That Loving Touch

Idly he let his gaze roam her pert features. Her face, framed by that mass of tiny auburn curls, had a curious flowerlike quality. Wildflowers, he decided with a lopsided smile; the beguiling innocence of a daisy.

His eyes flinted. Was that aura of sweet purity just a facade? Probably. Women could be masters of deception. “As alike as peas in a pod,” he ended on a note of acrid humor.

It wasn’t fair to include her in that unflattering estimation, Sam conceded. He didn’t even know her. But experience had made him a skeptic where women were concerned. That didn’t keep him from enjoying them, though. Absently he ran a hand over his stubbled chin. This pretty redhead might awaken at any time. He suddenly, urgently, needed a shower and a shave.

A short time later, clad in jeans and a red wool shirt, Sam returned to the living room. He stopped to check his sleeping patient and found himself studying her countenance as if seeking the answer to an unrealized question.

The face of an angel. Smiling at the vapid phrase, Sam laid the back of his hand on her forehead. No more fever, thank God.

She stirred under his touch. Her lashes lifted and she stared at him in astonishment. “Ohmigod, Mel Gibson!” she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

“What?” Sam asked, startled. “Sorry, wrong guy. I’m Sam Holt. And you’re...?” he prodded.

She blinked at him. “I don’t know any Sam Holt.”

“I know you don’t, but you were ill, you see.” Obviously her mind was still foggy. “You collapsed in my arms and I—well, I tended you.”

“You did? Oh.” She smiled, those extraordinary eyes passing through a mossy virilescence, shading from the green of new leaves to a light emerald. “Thank you. You’re very kind,” she said primly. She licked her lips. “I’m so thirsty. Please, may I have some water?”

Sam brought her water and a can of orange juice. She sipped a little of each, then nodded off again. Placing the beverages on the end table, he sat down in a recliner. He ought to stay awake in case she needed something. But he was so tired and sleepy. Yawning, he closed his eyes, just for a moment...

A crashing sound jerked Sam awake. His patient, blanket wound around her lower torso, lay sprawled on the floor next to an overturned lamp. He came to his feet in one swift bound.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, hurrying to her side.

With a soft gasp, she scooted backwards and huddled against the couch, eyes wide with apprehension. “Don’t!” she cried. “Stay away from me! Don’t come near me—I know karate!”

“What the hell!” Sam exclaimed, jolted by her outburst. Why this explosion of fear—after all he’d done for her! Her delicate features were drawn tight with tension. He found his righteous anger annoyingly undependable when she looked like that. “Hey, hey now, it’s okay,” he added quickly. Kneeling beside her, he stretched out a hand, then quickly withdrew it when she shrank away. “It’s okay,” he repeated as if gentling a wild-eyed colt. “I’m not going to touch you.” Moving backwards until his legs hit the ottoman, he sat down and gave her his best smile. “I wouldn’t dare. You know karate.”

Sam held his smile until tension slowly drained from her pretty face. “You all right?” he asked, rough voiced; she looked so damned fragile.

Visibly collecting herself, she squared her shoulders. “I’m all right. But I...I don’t understand...”

“What don’t you understand?” he asked, frowning.

“What I’m...” Carrie stopped, inhaling sharply as she looked down at her half-nude body. He’d taken off her clothes! Shock swept through her and drained into the emotional swamp of her mind. She tugged at the twisted blanket until it reached her shoulders. Keep your head! she warned herself, trying not to tremble. To her surprise, a glance at his face gifted her with a soft flush of relief. Those clear blue eyes reassured her in a way she could not explain.

Or trust. Not looking at him, she maneuvered herself back onto the couch. She felt light-headed; obviously she wasn’t thinking clearly yet. But she could still remember the rules she’d set for herself when emerging from the trauma of divorce, betrayal and the dreadful notoriety that followed. The sweet, shy, doormat-Carrie was gone, replaced by an assertive, aggressive, in-your-face-woman no one would ever walk on again. She had a baby to think of now. A baby needed a strong mother.

She sat back, adjusted the blanket, crossed her legs, smoothed her hair. You can deal with this, she told herself.

Sam waited patiently. He figured these little deliberations were necessary to restore her composure. Maybe he should help. Anything to keep her from throwing another fit! “Do you really know karate?” he asked, cocking his head.

