Dash of Peril. Lori Foster
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“Yes, but don’t take it personally. He still has nightmares from the horrors he went through.” Ollie pawed her thigh in time to his loud rumbling purr.
“Nightmares?”
“He’ll start crying at night like something is wrong. But the vet says he’s fine. Usually he just needs to wake up enough to realize he’s safe.” With me. Her arm throbbed more insistently. She needed to bathe, change her clothes and get some rest.
But what to do with Dash?
Her modestly-sized home shrank with him in it. Where would she put him? He would overflow the couch, and she didn’t have a guest bedroom...
“How do you get him to settle down again?”
She wanted to sleep, not talk, but complaints had never been accepted in her family, so she sucked it up and put on a good front. “During the bad nights, I’ll hold him a while and finally he’ll go back to his bed.”
“He doesn’t sleep with you?”
She drew her hand along Ollie’s back all the way to the end of his tail—just the way he liked it. “His choice. I’ve never forbidden it.”
By small degrees Dash seated himself on the sofa. The cushions dipped with his weight. Denim stretched over his strong thighs. He brought with him the scent of man and the brisk outdoors. How could she possibly be aroused right now?
“You called him your puppy-cat?”
At the moment, even his deep voice seemed a turn-on. What the hell was wrong with her?
Ollie turned his head toward Dash, sniffed the air and backed up into her side, reminding her to reply.
“Being blind hasn’t stopped him. He’ll listen to me and follow me everywhere I go, just like a happy puppy.”
“Cute nickname.” Carefully, Dash held out his large hand. His fingers were long, his palms calloused. A working man’s hands. “Your voice and presence must reassure him.”
“Yes.” Those hands had touched her gently in the alley, brushing back her hair, skimming over her bruises—taking her gun from her. Sexy, competent, compassionate.
What would it be like to feel those hot palms firmly moving over her naked body?
“Margo?”
She struggled to get her gaze up to his face. “Ollie doesn’t take well to strangers.” But Ollie didn’t strike out with his claws. He sniffed Dash’s palm for the longest time, and when Dash slowly turned his hand over, Ollie butted his head into him for a pet.
Her traitorous cat liked him!
And there was Dash’s beautiful smile. That particular tilt of his mouth affected her like a touch in secret places.
She shuddered, and Dash lifted a brow. “You okay?”
“Yes.” Maybe. She cleared her throat to remove the huskiness. “I can’t believe he’s letting you pet him.”
“I love animals and they know it. Helps with winning them over.”
Margo could only stare as Ollie sidled closer to Dash and began his loud, rumbling purr—the purr he saved for special moments of affection.
“Yeah, you’re a good boy, aren’t you, Ollie?” As he’d watched her do, Dash brushed his hand over Ollie’s head to his back, all the way to the tip of his tail, while Ollie arched in bliss. “You like that, don’t you, my man?”
Her parents disdained her cat, or disdained her for loving him, yet Dash seemed pleased to have the cat’s approval.
It had to be the meds, but damn it, her eyes grew wet. “You haven’t yet been exposed to his bad habits.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“He sometimes misses the cat box.”
That turned Dash’s smile into a soft chuckle.
A chuckle. Oh, God, how she liked the sound of that. She squirmed in her seat.
Dash gently rubbed Ollie’s ear...leaving her mesmerized. “Given he’s blind, I’d say if he’s hitting it fifty percent of the time, he’s doing pretty good.”
Not understanding her reaction to him, Margo said in distraction, “I put a large rubber mat under the box. When he misses, it doesn’t hurt anything.”
“He looks like he’s going to nod off.” Dash treated the cat to another long stroke. “Soft fur.”
“He’s a rag doll.” To divert her concentration from Dash’s gentle touch, Margo looked away at the clock on the wall. Nearing 7:00 a.m. “He was probably frightened when I didn’t come home, so he hasn’t slept as much as usual. Before he goes to sleep, I need to feed him.”
“Why don’t I take care of that for you?”
How easy would it be to let him take over? Too easy. “I can do it.” Now that her arm was encased in the splint, she could walk without jarring it. But even the smallest movement amplified the ache in her head.
Dash moved around in front of her, caught her under her arms and easily brought her to her feet—without causing her any more pain.
So tall and leanly muscled. Other than the ruined shirt and beard shadow, no one would know that Dash had been up all night with her. The comparison to her present pathetic state made her want to throw up. Or maybe that was the concussion, too.
She could not be this pitiful.
Not with him. Not ever. “You don’t need to stay.”
He followed her sluggish path to the kitchen. “We already sang this tune, remember?”
“You can’t treat me like an invalid.”
“Trust me, Margo, that’s not how I see you.” When she stopped and stared at him, he held up his hands. “Sorry, but I can’t help it. Even wounded, you’re impressive.”
Her back teeth clenched. “That’s a joke, right?”
He lowered his hands—and his eyes. Taking her in from breasts to thighs, he said roughly, “No.” He looked up at her face. “It can be frustrating as hell, but overall I like it that you’re not the average woman.”
She absolutely could not have this conversation right now. “Fine. Suit yourself.” She pointed to a cabinet. “The cat food is in there. Open him up a can, but put it on a big plate by his water fountain.”
Dash looked at the gurgling water bowl. “That makes enough noise for a...” Realization dawned. “A blind cat to find.”
She turned away from his admiration. “I need a shower.”
“No.”
Disbelieving, she stared at him.
“You aren’t supposed to get the splint wet.”
Here we go again. “But I can’t sleep with blood in my hair.”
He stepped up behind her. “It’s not as bad now that the nurse cleaned you up, but...” He touched his fingertips to her short hair, skimmed those rasping fingertips down her throat to her shoulder. “How about I run a bath for you?”
“I can’t wash my hair in the bath.”
“You’ll ruin the splint in the shower, and you’re not supposed to get the stitches wet.”
“I’ll take the splint off.”
“No.” He quickly amended that with, “Be reasonable. You could end up back at the hospital. Three days, the doc said. Wear it three days and then maybe they’ll move you into a brace.”
It annoyed her that he was right. “Oliver is impatiently waiting to be