Lori Foster - Dash of Peril

Not much he could do about getting hard. He was near her, and that was pretty much all it took. But he could offer some help.

Dash tipped up her chin, bent to kiss her and said, “Be right back.”

She watched him go. He felt her gaze until he’d completely left the room.

A few seconds later, after pulling on his boxers and grabbing his cell phone, he returned and showed her the photo opened up on the screen.

“I took a pic,” he explained with a shrug. “Just in case.”

Eyes widening, Margo took the phone. She kept staring at it with disbelief.

Dash couldn’t resist smoothing his hand over those dark curls, rumpled from sleep. She looked so pretty like this, and damned adorable, too. Not at all intimidating. Maybe...gentle. Cuddly.

It was a good look for her.

But then, he also liked it when the shrewd gleam came into her eyes. “You, Dash Riske, are a genius.”

Her enthusiasm made his heart feel full. “I was worried. I wanted to make sure we could find the truck again if he managed to nab you.”

“For once I’m glad you worried.” She quickly emailed the photo to herself so she could see it on a much bigger screen. Once there, she zoomed in, looking at the rims in better detail.

Dash took her arm. “Why don’t you let me type for you?”

“What?” she teased. “You want to be my naked secretary?”

“I put on boxers.”

With a playful frown, she said, “I noticed. Such a spoilsport.” She stood and indicated the chair. “Okay, be my guest.”

Dash seated himself, but hesitated before typing. “About earlier—”

Leaning over his shoulder, she kissed his ear. “You’re a stud. But for now, let’s deal with this.”

“I didn’t use anything.”

“I know.” Her breasts rested against his back and shoulder. “Open that tab on the right. Check out their rims.”

Avoidance. Okay, he could deal with his slipup later, when she wasn’t so focused on work. He opened the tab and clicked to see a special customizable rim. Going back and forth from the photo, he used site settings to create a rim that looked exactly like those on the truck.

“So it’s possible.” Calculating, she straightened again. “Print out the name and number of that place.”

“It’s close,” Dash told her. “Totally within range.”

“Good. Print out a few copies of the truck and rims, too. I want to make sure Rowdy, Reese and Logan all have—”

Suddenly Margo went still, then alert. She kept her gaze on the wall, but Dash felt her sharpening vigilance.

“What is it?”

She breathed in, her eyes narrowing. “Probably nothing. It’s just that—”

They both heard the awful screech of her bedroom closet door.

Someone was in her house.

Dash was out of his chair in a heartbeat, but Margo caught his arm above his elbow. Motioning him to be silent, she opened a desk drawer and retrieved a gun.

Realizing she meant to go out of the room ahead of him, Dash struggled with himself—but only briefly. “Sorry, honey,” he whispered. He bodily moved her aside and stepped out.

Margo said not a single word, but he felt the anger pulsing off her as she followed right on his heels. Putting a hand back, he signaled her to wait, prayed that she would, and began inching toward the bedroom.

He’d only take two small steps when they heard the abrupt thunk—and smelled the awful scent of...kerosene.

THEY WERE BOTH flattened to the hallway wall, and Margo had to admit, Dash utilized as much stealth as she did. For a big man he moved without making a sound. But he wasn’t armed, or trained, or official. She was, and no way would she let him play the caveman.

“Call 911.”

Instead, he started forward.

In a low hiss, she said, “Damn it, Dash,” and everything seemed to happen at once. Oliver screeched as he shot out of the bedroom, his fur clumpy and wet. Another crash sounded in her bedroom, accompanied by a whispered curse.

And Dash charged in.

Gun in hand, Margo followed, but it was too shadowy to see until the lightning flickered. At the same time the bodies stumbled into her before falling out into the hallway.

Her splinted arm banged into a wall, making her clench with pain. Furious, she snapped on the hall light, took aim...and saw that Dash had completely subdued a masked, armed man. The panicked fellow’s gun lay a few feet away on the floor, and Dash—who was much taller than their intruder, and far more muscular—had the man pinned on the ground with a knee in his back. He’d taken the thug’s right arm and twisted it severely back and up, levering it almost to his shoulders.

“Move,” Dash said low, “and I promise she will shoot you.”

Behind the stocking mask, wild eyes widened more. “I ain’t movin’! I ain’t movin’!”

