That Loving Touch

Sam liked the soft drawl and the precise way she spoke. “Sounds nice.” He spooned up some soup. “So you’re a country girl.”

Her chin lifted. “Yes I am, and proud of it. I like country music, too.”

“So do I,” he said, relaxing. Might as well be civil. “I bet you play the guitar, too.”

Her quick smile told him she was proud of that as well.

Sam hid his grin in his cup. “Can you milk a cow?”

“Certainly. Can you?”

“I have my talents, but that’s not one of them,” he replied lazily. “Do I detect a hint of an Irish lilt in your voice?”

“My grandmother was Irish. Mom is too, but my father’s family is solidly English. But Diane and I—Grandma called us wayward leprechauns, said we blew in from Ireland on a wild March wind!” Her soft laugh came again. “I admit to wondering if there wasn’t a grain of truth in that! We were very imaginative girls, always on the lookout for something special.”

“I can imagine,” Sam said. He could. And it tugged at his heartstrings. Discomfited, he shifted. “Did you ever find that something special?”

She looked startled, then embarrassed, as if he’d overheard her musing to herself. “Depends upon your definition of special, I guess. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get into all this personal stuff. Don’t know why I’m so loosetongued,” she added. “I must be boring you.”

“Not m the least,” he replied, enjoying her high color. “Where do you live in Kentucky?”

“Keedysville.”

“Ah, yes, I go through Keedysville on my way to the Derby. I live in Holt’s Landing, on the Ohio side of the river,” Sam said, revealing more than he intended.

“Holt’s Landing,” she repeated slowly. “Your folks settle the town, did they?”

Frowning at the coolness in her voice, Sam promptly forgot his bias against personal detail. “My great-grandfather staked the first claim, built a pier, named it The Landing. Eventually it became known as Holt’s Landing.”

“Ah.” She sipped tea, her gaze on his face. “So that makes you a VIP, hmm? Very Important Person in town. Beau monde. Or, in simple English, Big Shot.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious? I mean about all that VIP stuff. And what’s all this beau monde nonsense?”

“Not nonsense, fact. You are a big shot in Holt’s Landing, aren’t you?” she asked bluntly.

Taken aback, Sam replied, “Well, I guess in a way. You don’t like big shots?”

“Not much to like that I’ve seen.” Her mouth quirked. “Of course there might be exceptions.” She tasted her soup. “Um. This is very good.”

“Yeah, I do wonders with a can opener. You want to tell me why you don’t like us VIPs?” he asked. She shook her head. He laughed, absurdly nettled. A flurry of snow pelted the windows, challenging the glowing dance of firelight on the wall. The world seemed to shrink to just this cozy little circle of warmth and that nettled him, too. For some reason he felt vulnerable. “Then how about answering my first question,” he growled. “Why are you here instead of in Kentucky?”

“Because there’s nothing for me in Kentucky. Everything worth having I brought with me.” Her cool green gaze glanced off his. “And that’s all I care to say about that.”

Sam sensed that she regretted speaking so freely. Still, he itched to pursue it, to uncover the secret darkening her eyes. But that’ll have to go unscratched, he warned himself. No way are you getting mixed up with this woman.

Unbidden, a smile teased his mouth as she unwound the turban, shook out her hair, smoothed it. Such a feminine gesture, he thought. She certainly was a sexy little thing! Soft, silky, warm and sweet; woman. He shifted, blazingly aware of the tight fit of his jeans. Since when has that been your definition of a woman, Holt? he jeered his mawkish thought. “I like your hair wet.” The words just popped out of his mouth.

“What?” she asked blankly. “How can you know if you like my hair wet? You’ve nothing to judge by.”

“True.” His jaw jutted. “But I know what I like. And I like the way it makes all those streaming little curls.”

She shrugged. “I’m not responsible for what my hair does. It has a mind of its own.”

She sure knows how to end a subject, Sam thought, smarting at her flat tone. He busied himself opening crackers. Maybe she was just backing off...which would be a refreshing change from the piranhas that chased him most of his life. He decided to backtrack, too, before he got in any deeper. But when her gaze met his, a question jumped assertively to mind.

“How did you get that bruise on your cheek?”

“Slipped and fell getting out of the ditch. That might be why I was a bit out of it when I arrived—I hit my head a good whack.” She placed a hand lightly on her stomach. “But it’s all right now.”

Another closed subject. Sam studied this intriguing woman. She mystified him. And she’d as good as told him to mind his own business. Ordinarily he would be glad to do just that But this wasn’t ordinary. She was a challenge—and Sam Holt liked a challenge. That foxy little face filled his vision, until there was nothing else in focus except those emerald eyes and her sculpted mouth.

