Sam Was Concerned, Captivated And Intrigued By The Aura Of Mystery Surrounding His Snowbound Houseguest Letter to Reader Title Page ASHLEY SUMMERS Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Epilogue Copyright

Sam Was Concerned, Captivated And Intrigued By The Aura Of Mystery Surrounding His Snowbound Houseguest

And he was dying to touch Carrie—but he knew that she’d be leaving. These thoughts ensnared him in confusion. Dammit, he wanted her gone. And soon, before his brain turned to mush.

Incredibly, she had the power to do that. He could tell himself that she was the same as all other women. But there was something different about Carrie Loving. For one thing, she made him think he was lonely, and he hadn’t even known it until she came along.

She changed things, he admitted grudgingly. Just her presence made the place nicer somehow. Warmer. More homey.

Oh, hell, he thought, disliking where this was taking him. It was just sex, he told himself. She made him hot and bothered, that’s all. But he knew that wasn’t the whole truth....

Dear Reader,

Merry Christmas from Silhouette Desire—where you’re guaranteed powerful, passionate and provocative love stories that feature rugged heroes and spirited heroines who experience the full emotional intensity of falling in love!

The always-wonderful Cait London is back with this December’s MAN OF THE MONTH, who happens to be one of THE BLAYLOCKS. In Typical Male, a modern warrior hero is attracted to the woman who wants to destroy him.

The thrilling Desire mimseries TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB concludes with Lone Star Prince by Cindy Gerard. Her Royal Princess Anna von Oberland finally reunites with the dashing attorney Gregory Hunt who fathered her child years ago.

Talented Ashley Summers returns to Desire with That Loving Touch, where a pregnant woman becomes snowbound with a sexy executive in his cabin. The everpopular BACHELOR BATTALION gets into the holiday spirit with Marine under the Mistletoe by Maureen Child. Star-Crossed Lovers is a Romeo-and-Juliet-with-a-happyending story by Zena Valentine. And an honorable cowboy demands the woman pregnant with his child marry him in Chnsty Lockhart’s The Cowboy’s Christmas Baby.

Each and every month, Silhouette Desire offers you six exhilarating journeys into the seductive world of romance. So make a commitment to sensual love and treat yourself to all six for some great holiday reading this month!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to.

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S. 3010 Walden Ave., PO. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian. P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

That Loving Touch

Ashley Summers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ASHLEY SUMMERS

is an incurable romantic who lives in Texas, in a house that overflows with family and friends. Her busy life revolves around the man she married thirty years ago, her three children and her handsome grandson, Eric. Formerly the owner and operator of a landscaping firm, she also enjoys biking, aerobics, reading and traveling.

Here’s to the gang at the ole swimming hole:

Mary Bowers

Ione White

Ginny Johnson

Jewell Wright

And our peerless leader, Debbie Clayton

One

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?”

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 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.

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?”

“Not much to like that I’ve seen.” Her mouth quirked. “Of course there might be exceptions.” She tasted her soup. “Um. This is very good.”

“Yeah, I do wonders with a can opener. You want to tell me why you don’t like us VIPs?” he asked. She shook her head. He laughed, absurdly nettled. A flurry of snow pelted the windows, challenging the glowing dance of firelight on the wall. The world seemed to shrink to just this cozy little circle of warmth and that nettled him, too. For some reason he felt vulnerable. “Then how about answering my first question,” he growled. “Why are you here instead of in Kentucky?”

“Because there’s nothing for me in Kentucky. Everything worth having I brought with me.” Her cool green gaze glanced off his. “And that’s all I care to say about that.”

Sam sensed that she regretted speaking so freely. Still, he itched to pursue it, to uncover the secret darkening her eyes. But that’ll have to go unscratched, he warned himself. No way are you getting mixed up with this woman.

Unbidden, a smile teased his mouth as she unwound the turban, shook out her hair, smoothed it. Such a feminine gesture, he thought. She certainly was a sexy little thing! Soft, silky, warm and sweet; woman. He shifted, blazingly aware of the tight fit of his jeans. Since when has that been your definition of a woman, Holt? he jeered his mawkish thought. “I like your hair wet.” The words just popped out of his mouth.

“What?” she asked blankly. “How can you know if you like my hair wet? You’ve nothing to judge by.”

“True.” His jaw jutted. “But I know what I like. And I like the way it makes all those streaming little curls.”

She shrugged. “I’m not responsible for what my hair does. It has a mind of its own.”

She sure knows how to end a subject, Sam thought, smarting at her flat tone. He busied himself opening crackers. Maybe she was just backing off...which would be a refreshing change from the piranhas that chased him most of his life. He decided to backtrack, too, before he got in any deeper. But when her gaze met his, a question jumped assertively to mind.

