That Loving Touch
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Ashley Summers
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12
Chapter 1
Her slim shoulders hunched against the biting wind, Carrie Loving plodded through the black December night with only the beam of a flashlight to guide her. She was trying to reach her rented cottage on Ohio’s beautiful Lake Prince John, but her car had skidded into a ditch half a mile from her destination. She’d stepped out into the icy waters of the half-frozen ditch and her ankle boots squished with each step.
The small duffle bag she carried contained a change of clothes and toiletries, but no dry shoes. Shivering, she pushed strands of damp, red hair back into her parka. Maybe leaving the car was foolish, she thought. But there wasn’t anything else she could do. She’d been warned that the cluster of cottages comprising the Blue Heron Fishing Camp was deserted this close to Christmas. That didn’t bother her; she was twenty-eight, not some young twit who jumped at shadows, she told herself stoutly. After months of emotional turmoil, the promise of peace and quiet helped soothe the misgivings she had about coming here.
The flashlight beam wobbled as a wave of dizziness threatened her balance. Carrie grabbed an overhanging limb to steady herself. She was freezing, yet inside, she felt on fire. Her green eyes ran hot with tears. That damn flu, she thought furiously, it’s come back. And I’m stranded out here in the middle of nowhere!
“Oh God,” she whispered, assailed by fear and doubt. She was divorced, alone, and nearly four months pregnant.
The dizziness passed. Carefully releasing her supportive tree limb, she started walking again, her gaze glued to the compellant little world of the flashlight’s beam. She ignored the nausea spiraling through her like a miniature whirlwind. She’d already discovered that morning sickness could strike at any time.
In a few short months she’d be a parent. A single parent.
Carrie acknowledged her fear of caring for a baby alone. But the baby mustn’t know it. A baby must have complete confidence in its mother. “Don’t worry, my love,” she murmured, spreading a gloved hand over the quilted fabric covering her stomach. “I’ll take care of us.”
As if mocking her brave assertion, another wave of dizziness hit her. She waited it out, then slowly began moving again. According to her directions, the road followed the perimeter of the lake, with a horseshoe curve looping around the camp itself. It shouldn’t be long now; she was already on the loop. “Soon, baby, very soon, I promise,” she whispered.
Rounding a curve, Carrie saw the first cottage. She stopped, surprised. Lights flickered through the swirling snow. Elation zinged through her—someone else was here! She was cold, tired and in need of human contact. Although her own cabin was farther down the lane, she veered toward the one directly ahead, drawn like a moth to the warm, golden radiance spilling from several windows.
Sam Holt tossed another log on the fire, creating a shower of sparks and sending blue smoke curling up the chimney and out into the night. When tongues of flame began licking around the fragrant applewood, he closed the fire screen, then slung an arm along the mantle. A tall man clad in navy silk pajamas, he moved easily, but nervous energy in his taut body transmitted itself through drumming fingertips. He was edgy as a cat and he didn’t know why.
Broodingly he stared into the fire. He wanted...oh hell, he didn’t know what he wanted. He was hungry, but not for food. What then? Not for female companionship; he could have that with a phone call. Their invitations filled his mailbox, cluttered up his answering machine. The usual holiday madness, he concluded cynically.
He grimaced as the television blared its urgent message; only six more shopping days! Maybe that was the source of his malaise. Christmas was once a time of magic. Now it was just an excuse to spend money and throw parties.
Sam jabbed the poker into a fire log. Feeling so jaded about something he’d once enjoyed—buying something special for a special someone—irritated the hell out of him. He used to enjoy the parties, too. Not anymore. He was fed up with the drinking, flirting, empty cocktail chatter and shrill laughter that fleshed out the elegant skeleton of a black-tie evening.
And he’d had his fill of sleek, sophisticated women with soft voices and predatory eyes, Sam thought, giving the log another savage jab. That included his ex-wife, a willful, self-centered society belle who could lie so sweetly even the angels were fooled. She’d certainly fooled him with her sweet and supposedly innocent ways. But it didn’t take long to realize she was just like all the rest—vain, deceitful, untrustworthy.
That sounded bitter and he was not bitter. Hurt and disillusioned, yes. Cautious as hell, yes. Maybe even a little screwed up. But not bitter. In his mind, the word equated to warped.
Still, if any man had a right to be bitter, he did. What she’d done was unforgivable. Had it not been for her narcissistic self-indulgence, he’d have a child now, instead of this stabbing regret for what might have been.