Rattled by the depth of his interest, Sam attacked his soup. He wasn’t by nature a curious man. Why was he so eager to learn every little detail of her life? His gaze fastened on the soft, potentially addictive mouth he wanted very much to taste. His interest was nothing unusual, he acknowledged, lips curling in a knowing smile. He simply wanted to take her to bed.

“My truck’s mired in a snowdrift on down the road,” he remarked. “That’s why I couldn’t get you to a doctor. How did your car get in a ditch?”

“I missed the lane and tried to turn around, but a tree jumped out in front of me,” she said drolly. “I managed to get myself to your place before falling apart.”

He frowned. “Very resourceful. You might have sustained a concussion, you know.”

“Maybe. But I’m fine now, so...”

Her delicate shrugs were similar to privacy fences, he thought. He wondered what she would have done if he wasn’t here to intervene. Was she glad that he had intervened? Did she find his actions even a little heroic? A cynical inner laugh mocked his schoolboy thought, yet there was an unsettling edge of longing in it.

“All that red hair kind of threw me when I first saw you,” he said. “I feared you had a temper to match.”

“No, I’m pretty even-tempered.” Her head tilted. “Why did you fear?”

“Because of what you might do when you began thinking clearly again!” he quipped. “You might decide that I undressed you, did God-knows-what to you, then just threw a blanket over you. I guess, basically, that’s what I did. Except that God does know what I did, and even approves, I think.”

“I’ll take your word for that.” Her voice hardened. “Besides, what’s past is past, so why keep on about it?”

“Because it’s important, at least to me. After all, my word’s my bond—” Sam broke off as she yawned. “You need your rest. Go on to bed, I’ll clean up in here.”

The fire’s crackle was loud in the hush. Wind-driven snow pelted the window like a handful of pebbles. Sam slapped down his cup. A glance at her aloof profile replaced annoyance with chagrin as he discerned the reason for her silence. “I guess you’re apprehensive about staying with a stranger,” he said gruffly. “But there’s not much I can do about that right now. Like it or not, you’re here for the night.”

She shot him a glance. “Well, we’re two adults. I guess we can sleep under the same roof without the sky falling,” she murmured with a touch of wry humor. “Thank you, Mr. Holt. I accept your gracious invitation to spend the night.”

His luxurious guest bedroom was blue and white, deepcarpeted, softly lit. Turning off the lamp, Carrie nestled under the puffy down comforter and closed her eyes. Thoughts swirled around her mind like images from a kaleidoscope. She felt tired and sleepy, but her senses were alert to sounds outside her door.

The man sharing this beautiful cottage made it cozy just by his presence. Yet, were it not for footsteps going down the hall, she’d wonder if he wasn’t a figment of an overactive imagination. He had loaned her a T-shirt to sleep in, laundered, of course, but that same imagination insisted that she still detected his masculine scent.

Carrie’s smile held a twist of irony. She felt much better knowing he was there. But that in itself was unsettling. After months of anguished turmoil, she had hoped to come to this quiet, remote place and find peace within herself while awaiting her baby’s birth. Sam Holt was a wild card she neither wanted nor needed.

He made chicken soup for me. Carrie’s crooked smile encapsuled her feminine reaction to that—even if it was canned. It felt so good to be taken care of. Her nerves were raw from going it alone. Not that he was thrilled about taking care of her. He’d been positively bearish at times. Still, even that side of him pleased some crazy little part of her.

Feeling achy and needful, she rolled over and filled her arms with a pillow. Despite her exposure to the Kinnard social circle, she was not a sophisticate, and there was something deliciously wicked knowing that Sam slept just a door away.

“A something far too potent for a woman in my condition,” she muttered. Sick or not, she’d had no trouble noticing his appeal. He had enough masculine allure to stock a pharmacy.

But there was a defensiveness about him, an underlying wariness she couldn’t quite define. Each time his manner softened towards her he caught himself, as if tenderness was dangerous. Well, in a way it was. “Lord knows how susceptible I am to it,” she acknowledged with a rueful sigh.

She had also noted his natural air of authority. Of course, she thought derisively, he’s a big shot. She knew all too well how dangerously easy it was to mistake smooth self-assurance for character. Her ex-husband had taught her that. He’d been a big shot, too, although in Justin’s case, the Kinnard money had long since been squandered by wastrel sons.

Still, he’d been considered quite the catch. Tears stung her eyes as she pictured the handsome face of the man she once trusted to the point of blind folly. She’d wanted so much to believe in Prince Charming that she’d been putty in his hands.

