Dash of Peril. Lori Foster
Powerfully built, seasoned, the type of man who liked to make his presence known—in one way or another. “I understand Margo comes from a long line of law enforcement.”
The elder Peterson slanted a venomous look at his daughter. “I’m retired.”
Whoa. What was that about?
“Margo insisted,” West murmured as if sharing an inside joke with Dash.
Margo, for her part, sat perfectly still without even blinking.
Her mother watched Dash with a sharp eye. “What is it you do, Mr. Riske?”
“I work in construction.”
“You’re a laborer?”
Said with a curled lip of disdain. Dash barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The inquisition wouldn’t have bothered him if Mrs. Peterson weren’t so condescending. “When it suits me, sure.”
Margo spoke up. “He owns his own construction company, Mother.”
That renewed her father’s interest. “Is it a large operation?”
Dash shrugged. “Not really. We’re local only, working within the tristate. I employ three crews, around forty-five guys.”
“Commercial or residential?”
“Both.”
“Don’t construction workers spend a lot of time off?” Mrs. Peterson asked.
“Sometimes. But since we’re a design-build firm with in-house design and planning services, we stay pretty busy.”
Mr. Peterson eyed him. “Any plans to expand?”
“Nope.” He and Logan had inherited small fortunes from their grandparents, but neither of them was the type to laze around or serve on a committee. Logan loved the cryptic uncertainty of police work, and he was good at it. But Dash wasn’t the suspicious type. He preferred the simplicity of construction.
With her parents still scrutinizing him, Dash said, “Actually, my brother and I are both pretty well set for life. Generous grandparents with trust funds and all that.” He smiled. “They adored us.”
Margo went wide-eyed.
“I work because I want to, because I enjoy it—not because I have to.”
“But as the owner, you don’t actually work in construction,” Mrs. Peterson wrongly asserted. “You just run things.”
“Running things is actually the hardest part. Paperwork is the bane of my existence. But more often than not, you’ll find me side by side with my crew. I like getting sweaty, using my hands.” He held out his calloused palms, flexed his fingers. “I take a lot of satisfaction in seeing a project come together, whether it’s new construction or remodeling.”
Suddenly Mrs. Peterson’s attention dipped down his body and roamed lazily over his naked chest. “Obviously you stay in shape.”
West said, “I’m guessing his shirt is on Margo.”
Being judicious, Dash said, “Her clothes were a bloody mess, so I played the gallant.” Funny that he’d been so worried about Margo facing her family that he’d forgotten he wore only boxers and drawstring pants. “My clothes were ruined, too, actually. I borrowed a few things from my brother.”
“I assume you’re leaving soon?”
He met Mr. Peterson’s hard stare with one of his own. If the abrupt statement was meant to throw him, it didn’t work.
Before he could reply, Margo stood. “He’s staying until I tell him to leave.”
True enough, as long as she didn’t send him packing anytime soon.
Margo smiled, and then, with her eyes growing a little glazed, she asked, “Anyone want coffee?”
Mr. Peterson left his seat, his attention narrowed at his daughter. “Did you take something?”
“Aspirin,” Dash said.
“Her eyes look—”
“Jesus, Dad,” West interrupted. “She has a concussion.” He turned to his sister. “And no, Margo, you are not making coffee.”
“If everyone is staying, I am.” Arm held close to her body, she turned to Dash. And smiled at him. “You want to come to the kitchen with me?”
He wasn’t the only one to catch the suggestive way she put that. Dash didn’t know what to do. Maybe giving her the pain pill was a bad idea.
West saved him. “No need. We’re leaving now.” He said to his parents, “Remember we have early dinner plans? Mother, you don’t want to be late.”
Mr. Peterson folded his arms over his chest and planted his big feet. “You’ll return to work tomorrow?”
Forgetting her injury, Margo shrugged, froze with discomfort, then lifted her chin in defiance. “Likely. But I’ll decide that later.”
Surely, Dash thought, the department had restrictions on that sort of thing. Whether her parents realized it, or Margo wanted to admit it, she needed time to recover.
She and her father had a staring contest, and to Dash’s surprise, Margo won.
It helped that Mrs. Peterson showed her impatience by going to wait by the door...without saying a word to her daughter.
Mr. Peterson made an ordeal of checking the thick watch on his thicker wrist. “We have plenty of time but since we’re done here...”
“Thank you for stopping by,” Margo sang. “So kind. So considerate.”
Her brother smothered a grin and shuffled everyone out. He was almost off the porch when he turned back and came to the door, again offering Dash his hand. “Thank you.”
Cold air prickled his bare skin, but Dash stood his ground. “For?”
“Your care, your assistance—and your discretion.” He winked at his sister, and left.
CHAPTER SIX
MARGO STOOD IN the doorway and watched as her meddling family drove away. She even waved—but as soon as they were out of sight she closed the door, locked it and turned to find Dash missing.
“Coward,” she mumbled to herself. Yes, the pills made her less circumspect. She wasn’t unaware of her own nature; she felt it necessary to be a control freak, an alpha, and aloof.
But that was for Lieutenant Margaret Peterson.
Margaret was unyielding and in charge. Margaret was cold and calculating. Margaret ruled with an iron fist.
Margo, however, enjoyed the contrast of being a smaller, softer woman—with a bigger, harder man.
Oh, yes—hard. “Dash?” she called, anxious now to see him, touch him and coerce him into returning her touch.
She heard water running in the kitchen and, smiling in anticipation, followed the sound. Wishing she’d put on the sling, she kept her arm and the heavy splint supported close to her body. “You can run, but you can’t hide your big gorgeous self.” She paused. Okay, sure, that was a rather uncensored comment. But who cared? Without the muscle-loosening pain pills she might have only thought it, not whispered it aloud.
And to say it about Dash? Logan’s brother. Logan, one of her best detectives.
Again, who cared?
Dash was at the sink, Oliver winding in and around his legs, when Margo came in. The muscles in his broad back caused a deep furrow over his spine. His shoulders flexed as he filled a carafe with water.
She wanted to eat him up. “There you are.”
“Making coffee.” He glanced at her, did a double