“Certainly I do,” she said crisply. “Now, if you don’t mind my asking...” Cool green eyes bored into his. “Why am I undressed?”

Sam’s heartbeat quickened as he sought to contend with both her blunt question, and unblinking regard. “You’re undressed because you were soaked and half-frozen,” he answered indignantly—did she think he’d taken advantage of her? His tone made her draw deeper into the couch. “Damn,” he muttered. “Look, there’s nothing to be alarmed about, I’m Sam Holt,” he stated with ingrained self confidence.

Her unblinking gaze remained fixed on his face.

“Your clothes were soaked,” he repeated with a flick of exasperation, “so I took them off.”

“Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Because you’re Sam Holt.”

Her sarcasm stung like a wasp! “Now hold it right there! Listen, lady, you’ll have to forgive me for not taking time to ask permission, but I’ve been just a damn bit busy tonight! You were semiconscious, burning with fever, out of your head half the time—for God’s sake, you mistook me for an angel, for Mel Gibson...” He snatched a breath. “I had the weird idea that getting your temperature down took priority over such niceties as asking permission to keep you from catching pneumonia!”

Her chin rose higher. “Well, you don’t have to shout.”

“I’m not shouting, I’m explaining!” Sam reined in his temper. “I removed your pants and shirt because they were soaked. That’s all there was too it. Afterwards I was going to redress you, but it seemed a further invasion of your privacy, so I just wrapped the blanket around you. I assure you I took no liberties, I was simply a concerned gentleman doing his best to save your life.”

“Oh come on, save my life? While I appreciate your gentlemanly concern, I’d hardly call a relapse from the flu life-threatening!” Her head suddenly lowered, as if she’d used up her bravado. “But I was ill and maybe you were just trying to help, I don’t know,” she said with a weary little sigh.

Sam waited, mulishly averse to saying anything more. He’d told her his name, that ought to be enough. He shifted position, his unease growing with her silence. She still looked tired and sick. Another eruption of temper would certainly fit the picture. Her prominent cheekbones were perfect for that full, pouty mouth, he thought, shifting again.

The lips he watched with such interest suddenly lifted at the corners. “So I guess I owe you an apology as well as my thanks. It’s just that I don’t remember much about what happened after I knocked on your door, Mr...” She tilted her head to one side, those green eyes sparkling like emeralds lit by inner fires. “I’m sorry,” she said sweetly, “what was your name again?”

Two

Her impertinent question rattled Sam badly. She’d forgotten his name? Like hell she did! He knew an ego-shot when he heard one. “Holt. Sam Holt,” he replied, smiling. Damned if he’d let her get to him. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. And that you’re not afraid of me...you’re not, are you?”

“Afraid of you?” she echoed with a beguiling touch of hauteur. She studied him, then sighed. “No, Mr. Holt. I figure if you were going to hurt me, you’d have done it by now,” she said, dry as dust. “I guess I jumped to conclusions. I’m trying not to, but it’s hard not to judge people from past experience.”

“What past experience?” Sam asked, and immediately regretted it. He was not going to get involved in this woman’s problems. And obviously she had problems—she had that wounded-doe look. Back off, Holt. “I’m intrigued that you know karate,” he hurried on. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who possessed this particular skill.”

“Surprises me too,” Carrie said wryly. “When I found myself helpless to stop... something I didn’t want, I took a woman’s self-defense class until...” Until I discovered I was pregnant. “Until I’d learned enough to fend for myself. A girl can’t be too careful, you know,” she declared with a wan smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need the bathroom.”

“I’ll help you.” He stood up.

“Thanks, but I can do this by myself.” Holding the blanket in place, she rose, then hurriedly caught his arm. “Sorry. Still a bit woozy.”

“It’ll pass. Just take a second to find your balance.” Sam gripped her shoulders. Her hair spilled over his hands. It had the texture of spring grass. Standing face-to-face, he realized that an overbite shaped her mouth into that delectable pout.

“I’m okay. A little wobbly, but I can make it.” Her nose wrinkled. “Do I smell rubbing alcohol?”

“I bathed your face in alcohol and water. At the time it seemed necessary.”

“At the time it probably was,” she agreed, pushing at her hair. “God, I’d love a shower—I feel so grubby!”