“How did you get that bruise on your cheek?”

“Slipped and fell getting out of the ditch. That might be why I was a bit out of it when I arrived—I hit my head a good whack.” She placed a hand lightly on her stomach. “But it’s all right now.”

Another closed subject. Sam studied this intriguing woman. She mystified him. And she’d as good as told him to mind his own business. Ordinarily he would be glad to do just that But this wasn’t ordinary. She was a challenge—and Sam Holt liked a challenge. That foxy little face filled his vision, until there was nothing else in focus except those emerald eyes and her sculpted mouth.

Rattled by the depth of his interest, Sam attacked his soup. He wasn’t by nature a curious man. Why was he so eager to learn every little detail of her life? His gaze fastened on the soft, potentially addictive mouth he wanted very much to taste. His interest was nothing unusual, he acknowledged, lips curling in a knowing smile. He simply wanted to take her to bed.

“My truck’s mired in a snowdrift on down the road,” he remarked. “That’s why I couldn’t get you to a doctor. How did your car get in a ditch?”

“I missed the lane and tried to turn around, but a tree jumped out in front of me,” she said drolly. “I managed to get myself to your place before falling apart.”

He frowned. “Very resourceful. You might have sustained a concussion, you know.”

“Maybe. But I’m fine now, so...”

Her delicate shrugs were similar to privacy fences, he thought. He wondered what she would have done if he wasn’t here to intervene. Was she glad that he had intervened? Did she find his actions even a little heroic? A cynical inner laugh mocked his schoolboy thought, yet there was an unsettling edge of longing in it.

“All that red hair kind of threw me when I first saw you,” he said. “I feared you had a temper to match.”

“No, I’m pretty even-tempered.” Her head tilted. “Why did you fear?”

“Because of what you might do when you began thinking clearly again!” he quipped. “You might decide that I undressed you, did God-knows-what to you, then just threw a blanket over you. I guess, basically, that’s what I did. Except that God does know what I did, and even approves, I think.”

“I’ll take your word for that.” Her voice hardened. “Besides, what’s past is past, so why keep on about it?”

“Because it’s important, at least to me. After all, my word’s my bond—” Sam broke off as she yawned. “You need your rest. Go on to bed, I’ll clean up in here.”

The fire’s crackle was loud in the hush. Wind-driven snow pelted the window like a handful of pebbles. Sam slapped down his cup. A glance at her aloof profile replaced annoyance with chagrin as he discerned the reason for her silence. “I guess you’re apprehensive about staying with a stranger,” he said gruffly. “But there’s not much I can do about that right now. Like it or not, you’re here for the night.”

She shot him a glance. “Well, we’re two adults. I guess we can sleep under the same roof without the sky falling,” she murmured with a touch of wry humor. “Thank you, Mr. Holt. I accept your gracious invitation to spend the night.”

His luxurious guest bedroom was blue and white, deepcarpeted, softly lit. Turning off the lamp, Carrie nestled under the puffy down comforter and closed her eyes. Thoughts swirled around her mind like images from a kaleidoscope. She felt tired and sleepy, but her senses were alert to sounds outside her door.

The man sharing this beautiful cottage made it cozy just by his presence. Yet, were it not for footsteps going down the hall, she’d wonder if he wasn’t a figment of an overactive imagination. He had loaned her a T-shirt to sleep in, laundered, of course, but that same imagination insisted that she still detected his masculine scent.

Carrie’s smile held a twist of irony. She felt much better knowing he was there. But that in itself was unsettling. After months of anguished turmoil, she had hoped to come to this quiet, remote place and find peace within herself while awaiting her baby’s birth. Sam Holt was a wild card she neither wanted nor needed.

He made chicken soup for me. Carrie’s crooked smile encapsuled her feminine reaction to that—even if it was canned. It felt so good to be taken care of. Her nerves were raw from going it alone. Not that he was thrilled about taking care of her. He’d been positively bearish at times. Still, even that side of him pleased some crazy little part of her.

Feeling achy and needful, she rolled over and filled her arms with a pillow. Despite her exposure to the Kinnard social circle, she was not a sophisticate, and there was something deliciously wicked knowing that Sam slept just a door away.

“A something far too potent for a woman in my condition,” she muttered. Sick or not, she’d had no trouble noticing his appeal. He had enough masculine allure to stock a pharmacy.

But there was a defensiveness about him, an underlying wariness she couldn’t quite define. Each time his manner softened towards her he caught himself, as if tenderness was dangerous. Well, in a way it was. “Lord knows how susceptible I am to it,” she acknowledged with a rueful sigh.

She had also noted his natural air of authority. Of course, she thought derisively, he’s a big shot. She knew all too well how dangerously easy it was to mistake smooth self-assurance for character. Her ex-husband had taught her that. He’d been a big shot, too, although in Justin’s case, the Kinnard money had long since been squandered by wastrel sons.

