Читать книгу That Loving Touch - Ashley Summers, Ashley Summers - Страница 9

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.”

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.