“A shower,” Sam, afflicted with a swift, arousing, annoyingly juvenile fantasy, repeated dumbly. “Yes, of course. You can use the guest bathroom. Second door on your right. Help yourself to whatever you need.”

After a lip-nibbling hesitation, she nodded. “Thanks.” Moving with care, she traversed the distance alone.

Sam trailed behind her to make sure she didn’t fall and break something and blame him.

“Oh, I forgot,” she said, “my duffle bag’s on the porch. Would you mind getting it?”

“Of course not.” Sam brought in the bag and left it outside the bathroom door. “If there’s nothing else....”

“That’s all, thank you.”

“I’ll go fix something to eat. You hungry?”

“Please don’t go to any trouble for me,” she said faintly.

“No trouble at all,” Sam responded. Sheesh! Jamming his hands in his pockets, he went to the kitchen to heat some soup.

Hearing him leave, Carrie Loving expelled a long breath. She held on to the sink with both hands until she felt strong enough to raise her head. Waking up to such a confusing situation would send any woman’s brain into orbit, she thought. Finding herself on the floor tangled in a blanket, with a tall, dark stranger towering over her like some Greek god? “Small wonder I thought I was hallucinating!” she sighed.

For a moment she’d been terrified. Then, when he spoke, that deep, husky voice had evoked flashes of recall, not of specific things, just impressions of gentle touches and soothing hands; just enough to impart a sense of safety.

She ought to be grateful. Instead, looking down at the blanket covering her body, she felt resentful. “You must have scared him to death, Carrie,” she chided herself. The wild, black night raging outside the window underscored her helpless plight. The thought of arriving at her own cottage, sick, tired and so desperately alone, made her shudder. So of course she was grateful for his assistance.

Even if he had deemed it necessary to take off her clothes.

Carrie stilled, her mind snagging on the sudden image of his big hands on her body. Her skin remembered his touch....

She gave an inelegant snort. He’d only touched her face. Even then there’d been a washcloth between her skin and his fingers. “But I don’t actually know what he did,” she muttered, chagrined at her sensual imagery. She was only four months pregnant and her figure was still attractive. So how could she help but wonder if his touch had been less than healing?

She glanced at her reflection. “Kiddo, I don’t think you need worry about Sam Holt taking liberties,” she told it. “Sunken eyes, unkempt hair, rounded cheekbones. You’re about as desirable as a plucked chicken.”

That didn’t make her feel any better. Carrie turned on the shower, then retrieved her duffle bag, taking out only clean underwear. She’d save the fresh sweat suit for tomorrow. Sam had said to use what she needed, and a fine white terry-cloth robe hung behind the door.

She undressed and stepped into the steamy water with a sigh of pleasure. Reveling in its warmth, she let her mind drift back to Sam Holt.

He was bound to ask why she was here. For courtesy’s sake if nothing else, she’d have to tell him something. What? Not the truth. It sounded too much like a soap opera, she thought bitterly. She’d been so crazy about the high-and-mighty Justin Kinnard that when he proposed marriage, she could scarcely believe her good luck.

Five years later, she couldn’t believe what a fool she’d been. According to a friend—who only told her for her own good—half the town knew he had trouble keeping his pants zipped. In fact, the only one who didn’t know was his dumb little wife.

After a nasty confrontation, Carrie had left the old manor house they shared with his two ancient aunts. Such a move contested his sense of power, she supposed, for the night their divorce became final, he came to her apartment and forced himself upon her.

She’d been too shocked to offer much resistance. He wasn’t violent. Just bigger, stronger, physically dominant. It was against her will, and that constituted rape. However, because of his high standing in the community, and because he was her first and only lover, she didn’t press charges.

She should have, Carrie reflected, tears mixing with water on her cheeks. The next day he had embezzled their company funds and skipped town, leaving her holding the bag. The police traced his flight to Argentina, where he simply vanished.

But it hadn’t ended there. Because of his dishonesty, she’d lost her inheritance; her grandparents’ beloved farm and five hundred acres of beautiful, wooded, rolling hills. With her help, she added harshly, unwilling to whitewash her role as an enabler. When she had confided her dream of building a spiritual retreat on the acreage, Justin wasn’t too impressed at first. But after checking out similar developments, he quickly reversed himself. “If done right, those places are regular moneymaking machines!” he’d enthused.