Still, he’d been considered quite the catch. Tears stung her eyes as she pictured the handsome face of the man she once trusted to the point of blind folly. She’d wanted so much to believe in Prince Charming that she’d been putty in his hands.

Smarting from her memories, Carrie reminded herself that she was twenty-eight, clear-eyed, and reasonably notstupid. In five months she would be a single mother. So I’m certainly not looking for romance, she defied Sam Holt’s potent impact on her psyche. She wasn’t even looking for the respite from personal problems he could provide with those strong arms, that firm mouth.

“Not that it would be long lasting,” she whispered into the darkness. As soon as he heard her ex-husband’s name he’d likely remember it from newspaper or television reports, and want nothing more to do with her. After the divorce she’d reclaimed her maiden name, but still, the ugly mess could resurface if their acquaintance deepened.

And she’d feel the humiliation and shame all over again.

Carrie shuddered. “No way!” she muttered fiercely. She’d had enough of that. She’d also had enough of bloated egos masquerading as men. Love, honor and cherish? Empty words. Forsaking all others? Yeah, sure, Carrie.

She pounded the pillow she’d been hugging. Men and their lying, cheating ways! Any woman who believed a thing they said had to have a screw loose.

Her face-saving defiance collapsed in the resurgence of a bleak, piercing ache. “Justin. I thought you were something and you were nothing.” The sorrowed whisper was barely audible in the storm-torn night.

Three

Carrie awoke with a jolt. Her gaze flew to the window, still black with night, and in swift succession, she oriented herself. Recalling the circumstances that had brought her here, she skirted thoughts of Sam. She was tense enough already.

Her cheeks were wet. Apparently she’d been crying in her sleep again. Remnants of her nightmare still clung like the spiderweb in which she’d been entrapped, helpless to defend herself against the circle of angry people. Contorted faces, pointing fingers, accusations flying at her like metal-tipped darts...

Carrie shuddered. Leaving Keedysville so precipitously had probably undermined her claim of innocence, but she couldn’t subject her child to the reality of that nightmare.

She startled as a tree limb scraped the windowpane. She was too anxious about the future to worry about the past. Too scared, she admitted. She didn’t consider herself a brave woman, yet she had left behind all that was safe and familiar to challenge the unknown, an act that filled her with misgivings. Only the precious new life she carried gave her the courage to strike out on her own.

What if she couldn’t make it? Plagued by self-doubt, she ran through a mental list of her assets. She was strong and capable. She had a year’s lease on a cottage, and a job beginning in January. The interest on a small, protected trust fund, though inadequate alone, would be sufficient combined with her salary.

“We’ll do okay,” she insisted, wiping tears. Chastising her weakness, she cradled the barely detectable curve of her belly. Oh God, could a baby sense its mother’s moods, even be affected by them? Appalled at the possibility, she whispered warmly, “All is well, love. Tomorrow we’ll see the doctor, just to make sure.” The realtor who found the cottage for her had also introduced her to a local physician.

“He’ll take good care of us,” Carrie assured her baby.

The sudden intrusion of Sam Holt’s image evoked another kind of warmth. She pushed it away—she had no use for feathery little feelings. Or any other kind, for that matter. Spending Christmas alone in a rented cabin at a frozen lake wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but that’s the way it was. “So deal with it, Carrie,” she muttered.

Her attention snagged on the man who slept just a wall away. Sam Holt probably had big plans for the holidays—he’d be gone in a day or two. But she wouldn’t. She had nowhere to go. Her sister had died years ago, and her aging parents had suffered enough because of her stupidity. They had never liked Justin, and the circumstances surrounding her pregnancy would only upset them further.

Rejecting hurtful memories, she let her drowsy mind drift. This time last year she’d been playing her guitar for the children’s Sunday School class...

“Oh, Lord,” Carrie cried softly. Caught in the icy grip of sadness and regret, she tried to picture something that would make her feel warm and safe again.

Something besides Sam Holt’s face, that is.

Awakening from a muddled dream, Sam switched on a lamp. He had no idea of the time; the gray light outside the windows could have been dawn or dusk. Glancing at his watch produced a surprised whistle—it was nearly noon! Usually he was up by seven.

But usually he didn’t play doctor until the wee hours of the morning. He frowned, irked rather than amused at his unintentional eroticism. To a man who needed to get laid, it wasn’t the least bit funny.

Arching his arms over his head, he stretched to relieve various other aches. After Carrie went to bed, he’d stretched out on this too-short couch to read, and fallen asleep. The house was silent; apparently she slept late, too. A smile tugged at his mouth as he thought of the intriguing redhead. It would have been fun meeting her at some mindless cocktail party where nothing was asked and nothing was given, he thought, oddly wistful. Quickly he shook it off. While he didn’t know what she might be thinking of asking, he did know what she was getting. A night’s shelter. Then she was out of here.

