn’t really in the habit of dressing women. Undressing them, sure. But never while worrying about causing pain.
“One thing.”
“What’s that?” Stop stroking her, damn it. He ordered his hands to be still.
“Instead of going to the couch, why don’t you stay with me? After your shower, I mean.” Her gaze went smoky. “My bed is plenty big enough.”
Shoot me and get it over with. “I can if that’s what you want.”
“Thank you.”
When was the last time he’d slept with a woman without having sex? Never.
“Now just stand still and I’ll do everything.” Trying not to move her arm at all, he inched the sleeve up and over her swollen hand, her bent elbow encased in plaster, and up to her shoulder. He pulled the shirt around her back and helped her ease her right arm in.
Logan’s shirt swam on her. Dash pulled it together in the front. It was almost as loose as the robe had been.
Aware of his knuckles brushing her body, he started at the bottom, near her thighs, and buttoned it up—past the springy pubic curls, her taut belly, that narrow rib cage and her heavy br**sts. “Better?”
Oblivious to the growl in his tone, she said, “Yes.”
“We need to get your sling on you, too.”
“It’s uncomfortable.”
“It’ll keep you from hurting your—”
“No.” She turned away, heading for the top of the bed.
Dash stared for a second before asking, a little desperately, “What about your panties and yoga pants?”
“Too tired.”
Torture. He moved up past her. “All right, then. Let me help.” He folded down the bed, plumped her pillow. “Sit down.”
“You’re awfully bossy,” she complained around a yawn, but she sat and let him help her ease back. Stark pain darkened her expression until she got situated, then she let out a shaky sigh and closed her eyes.
Dash sat on the bed beside her. He brushed back her bangs to see her stitches, and realized she was already falling asleep.
It was a dangerous game to play, but he did it anyway. “What about your family, Margo? Are they glad you weren’t a boy?”
“We don’t complain.”
He had no idea what that meant.
“We’re strong and independent,” she whispered, her voice fading. “You’re expected to do things right. And if you do things wrong...”
She sounded like a lost little girl, and it broke Dash’s heart. “What if you did it wrong?”
She was quiet for so long Dash thought maybe she’d gone to sleep. He stayed still, unwilling to leave her yet.
Her eyes opened. “They didn’t complain when they got me instead of a boy.”
Bastards. It wasn’t easy, but Dash kept the anger from his voice. “What did they do?”
She released a long breath and closed her eyes again. “Petersons accept what they cannot change, and they make the best of it.”
Dash watched her fade away—and decided it was past time for him to learn more about Lieutenant Margaret Peterson.
* * *
THE BRUSH OF DASH’S calloused fingertips against her cheek woke her. Sluggish, she struggled to get her eyes to open. Her drapes were shut so only slivers of daylight filtered in, leaving the room dim.
Stretched out next to her on the side of her bed, Dash rested 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.”