Sam was surprised that the memory was still so raw. But he’d always wanted a son. A daughter would’ve been nice, too, he reflected. The smile softening his mouth died in a flash of white-knuckled anger. Pure selfishness had kept Elysse from telling him she was pregnant! Her willowy figure was so important to her that she’d had an abortion before he even knew he’d fathered a child. He would never forgive her treachery.
Well, at least the experience had toughened him, Sam philosophized. It had also wiped out the last vestige of feeling he’d had for his wife. Expelling a sigh, he replaced the poker. The large, high-ceilinged room, more lodgelike than cottage, seemed to crouch behind him, ruffling his neck hairs as the wind keened in its eaves. “Getting neurotic, Holt,” he muttered, turning on a tall, halogen lamp. Since he was too antsy to sleep, he might as well work awhile—
Sam froze, so shocked at the knock on his door that he questioned his hearing. Who would be out on this miserable night? The sound came again, a soft rapping of gloved fingers. A prickle ran up his spine. He strode to the window to peer through snow swirling around the yardlight. No car. Unbelievable that someone could be on foot! Feeling curiously ambivalent, he veered to the door and unsnapped the safety latch.
The door jerked open with a suddenness that made Carrie gasp. A tall man stood silhouetted against the blaze of light. Dazedly she looked up into narrowed blue eyes nearly hidden under locks of tousled dark hair.
He stared, disbelief wreathing his rugged features. “What the hell!” he exclaimed.
“Please, I need help:” Carrie grasped the door frame as his face swam in her vision. “My car’s in a ditch and I—” She swayed.
“Good Lord!” Opening the door wider, he grabbed her arm. The wind fairly blew her inside. He slammed the door shut, then caught her shoulders to steady her. “Are you all right?” he asked sharply.
The faint, heady scent of sandalwood struck Carrie’s nostrils. Another hard gasp intensified the masculine scent and drew it deep inside her. With great effort, she pulled herself erect and out of his grasp. Her heart thudded. Breathe, Carrie! “Y-yes, I’m all right.” Again, Carrie! “Just cold and tired, that’s all. My car’s about a quarter of a mile down the lane and it was tough walking.”
“I bet it was! Let me help you off with your coat, get you warmed up—you look half-frozen.” He peered at the small face half concealed by the parka’s hood. His eyebrows, dark slashes against his tawny skin, knitted in a frown. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. I just need to rest and I’ll...be fine.” Carrie tried to speak firmly but the darkness was gathering. You will not faint, Carinne Loving, she warned herself, forcing a smile. “I’ll just keep my coat on, thank you...if I could get a lift to my cottage? It’s number eleven, the McKinney place.”
“Yes, of course.” Bemused by her sudden appearance, he ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll have to get dressed.”
Despite fatigue, Carrie smiled as she glanced at his tailored pajamas and bare feet. “I’ll wait,” she told the tall, blue-eyed stranger.
“Well, at least take off that damp coat while you wait.”
He sounded irritated; Carrie shed her coat. It fell to the floor. Neither noticed. She was preoccupied with trying to stay erect. He was staring at the rich auburn curls streaming around her flushed face.
“What on earth are you doing out on a night like this?” he asked.
“Just trying to reach my cottage,” Carrie said. When another surge of dizziness engulfed her, she grabbed his arm as her legs crumpled. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
Carrie heard his startled exclamation, but she was beyond response. That appealing masculine face was the last thing she saw before falling headlong into a deep, black well....
As rattled as he was, Sam caught her before she hit the floor. Blessing his good reflexes, he carried her to the couch and carefully laid her down. Her boots and pants’ legs were soaked. “What’d you’d do, go wading?” he muttered. “Miss?” He shook her shoulder. “Miss?”
Her eyes remained closed. His heart jerked—she lay so still! He probed her neck, a pent-up breath whistling through his lips as he found a pulse. At least she wasn’t dead.
“Just worn out, I guess,” he murmured. Then, noting the rubicund flush suffusing her skin, a new possibility presented itself. Was she drunk, passed out from too much holiday cheer? Either way, her wet boots were staining his suede couch.
He removed them, along with her muddy socks. God, her feet were icy! Her hands, too, he discovered once he’d removed her gloves. Stepping back, he hesitated, besieged by uncertainty. Now what? Just let her lie here? Wake her up and take her to her own cabin? Oh hell, he couldn’t; his truck was mired in a snowdrift on down the lane. Strange how that had slipped from mind when she requested a lift. But he’d been so addled by the appearance of a pretty woman at the height of a towering storm—almost like some stupid male fantasy come true, he thought with wry humor.