Smarting from her memories, Carrie reminded herself that she was twenty-eight, clear-eyed, and reasonably notstupid. In five months she would be a single mother. So I’m certainly not looking for romance, she defied Sam Holt’s potent impact on her psyche. She wasn’t even looking for the respite from personal problems he could provide with those strong arms, that firm mouth.

“Not that it would be long lasting,” she whispered into the darkness. As soon as he heard her ex-husband’s name he’d likely remember it from newspaper or television reports, and want nothing more to do with her. After the divorce she’d reclaimed her maiden name, but still, the ugly mess could resurface if their acquaintance deepened.

And she’d feel the humiliation and shame all over again.

Carrie shuddered. “No way!” she muttered fiercely. She’d had enough of that. She’d also had enough of bloated egos masquerading as men. Love, honor and cherish? Empty words. Forsaking all others? Yeah, sure, Carrie.

She pounded the pillow she’d been hugging. Men and their lying, cheating ways! Any woman who believed a thing they said had to have a screw loose.

Her face-saving defiance collapsed in the resurgence of a bleak, piercing ache. “Justin. I thought you were something and you were nothing.” The sorrowed whisper was barely audible in the storm-torn night.

Three

Carrie awoke with a jolt. Her gaze flew to the window, still black with night, and in swift succession, she oriented herself. Recalling the circumstances that had brought her here, she skirted thoughts of Sam. She was tense enough already.

Her cheeks were wet. Apparently she’d been crying in her sleep again. Remnants of her nightmare still clung like the spiderweb in which she’d been entrapped, helpless to defend herself against the circle of angry people. Contorted faces, pointing fingers, accusations flying at her like metal-tipped darts...

Carrie shuddered. Leaving Keedysville so precipitously had probably undermined her claim of innocence, but she couldn’t subject her child to the reality of that nightmare.

She startled as a tree limb scraped the windowpane. She was too anxious about the future to worry about the past. Too scared, she admitted. She didn’t consider herself a brave woman, yet she had left behind all that was safe and familiar to challenge the unknown, an act that filled her with misgivings. Only the precious new life she carried gave her the courage to strike out on her own.

What if she couldn’t make it? Plagued by self-doubt, she ran through a mental list of her assets. She was strong and capable. She had a year’s lease on a cottage, and a job beginning in January. The interest on a small, protected trust fund, though inadequate alone, would be sufficient combined with her salary.

“We’ll do okay,” she insisted, wiping tears. Chastising her weakness, she cradled the barely detectable curve of her belly. Oh God, could a baby sense its mother’s moods, even be affected by them? Appalled at the possibility, she whispered warmly, “All is well, love. Tomorrow we’ll see the doctor, just to make sure.” The realtor who found the cottage for her had also introduced her to a local physician.

“He’ll take good care of us,” Carrie assured her baby.

The sudden intrusion of Sam Holt’s image evoked another kind of warmth. She pushed it away—she had no use for feathery little feelings. Or any other kind, for that matter. Spending Christmas alone in a rented cabin at a frozen lake wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but that’s the way it was. “So deal with it, Carrie,” she muttered.

Her attention snagged on the man who slept just a wall away. Sam Holt probably had big plans for the holidays—he’d be gone in a day or two. But she wouldn’t. She had nowhere to go. Her sister had died years ago, and her aging parents had suffered enough because of her stupidity. They had never liked Justin, and the circumstances surrounding her pregnancy would only upset them further.

Rejecting hurtful memories, she let her drowsy mind drift. This time last year she’d been playing her guitar for the children’s Sunday School class...

“Oh, Lord,” Carrie cried softly. Caught in the icy grip of sadness and regret, she tried to picture something that would make her feel warm and safe again.

Something besides Sam Holt’s face, that is.

Awakening from a muddled dream, Sam switched on a lamp. He had no idea of the time; the gray light outside the windows could have been dawn or dusk. Glancing at his watch produced a surprised whistle—it was nearly noon! Usually he was up by seven.

But usually he didn’t play doctor until the wee hours of the morning. He frowned, irked rather than amused at his unintentional eroticism. To a man who needed to get laid, it wasn’t the least bit funny.

Arching his arms over his head, he stretched to relieve various other aches. After Carrie went to bed, he’d stretched out on this too-short couch to read, and fallen asleep. The house was silent; apparently she slept late, too. A smile tugged at his mouth as he thought of the intriguing redhead. It would have been fun meeting her at some mindless cocktail party where nothing was asked and nothing was given, he thought, oddly wistful. Quickly he shook it off. While he didn’t know what she might be thinking of asking, he did know what she was getting. A night’s shelter. Then she was out of here.

