Dash of Peril. Lori Foster
well make him live up to the promise of his touch. “Because I can’t keep the folks waiting, I’ll accept that. For now.”
“Good girl.” Dash smiled, then took his hands from her body and shoved them into the pockets of the loose cotton pants. His lean jaw flexed. “Now that we’ve settled that, I have a question.”
“Can it wait?”
“Afraid not.” And with no pause at all, he demanded, “If they already had a son, why the hell weren’t your parents happy with you being a daughter?”
* * *
HIS MOM CALLED him the carefree one. His dad praised him for knowing how to relax and when to laugh. True enough, when compared to Logan’s serious persona, Dash was the cheerful, lighthearted brother.
But right now, his temper simmered near a boil. Not only had Margo slipped out of the bedroom without answering his question—if she even had an answer for something so asinine—but now he also had to deal with her dysfunctional family.
Like detached strangers on a public bus, they politely tolerated each other. He was uncomfortable with them, so how would Margo feel?
At the edge of the couch her mother sat like an ice statue, back ramrod-straight, feet together, hands folded over the purse in her lap and her face as smooth and seamless as plastic surgery could make it. An expensive sweater and pleated slacks emphasized her still-trim figure. Her hair was lighter than Margo’s and without the fun curls. In fact, her hair looked like a damned helmet it was so starched into place. And instead of Margo’s beautiful blue eyes, her mother’s eyes were a lackluster gray.
Her father deliberately took up space, brawny arms stretched out over the back of the couch, expression critical of everyone and everything. His only concern upon arrival wasn’t whether or not Margo was okay. No, he wanted to know only why Dash was there.
Surely not to help, as if such a thing were unthinkable. The ass. Dash imagined the senior Peterson enjoyed cowing others; he had that smarmy type of personality prevalent in bullies. For now, because he was Margo’s father, Dash would give him respect.
As long as the man didn’t push him too far.
Her brother, as tall as the dad but leaner, had a more affable manner. He seemed equal parts amused curiosity and brimming anticipation. The jury was still out on him.
Margo did her best to stand straight and tall as she greeted her family. “Mom, Dad, you didn’t have to come out in this nasty weather.”
“If you hadn’t been sleeping,” her father said, “you’d know the weather isn’t so nasty now.”
“It wouldn’t look right if we didn’t,” added Mrs. Peterson as she toyed with a single pearl necklace.
Focusing on Dash, his tone accusatory, her father said, “Is there a reason you wanted us to stay away?”
“Of course not. I just meant—”
“Damn, sis.” Her brother stepped forward, blocking the father’s view of Margo.
Dash waited, ready to level the guy if he wasn’t gentle enough.
But her brother only inspected her, then gave a half shake of his head. “I’m thinking you should have stayed in the bed.”
“No, I’m okay. It was a late night, though.” She tried a brave smile that made Dash want to leap to her defense. “Did Dash do introductions?”
“I tried,” Dash said, and even he heard the antagonism in his tone. “But I was sent to summon you forth.”
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