That Loving Touch. Ashley Summers

      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