Dash of Peril. Lori Foster
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The van accelerated, and even with one tire demolished, it managed to flee the scene.
Peeking out, Dash watched until they disappeared from sight. “Stay put.”
She made a small sound that he chose to take as affirmation.
Standing, he crept along the brick wall to the open street and glanced out again. Nothing but empty buildings and shining ice. The wind howled, reminding him that he was without a coat. He ignored the bitter cold because that was all he could do.
The taillights of the van disappeared into the night, and still Dash watched until the flop-flop-flop of the destroyed tire faded away to nothingness.
When he returned to Margo, he found her slouched against the wall, her eyes sinking shut. Her utter stillness scared him.
“Hey.”
She didn’t bother to look at him. Maybe she couldn’t. “Gone?”
Relief nearly took out his knees. “For now.” He hoped like hell they wouldn’t circle around and come back again, but he’d stay alert just in case.
It felt like an hour had passed, but it was probably less than five minutes. Surely backup would arrive soon.
He placed the Glock on the ground between them, lifted his thermal shirt and ripped away a section of his white undershirt.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s okay. I’ll only be a second.” He ducked out of the alley, cautiously approached the main street and found it still empty. All around him, ice sparkled beneath stars and moonlight. Like muted wind chimes, the continuing fall of sleet made a faint tinkling sound. The air was so cold, so crisp, that it hurt his lungs to breathe.
It would be a beautiful sight if goons weren’t trying to kill them.
As far as the van had gone, it’d take the shooters at least a few minutes to sneak back on foot, but he doubted they would. They had to know the police had been called.
Stepping through the deep snow, grateful that he’d worn his boots, Dash gathered packed snow and ice into the ripped cloth and tied it shut. After one last look around, he returned to Margo with his makeshift ice pack.
He went to his knees beside her, impressed by her fortitude, worried about her lethargy and exploding with protective instincts. “Keep your eyes closed.” With tender care, he brushed the chunks of gravel-like glass out of her short dark hair and off the shoulders of her black wool coat before pressing the ice to her head.
Pain drew her brows together, but she said not a word.
He held the pack in place and looked her over. “Are you hurt anywhere other than your head?”
With exaggerated effort she opened her eyes to look up at him. “Afraid so.”
His heartbeat jumped. Dreading her answer, he asked, “Where?”
A slow, deep breath expanded her chest. Her colorless lips parted for faster breaths until she almost panted. “It’s unfortunate, but my left elbow is dislocated.”
* * *
WHAT THE FUCK? Dash looked at how she held her left arm slightly out from her body in such an awkward way. His brows flattened. Her right hand—the hand that had gripped her gun so tightly—was bare, but she wore a leather glove on her left. “You’re sure?”
Her red eyes mocked him. “Quite sure.”
Anger ignited. “Why didn’t you say something?”
She again closed her eyes, almost like she couldn’t help herself. “What could you have done about it?”
No idea, but she still should have told him. “When I took you from your car—” God, he’d thrown her half over his shoulder then literally jogged with her in that position.
“It hurt like hell, but being shot would have been worse.” Pale with pain, Margo added, “You did great, Dash. Better than I’d expected.”
What had she thought? That he’d fall apart? Maybe hide behind her—the big, bad lieutenant?
More anger simmered to the surface, and that really pissed him off. He never got angry. He was the easygoing one, damn it, the one who enjoyed life and all its vagaries. He didn’t get riled, and why should he? He’d been blessed in too many ways to count.
He had parents who adored him and a brother that would make anyone proud.
Most would call him wealthy, but because the money didn’t mean that much to him, he preferred the term financially secure.
Inherited genes gave him height and strength, a fit body that he’d honed in his construction company—a body that appealed to women.
That brought him back around to his disgruntlement toward Margo...the one woman who rebuffed him at every opportunity. Now he knew she considered him a wimp.
In the face of more pressing problems, he decided to work that out with her later. He could hear her teeth chattering—when she didn’t have them clenched in pain—so he settled back against the wall beside her and carefully drew her to his side to both support her and share heat.
She sighed and sank closer, wedging into his shoulder. “Mmm, you are so warm.”
Her voice sounded drowsy, and that, too, bothered him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t go to sleep yet.” She surely had a concussion to go with her other injuries. God, he couldn’t believe this. He wrapped himself around her as much as he could. “The ambulance should be here soon.”
Even as he said it, they heard the distant whine of approaching sirens. He probably had only a minute more alone with her. Shaking out his coat, he tucked it around both their legs, trapping his warmth in with hers. “You’ll be able to rest soon.”
“I don’t need to be babied.”
“I know,” he soothed. He looked beneath the ice pack at her bruised but beautiful face. “I think the bleeding has stopped.”
Her lashes lifted, treating him to the sight of her dazed blue eyes. “You’re a mess, Dash. You have blood everywhere.” Her gaze moved over his neck, his chest. “From me?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
Why did she keep pushing him? “Don’t worry about it.” Ruined clothes were the least of his concerns.
Her slim brows pinched down. “You followed me.”
“Instinct,” he said without apology. “I know you’re a cop, and I know you can take care of yourself. But I’m a man and I couldn’t help seeing you as a woman alone leaving a bar late at night.”
“Sexist.”
“Guilty.” He tried a small smile to counter the possible insult. “Under the circumstances I hope you don’t mind too much.”
“If you weren’t here...” she whispered, then stopped, swallowed, stared at him some more before starting over. “If you weren’t here, I would be dead.”
“No.” He wouldn’t even consider that possibility. He kissed her head, tucked her face against his throat.
“I can handle almost any situation.”
“I know.” Even now, her stubborn pride showed through.
“But I won’t lie to myself. I’m still a little disoriented. My head feels like it’s splitting in two and even though it’s not my gun arm injured, I’m not sure I could have shot straight enough to hit anyone.”
“So? My shots were off, too, but they still didn’t like their odds.” He was incredibly proud of her, and he needed her to know it. “They wanted you completely disabled after the wreck.”
“I was.”
“No.”