Delighted by his interest, Carrie didn’t see the greed in his response. Without a qualm she had transferred her inheritance to Justin’s corporation, to convince potential investors of the merits of their undertaking.

Justin was the local “golden boy.” With his lethal combination of personal charm, reputation and prominent family name, he had no trouble drawing investors. At his urging, she became vice president of their firm, and signed without question any document he presented.

In appearance she seemed a full partner. In reality, she was only a figurehead.

But the authorities thought otherwise. Suspecting that she’d taken an active part in her ex-husband’s fraud, they had picked her up at work for questioning and the whole town assumed she was under arrest. The sheriff was among Justin’s victims. Unable to get his hands on Justin, he was in no mood to go easy on the other developer of the now worthless firm. He detained her as long as legally possible before releasing her for lack of evidence. She would carry the scars of that humiliation forever, Carrie thought bleakly, recalling the notoriety that swirled around her defenseless head. Justin’s prominence had made for some juicy local gossip.

Her ignorance of his wrongdoing was no excuse. Family and friends were among his wrathful investors. Many had stood behind Carrie, their faith in her integrity still firmly intact. But others chose to believe the worst, that his flight was just a subterfuge and she would soon join him.

Her grandparents’ property seized to satisfy the claims of Justin’s victims was the last straw. Or so Carrie thought.

Then she discovered she was pregnant.

Though reeling from yet another stunning shock, her distress was tempered by joy; she wanted children. But the irony of being fulfilled in this ugly way sent her into a tailspin at first.

But then the realization hit her—this was her baby! By his actions, Justin had given up any rights to this child.

“My baby, my child,” Carrie said fiercely. Her tears stopped as she hugged her soft little belly and the life it sheltered. She had never seen it, never even felt it, yet she loved this divine spark of life with all her heart and soul.

The surge of positive emotion both empowered her, and made her terrifyingly vulnerable. “We’ll be fine, just fine,” she repeated her litany, giving her stomach a reassuring caress. She had to believe that, for her baby’s sake.

She turned her face up to the invigorating stream of water and let it cascade through her hair. “And I am indeed grateful to Mr. Holt,” she murmured as she used his shampoo...dried off with his huge, fluffy towels... slipped into his fine robe.

But she wasn’t telling him anything beyond basic statistics. To confide in a man, she’d have to trust him, and trust was a commodity she no longer possessed.

In the large, gleaming kitchen, Sam worked with a sense of pleasure he hadn’t felt for a long time. The room, with its mellow pine floors and buttercream walls, welcomed him like a warm smile. He felt happier here than any place else on earth.

After his father’s death two years ago, Sam inherited the cottage without argument from his pass-the-beluga mother. It was perfect for a romantic rendezvous, yet he’d never brought a woman here. To do so would be a betrayal of sorts. This was a place for love, not superficial liaisons.

During their marriage, his wife had spent only one weekend at the cottage. She’d hated it. Apparently she had no soul for the magic of this place, he thought with the usual sour taste in his mouth.

There were a lot of things about her he didn’t understand. Particularly how she could keep her pregnancy a secret. Wouldn’t a woman want to share such news? He would. Hell, he’d shout it from the rooftops. But since he had no intention of ever sticking his neck into the marital noose again, he’d never get the chance to shout.

Rattled by undisciplined thoughts, Sam jerked his mind back to the job at hand. He made a pot of tea, dished up two bowls of spiced-up soup, added spoons and a packet of crackers, and carried the tray to the den.

This winter he had begun eating his solitary meals beside a crackling fire, a satisfying habit he continued at the cottage by positioning a small, round game table before the fireplace.

He brought in another chair from the kitchen. The wind had picked up and the frigid night seemed to circle closer. Sam wasn’t given to fancies, but he still reacted with a spine-tingling shiver. He glanced at the darkened fireplace, then strode to the sheltered back porch for more firewood.

The wind sank icy talons into him the instant he stepped outside. Shuddering, he questioned his sanity. Don’t go to any trouble for me, she’d said. Yet here he was, going to a helluva lot of trouble. Why? “Beats me,” he muttered, brushing snow off the logs. Recalling her soft complaint of being cold seemed reason enough to brave this Arctic chill.

Anything to get her well, he told himself. You couldn’t boot a sick woman out, not if you had a shred of decency.