Bemusededly he studied his mysterious visitor. Her face was thin, high-cheeked, small featured, yet so pleasing to the eye. His gaze darted to her left hand. No wedding ring. Who was she? What was she doing in this deserted place alone? Running from something? Someone?
Sam’s ruminations broke off when he heard her faint moan. He bent down. “Hello? Are you all right?” Getting no response, he touched her cheek. Good lord, she was burning up!
Laying the back of his hand on her forehead confirmed it; she was sick, not plastered. Sam exhaled sharply. The last thing in the world he wanted was a female on his hands, much less a sick one. But he had one. And when responsibility was thrust upon a man, he dealt with the situation, however unsettling. He grimaced. Thanks, Dad, for instilling that bit of wisdom.
“Miss? Can you hear me? You need to get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia.”
Her lashes fluttered. She whimpered, kitten soft.
Sam was hit by a protective instinct so strong it overwhelmed common sense. Forgetting his recently acquired aversion to the feminine gender, he smoothed her hair. She turned her face to the couch, revealing the smooth column of her neck. The downy curls fringing her nape stirred something deep inside him.
She moaned again, soft, needful. His chest tightened. “It’s all right, I’m here,” he said. That might reassure her, but it does nothing for me! “Can you speak to me? Tell me what’s wrong?” he asked, part plea, part demand.
She mumbled and tossed about, her voice rising. Then she fell back into that alarming, boneless sprawl. Sam was at a loss. The lady had a raging fever and was incoherent Obviously she needed a doctor. But telephone lines were down and he had no transportation.
Impatience scored his face. Maybe he should slog to his truck and try to get it running again. But he’d have to dig the blasted thing out of a snowbank. In the dark. He shook his head. Too crazy. But he had to do something—this woman was sick. And since the storm showed no signs of letting up, he was on his own.
Of course, he could refuse to get involved, let nature take its course... No he couldn’t. He was a sucker for small, needful creatures, even female ones, he thought sardonically. The scratches on his hands were proof of that; this morning he’d spent forty painful minutes freeing a doe from the barbed wire fence enclosing the sixty-acre camp.
But this wasn’t a deer. Resentment nipped him. Dammit, he didn’t need this hassle! He was trying to simplify his life, and she was an annoying intrusion he didn’t need and certainly didn’t want. But he felt bound to help her. She whimpered again. For God’s sake, man, do something, he prodded himself. You’re a Holt and Holts don’t waste time dithering! His eyes lightened as he recalled his nanny’s administrations when he was a sick little boy. Aspirin, fluids, rubbing alcohol.
And dry clothes.
“Hell’s bells,” Sam muttered. He hadn’t the foggiest idea how to get aspirin or fluids down an unconscious woman, or how to change her clothes without a serious invasion of her privacy.
He stilled as her eyes opened. Astonishing eyes, bluegreen, hazed with fever. Frightened eyes, he realized. Was she afraid of him? No, of course not. He didn’t frighten women. Quite the contrary. “It’s all right, don’t be afraid,” he soothed her much as he would a cowed puppy. “You’re safe with me.”
The sound of his voice brought her gaze directly to his. The green eyes, so dazed and confused, were suddenly, piercingly clear. A soft smile shaped her mouth. “Why ever would I be afraid of you?” she murmured.
Sam caught his breath—the look she gave him turned him inside out! His six-foot, three-inch frame stiffened as he experienced an overwhelming sense of familiarity, of knowing this woman in a way that bypassed the conscious mind.
Then she looked away and it was gone, leaving him baffled by what he’d felt. Irritably he shook off the moment, assigning it to imagination though his arms were goose flushed. Get a grip, Holt.
“I’m so cold,” she mumbled, pulling at her sweatshirt.
“I’ll get a blanket,” Sam said. But he lingered a heartbeat longer, watching, strangely fascinated, as feathery, cinnamon-brown lashes drifted down to fringe her cheeks again. Beautiful! he thought, then caught himself. Beauty had lured him into the marital trap. And awareness of that same extravagant beauty, he reminded himself grimly, drove Elysse to destroy his child.
Sam strode to his bedroom. He was a little chilled himself. With scant attention to detail, he stripped off his pajamas and pulled on jeans, a white cable-knit sweater, and warm house slippers. His bathroom yielded rubbing alcohol and a washcloth to sponge her face. “Might as well go all the way,” he grumbled, adding white wool socks and a spare pair of cotton pajamas to his supplies.
Snatching a blanket off his rumpled bed as he hurried by, Sam stopped. His cell phone lay on the nightstand! Dropping everything, he lunged for it and pushed the ‘on’ button.
