That Loving Touch

“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.