Fine with me, he told himself. All these crazy thoughts and feelings she evoked were downright unsettling to a man like him. He bounded to his feet. Despite his discomfort, he felt good. And hungry. “Lord, yes!” he growled, inhaling the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Before retiring last night, he’d remembered to set the coffeemaker and bank the fire now glowing dull red in its surround of ashes.

Pulling on his sweater, Sam strode to the kitchen and drank a cup of black coffee. The window above the sink looked out on a surreal vista of black, gray and white. Bleak, he acknowledged. Yet his mood was light as an April morning. “Crazy, Holt,” he reminded himself, but himself just shrugged and restarted the fire, then went to his bedroom to shower and shave.

Sam patted on a citrusy aftershave before donning a blue cashmere sweater and another pair of soft cotton jeans. Had she not been here, he’d have worked out in the spare bedroom that also served as an office. Besides electronic gear, the room contained weights, a weight bench and a treadmill. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get in a run, he mused, slipping on boots for the hike later to his truck. After he freed his vehicle, he’d have to see to hers. She sure as hell couldn’t leave without a car.

Passing her door, Sam stopped. His mystery lady was stirring about. He still didn’t know her last name, or why she was here. Well, no use sweating it—sooner or later he’d have answers to all his questions.

Surprising how many he had, though. Frowning, Sam returned to the kitchen to stir up something for breakfast. He was famished, and supposed she would be, too.

She liked tea. He put the kettle on. “Getting to be a regular maid service, Holt,” he growled. Unfortunately, the refrigerator was bare; he’d been on his way to the grocery store when his truck nosed into that drift. Considering his options, Sam had another cup of coffee. He needed something hot and nourishing....

When Carrie entered the den, she stopped, nose twitching at the aromas filling the room. Sam sat at the table by the fire, hands wrapped around a coffee mug. Taking in the lavish spread of toast, peanut butter and a foil pan of hot popcorn, she granted him a smile. “Popcorn? For breakfast?”

Sam’s brows shot together. “Sure, why not?” He came to his feet. “It has all sorts of good stuff in it. It’s also all I have on hand right now. Coffee or tea?”

“Tea, please. And I love popcorn. Thank you, Mr. Holt—”

“Sam.”

“Sam. I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I’m grateful.”

He scowled. “What am I doing? Having breakfast, for Pete’s sake. Sit down, eat something—before you keel over again. How do you feel?” he asked abruptly. He had hoped she’d be much better by now. But that thin little voice didn’t sound so great.

“Fine, thanks to you,” she replied.

Sam’s response was not immediately forthcoming. She had stepped closer, into the light, and the sight of her suddenly overwhelmed what was, just a second ago, a reasonably steady mind. Those eyes, he thought dazedly. So green. So luminous. That gorgeous red hair. And freckles-had he noticed them last night? He’d spent hours looking at her—impossible that he’d missed this delicious sprinkling of gold dust misting the subtle sweep of cheekbones and the bridge of her nose.

Her hair he’d remembered as soft, subdued, like banked coals. But against the window’s drab light, it flamed as bright as the fire he’d built.

She was incredibly sexy. He felt the heat rise.

“Sam?”

Caught staring, Sam reddened. “No thanks necessary,” he said brusquely. He wanted very much to make love to her. Tread softly, Sam. His warning had a cooling effect. “The phones are still out,” he continued briskly. “But I heard the snowplow earlier this morning, so after breakfast I’ll hike back to my truck, get my other cell phone and call Dr. Hewlett for you—”

“That’s not necessary,” Carrie interrupted. She didn’t want Sam talking to her doctor! She’d go alone, when she got her car back. “I’m all right now. Still a little washedout, but I’m fine, really. Quite able to move on to my own cottage.” She sat down and accepted a mug of tea. “That’s bound to be a relief to you. Knowing I’ll soon be out of your hair, I mean.”

“You bet I’m relieved-I was really worried last night,” Sam said, ignoring the rest of her statement. He grinned. “You look about twelve years old in that getup.”

She blushed pink as her sweat suit. “I’m twenty-eight, Sam. I’ve been sick and I didn’t bother with makeup—what do you expect?” she retorted.

“You look all right,” Sam said shortly. There was something too personal in their exchange. Besides, she was barefoot. Why the hell was she barefoot? Only the bedrooms were carpeted, the rest of the place had hardwood floors. “I’d advise wearing shoes while you’re here. These floors are very cold,” he said irritably. “Here, fix yourself a plate.”

“In a minute.” She tucked her culpable feet under the chair. “I’m not really hungry.”

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