When she joined him, a fire blazed and soup steamed on the table. She paused at the door as if reluctant to enter. A slim hand emerged from one heavily cuffed sleeve of his robe and clutched its lapels. “I thought I’d borrow your robe for a little while. You said to use what I needed.”

“No problem.” Annoyance clogged Sam’s throat—damned if she didn’t look like a waif hovering in his doorway! A towel turbaned her hair, and his three-quarterlength robe sheathed her figure from neck to bare pink toes. Her eyes were soft and full and he drowned in them momentarily.

They widened into even more dangerous pools. “My goodness!” she exclaimed. “This looks wonderful, Mr. Holt. And that soup smells delicious!”

“Thanks,” Sam grunted, his mouth a sardonic twist at the sizzling lift of ego. And libido. His quick fantasy of removing the robe from her curvaceous form made him acutely aware of how long he’d been celibate. You need to get laid, Holt. And soon.

“You remembered my name,” he remarked. She pinkened delectably. Sighing, he gestured to the table. “Well, let’s sit down.”

Gracefully she obeyed.

Watching her arrange herself on the chair, Sam experienced a disconcerting surge of warmth. At first glance she looked distressingly vulnerable, but closer inspection revealed a tensile strength underlying the delicate bone structure of her face. Like a willow, she’d bend, but she would not break.

She could take care of herself. Relieved by his conclusion, he took the other chair. Obviously he couldn’t kick her out into this godforsaken night, but by tomorrow morning she’d be gone.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Nearly one.” Sam glanced at her clasped hands. Tenderness ambushed him like an electric shock—he didn’t think a woman could affect him like this anymore. By tomorrow morning, for sure. “How long have you been sick?” he inquired.

“A few days. What happened to your knuckles?”

“Oh, this.” Sam looked at his skinned knuckles with a sneaky curl of pleasure that she’d noticed. “A deer got caught in the camp fence and I freed it. Tea?”

“Yes, please. You drink tea, too?”

“Green tea. A cup or two at night relaxes me. It’s also supposed to be very good for you,” he stated, put off by her surprise at a man drinking tea. Hell, across the Atlantic a whole nation of men drank tea.

“I didn’t mean—I just don’t know, personally, many men who drink it. But then, I don’t know you, either.” She looked at him, at the fire, at him again, and vented a long sigh. “This is all so...well, so odd. I mean, we’re strangers, and yet here we sit, me in deshabille and you looking lordly in that red shirt, having dinner in front of a cozy fire. So natural.” Her puzzled gaze flickered over his face. “But I don’t know you and you don’t know me. So it isn’t at all natural.”

“It feels odd to me, too.” Sam replaced the teapot. “I don’t ordinarily do things like this, especially for someone I don’t even know.”

Her hooded gaze met his over the rim of her cup. “So why are you doing it?”

“Just cursed with a nurturing nature, I guess,” he said, his tone dry with mockery.

“The kind of kid who dragged in wounded animals and birds, then nursed them back to health?”

He frowned. “Yeah.”

“But I’m not a wounded bird and you’re not a kid.”

But you’re as wary as a wounded creature and probably just as dangerous. He shrugged. “Well, don’t make too much out of it—some habits just can’t be broken.”

They both jumped as a log fell through the grate in a noisy shower of sparks. Sam hated awkwardness. “But we can fix the part about being strangers. Hi. Sam D. Holt, Glad to meet you.”

She gave a startled laugh. “Hi, I’m Carinne.”

“Just Carinne?”

She sugared her tea. “I’m called Carrie.”

He waited, but she didn’t elaborate. “Okay. So tell me, Carrie, what the devil are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Surely there’s some place else you’d rather be?”

“As a matter if fact, there is,” she replied with a puckish smile. “I’d rather be in Kentucky. Either there, or up to my chin in a steamy bubble bath. I ache all over—even after that long, lovely shower,” she sighed.

Sam gave his head a quick, hard shake—blast this vivid imagination! “So Kentucky’s home?”

“Used to be. I was born and raised in a small town near Louisville. My grandparents’ house was on the bank of a stream, where foothills roll down to meet bluegrass meadows. A pretty place.” Longing invaded her voice. “I miss it, the hills, the people.” Her gaze went beyond him. “Mom and Dad both worked, so my sister and I stayed with Grandma and Grandpa most of the time. We two were great friends, so I always had an ally.”