That Loving Touch. Ashley Summers
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.
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