Dash jerked off the man’s mask, revealing a pasty-faced middle-aged goon with faded blond hair and loose jowls. Doing a quick search of the man’s pockets, Dash found a lighter, but nothing else.

Retrieving the other gun, Margo dropped it into her housecoat pocket. Never did she shake over doing her job, but she was shaking now. Suppressed rage made it difficult to speak normally. “Can you hang on to him?”

Dash gave her a longer, searching look. “The prick isn’t going anywhere I don’t want him to go.”

“Okay.” She located her cell phone and, keeping an eye on Dash and the intruder, called it in.

Right after that, she dialed Logan.

He answered with a grumpy, somewhat breathless, “What the fuck?”

Hmmm. It was five in the morning, and yet she’d interrupted...something. “Your brother has detained a masked man who broke into my house and dumped kerosene in my bedroom.”

With a new surge of energy, Logan asked, “Anyone hurt?”

Margo lowered the phone. “Dash,” she said, hoping he didn’t hear the quiver in her voice, “were you hurt?”

He snorted.

“No,” she said to Logan. “Not hurt.” Her jaw ached from grinding her teeth. “I already called it in. I just figured, with Dash here, you’d want to—”

“Definitely. Reese, too. I’ll pick him up on the way.” She heard the rustle of hurried movement, presumably Logan dressing. “And Margaret? I’d have wanted you to call whether Dash was there was not.”

She’d just disconnected the call when sirens sounded nearby. “Hold him tight, Dash. I’ll be right back.”

“No worries.”

So damned cocky. Her heart thumped painfully against her ribs. The intruder had a gun. He could have shot Dash. He could have killed him.

She might have lost him—after she’d just realized how much she cared for him.

At the door, she closed her eyes for just a moment to regain her aplomb. It helped only the tiniest bit.

Forgetting her state of undress, her messy hair and lack of makeup, Margo opened the door and let the officers in.

They were drenched from the downpour—and agog at her attire, but she just didn’t care. She needed to find Oliver, needed to relieve Dash of their intrusive thug, and she needed to figure out how she’d been tracked down.

Because not for a minute did she think this was a random act. The porno-happy firebugs had somehow found her. She had a price on her head.

And Dash was more involved than ever.

They’d rattled the bushes with false claims of leads from the abandoned garage fire, and look what happened.

Now what?

ARMS FOLDED, SHOULDER against the wall, Rowdy made sure to stay out of the way while the cops finished up—but he observed everything. Dash, he realized, was head-over-ass in love. It was there in his face, in the set of his posture, in the overall possessive way he tracked the lieutenant’s every movement.

Margaret, however, didn’t seem to realize it. Right now, in the center of the crime scene, she was focused on dictating every step of the process—while wearing that soft robe that emphasized her figure, her face clean of makeup and with her cute little feet showing.

When she’d decided to send out false reports of evidence found at the garage, she probably hadn’t expected a direct attack. In fact, he was damned surprised, as well.

It didn’t...fit.

Dash shouldered him, drawing his attention. The crusty old cat Dash held, now wrapped in a towel, complained with a rusty meow.

Contrite, Rowdy tickled the cat’s chin. “Something on your mind, Dash?”

“You’re staring at her. Again.”

“Hate to break it to you, but every guy in the room is stealing looks at her.”

Dash cursed low, but didn’t deny it. “It’s the way she’s dressed. They’re not used to it.”

Rowdy acknowledged that with a nod, but added, “And it’s intriguing, how she’s dressed—or undressed—contrasted to her barking orders and verbally kicking everyone’s ass.”

“Yeah.”

Rowdy leaned in to taunt him. “Thanks to you, everyone is seeing her differently.”

Demeanor growing grumpier, Dash worked his jaw and kept silent.

That only left him open for more harassment. “They know you two have been hitting the sheets and that has all those male minds churning with speculation—”

Dash rounded on him. “You?”

Enjoying that reaction, Rowdy shrugged. “I’m not immune to imagination.” And before Dash could deck him, even while holding that mangled cat, he added, “But you know me better than that, so why don’t you get it together? It’s almost embarrassing.”

“Shit.” Dash rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, sorry.”

“No sweat. Falling in love is hard on a guy.”

Dash shot him a look, but didn’t bother denying it.