Ashley Summers - That Loving Touch

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.