Fine with me, he told himself. All these crazy thoughts and feelings she evoked were downright unsettling to a man like him. He bounded to his feet. Despite his discomfort, he felt good. And hungry. “Lord, yes!” he growled, inhaling the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Before retiring last night, he’d remembered to set the coffeemaker and bank the fire now glowing dull red in its surround of ashes.

Pulling on his sweater, Sam strode to the kitchen and drank a cup of black coffee. The window above the sink looked out on a surreal vista of black, gray and white. Bleak, he acknowledged. Yet his mood was light as an April morning. “Crazy, Holt,” he reminded himself, but himself just shrugged and restarted the fire, then went to his bedroom to shower and shave.

Sam patted on a citrusy aftershave before donning a blue cashmere sweater and another pair of soft cotton jeans. Had she not been here, he’d have worked out in the spare bedroom that also served as an office. Besides electronic gear, the room contained weights, a weight bench and a treadmill. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get in a run, he mused, slipping on boots for the hike later to his truck. After he freed his vehicle, he’d have to see to hers. She sure as hell couldn’t leave without a car.

Passing her door, Sam stopped. His mystery lady was stirring about. He still didn’t know her last name, or why she was here. Well, no use sweating it—sooner or later he’d have answers to all his questions.

Surprising how many he had, though. Frowning, Sam returned to the kitchen to stir up something for breakfast. He was famished, and supposed she would be, too.

She liked tea. He put the kettle on. “Getting to be a regular maid service, Holt,” he growled. Unfortunately, the refrigerator was bare; he’d been on his way to the grocery store when his truck nosed into that drift. Considering his options, Sam had another cup of coffee. He needed something hot and nourishing....

When Carrie entered the den, she stopped, nose twitching at the aromas filling the room. Sam sat at the table by the fire, hands wrapped around a coffee mug. Taking in the lavish spread of toast, peanut butter and a foil pan of hot popcorn, she granted him a smile. “Popcorn? For breakfast?”

Sam’s brows shot together. “Sure, why not?” He came to his feet. “It has all sorts of good stuff in it. It’s also all I have on hand right now. Coffee or tea?”

“Tea, please. And I love popcorn. Thank you, Mr. Holt—”

“Sam.”

“Sam. I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I’m grateful.”

He scowled. “What am I doing? Having breakfast, for Pete’s sake. Sit down, eat something—before you keel over again. How do you feel?” he asked abruptly. He had hoped she’d be much better by now. But that thin little voice didn’t sound so great.

“Fine, thanks to you,” she replied.

Sam’s response was not immediately forthcoming. She had stepped closer, into the light, and the sight of her suddenly overwhelmed what was, just a second ago, a reasonably steady mind. Those eyes, he thought dazedly. So green. So luminous. That gorgeous red hair. And freckles-had he noticed them last night? He’d spent hours looking at her—impossible that he’d missed this delicious sprinkling of gold dust misting the subtle sweep of cheekbones and the bridge of her nose.

Her hair he’d remembered as soft, subdued, like banked coals. But against the window’s drab light, it flamed as bright as the fire he’d built.

She was incredibly sexy. He felt the heat rise.

“Sam?”

Caught staring, Sam reddened. “No thanks necessary,” he said brusquely. He wanted very much to make love to her. Tread softly, Sam. His warning had a cooling effect. “The phones are still out,” he continued briskly. “But I heard the snowplow earlier this morning, so after breakfast I’ll hike back to my truck, get my other cell phone and call Dr. Hewlett for you—”

“That’s not necessary,” Carrie interrupted. She didn’t want Sam talking to her doctor! She’d go alone, when she got her car back. “I’m all right now. Still a little washedout, but I’m fine, really. Quite able to move on to my own cottage.” She sat down and accepted a mug of tea. “That’s bound to be a relief to you. Knowing I’ll soon be out of your hair, I mean.”

“You bet I’m relieved-I was really worried last night,” Sam said, ignoring the rest of her statement. He grinned. “You look about twelve years old in that getup.”

She blushed pink as her sweat suit. “I’m twenty-eight, Sam. I’ve been sick and I didn’t bother with makeup—what do you expect?” she retorted.

“You look all right,” Sam said shortly. There was something too personal in their exchange. Besides, she was barefoot. Why the hell was she barefoot? Only the bedrooms were carpeted, the rest of the place had hardwood floors. “I’d advise wearing shoes while you’re here. These floors are very cold,” he said irritably. “Here, fix yourself a plate.”

“In a minute.” She tucked her culpable feet under the chair. “I’m not really hungry.”

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