The battery was dead. Swearing, he tossed aside the useless instrument. Across the room a mirror reflected his image; disheveled brown hair, worried blue eyes tinged with fear. “What the hell can I do for this woman?” he wondered aloud. The only thing he knew about illness was “starve a fever, feed a cold.” Or was it the other way around?
“Lord help us both!” Sam groaned.
Hurriedly he picked up his supplies and returned to the living room. Kneeling beside her, he dumped everything on the floor. “Miss? Can you hear me? I have to get you out of these wet clothes. I don’t want to, it’s not personal choice or anything like that, it just has to be done. Strictly business, I promise...damn, I sound like an idiot,” he grumbled.
A long, shuddery shiver raced through her. Galvanized, Sam took a deep breath. “All right then, here we go.” He fumbled with the two buttons at her throat for what seemed a ridiculously long time before they popped free of their loops. Moving quickly, he worked her arms free of the sleeves, then maneuvered the material over her face and down the back of her head.
Under her shirt she wore a silk thermal camisole. He left it on. Averting his gaze from the outlined perfection of her small, full breasts, he lowered her head to the pillow. He hesitated, knowing he had to remove her wet pants, but reluctant to do so. When she remained limp and obviously unaware that he was undressing her, he fell grimly to the task.
The soggy fabric clung to her skin and he had to roll it down her hips and thighs. Reminding himself rather forcefully that he’d seen far too many female bodies to play the voyeur, he tossed the garment aside and manipulated the thick white socks onto her bare feet. He eyed the dry pajamas, decided against them, and covered her from chin to toe with the soft woolen blanket.
“Now to bring down that fever,” Sam said, just as though he knew what he was doing. Quickly he fetched a pan of water, wet the washcloth and wrung it out, then laced it with alcohol. With remarkable delicacy for a man with ten thumbs, he drew the cloth across her forehead.
Her lashes fluttered.
“It’s all right,” he said. Ignoring the sting of alcohol on his skinned knuckles, he kept sponging her face. The repetitive motion left his mind free to wonder why she had come to the camp, as cottage owners called it. What drove her out into a December snowstorm? A broken romance? Or maybe, like him, just the season itself?
Annoyed by his speculations, he focused on the task at hand. Although his patient still thrashed about—much like the deer he’d rescued, he thought with a brief smile—she gave no sign of being aware of his presence. Watching his long fingers slide the washcloth over her soft cheek, he wondered if she knew what he was doing. If so, was she grateful? Or furious? Was he doing the right thing? Maybe not, maybe he should have left her clothes on and just covered her with the blanket...
Sam’s jaw clamped tight against clamorous self-doubt. He had enough to contend with—her skin was still so hot! Even her breath reeked of fever. He felt a sudden flurry of panic. What if he wasn’t doing enough? She could die!
The thought shook Sam to the roots of his being. Suddenly frantic, he cast about for something else to do to help her.
Nothing came to mind. Muttering something between an oath and a prayer, he moistened the washcloth again.
Sam Holt lifted his head, realizing with surprise that at some point during this very long evening the wind had stopped blowing and a sweet stillness embraced the cabin. Intent on his self-appointed task, he’d lost all track of time. At first he’d been disheartened, for nothing he did seemed to have any effect. Gradually, however, her skin cooled, and she’d fallen into a natural sleep.
“At least I hope it’s natural,” he muttered. But he felt encouraged. There was a soft sheen to her skin, and fever no longer flamed her cheeks.
As for Sam, every muscle in his long frame ached with tension. A glance at his watch evoked a startled whistle. Midnight? It was around nine when she’d stumbled in—no wonder he was so stiff! Yawning, he carried the water bowl to the kitchen, then indulged in a full-body stretch. Maybe a shot of scotch would relax him.
A sound from the living room acted upon him like an electric prod. Sam strode back to the couch.
Perplexed green eyes gazed at him. “You’re real?” She sighed. “I thought you were an angel. Your white sweater...”
Relieved that she was conscious, Sam leaned down to her. “No, no angel. How do you feel?”
She didn’t reply. Realizing that she’d fallen asleep again, he switched off the overhead light, leaving only the soft glow of a floor lamp. For a moment longer he stood beside her. Now that he had time to think, he was astonished to realize he didn’t even know her name. But then, this was an astonishing night, spent with a complete stranger, doing intimate things she might or might not appreciate.
He touched her hair, so bright, like a sunset. Or a bonfire. Nervously he wondered which best suited her temperament. Then he wondered why he wondered. She meant nothing to him.
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?”
