That Loving Touch

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?”