Five months pregnant and on her own. Even so, she can’t resist this rugged rancher...

Solely responsible for her unborn child, Abigail Stewart is desperate for the art commission at Royal Memorial Hospital. Winning over the sexy Texan on the board seems impossible, but Vaughn surprises her with his response. And his attention. And a sizzling connection that defies all logic. But even if he can accept her baby, will Vaughn’s dark past tear them apart?

Four-time RITA® Award nominee JOANNE ROCK has penned over seventy stories for Mills & Boon. An optimist by nature and a perpetual seeker of silver linings, Joanne finds romance fits her life outlook perfectly—love is worth fighting for. A former Golden Heart® Award recipient, she has won numerous awards for her stories. Learn more about Joanne’s imaginative Muse by visiting her website, www.joannerock.com, or following @joannerock6 on Twitter.

Also by Joanne Rock

His Secretary’s Surprise Fiancé

Secret Baby Scandal

The Magnate’s Mail-Order Bride

The Magnate’s Marriage Merger

His Accidental Heir

Little Secrets: His Pregnant Secretary

Claiming His Secret Heir

For the Sake of His Heir

Expecting a Scandal

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Expecting a Scandal

Joanne Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07634-0

EXPECTING A SCANDAL

© 2018 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the A Team nurses at All Children’s Hospital in St. Petersburg for your commitment and caring, for making a difference every day and for taking time out to share your stories with me.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Extract

One

Adjusting her glasses on her nose, Abigail Stewart hoped the funky red-and-black zebra frames distracted from the sheer desperation that must surely be visible in her eyes.

She didn’t want the assembled Royal Memorial Hospital committee to see how badly she needed the commission for the sculpture she’d just proposed for the children’s ward. Or how much it upset her to be back inside a hospital for the first time since her sister’s death. Standing at the head of the hospital’s boardroom after her presentation, she smoothed the hem of a fitted skirt that pinched her pregnant hips under the gauzy red top she’d chosen to hide her baby bump. At five months along, she wouldn’t be fooling anyone for much longer. But considering the scandal attached to her baby’s conception with a lying jerk posing as Will Sanders, the powerful head of Spark Energy Solutions, Abigail wasn’t in a hurry to field questions about it. She was only just beginning to wrap her head around being a single mom in the wake of a hellish year that had cost her a beloved younger sibling.

A year that promised to go downhill even more, since Abigail would definitely not make the next mortgage payment on her house if she didn’t nab this commission. She’d taken too much time off in the past year to help her mother cope with losing Alannah in a kayaking accident, depleting her emergency savings.

“Does anyone have questions about the art installation I’m proposing?” Abigail forced a smile despite the nervous churn in her belly.

At least, she hoped that rumble was nerves and not belated morning sickness. For the last two months, morning had been a relative term.

“I have a question.” The deep, masculine voice at the back of the spacious room caught her off guard.

She’d thought all of the committee members were seated at the large table with a good view of the projection screen. Yet, at second glance, she saw an absurdly handsome man in green scrubs sprawled in a chair by the door in the back. From the leather shoes he sported to the expensive-looking haircut, he had an air of wealth about him that the scrubs and slightly scruffy facial hair couldn’t hide. Even the phone resting on the table beside him cost more than her monthly house payment. She’d been so focused on getting her video up and running that she had somehow missed his arrival.

With a crop of thick brown hair and deep green eyes, he had a body that a professional athlete would envy—his broad chest and strong arms were supremely appealing. And for a woman five months pregnant and battling morning sickness along with a case of nerves to notice—that was saying something.

The hospital administrator who had invited Abigail to present to the committee gestured the newcomer toward a vacant chair at that table, where one presentation packet lay untouched. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Chambers, please join us.”

“Sorry I’m late. My last surgery ran long.” He rose and tugged the plush rolling chair out from the gleaming maple table, joining eleven other members of the committee in judging her. “And, Ms. Stewart, I’m sure you’re very talented, and your gallery of works is certainly impressive, but I’m afraid I don’t see the point of a statue in the children’s ward when we are in need of more staffing and more on-site equipment.”

Her stomach dropped.

The rumbling of reaction around the table gave Abigail a welcome moment to collect her thoughts before responding. She’d thought the commission was a foregone conclusion, whether she won it or another artist did, so she wasn’t entirely prepared for the question. But since no one else jumped in to answer, she needed to field it fast.

“I believe the funds for artwork are designated strictly for that purpose by the benefactor who provided the grant.” She glanced at the hospital administrator in charge of the committee, Belinda McDowell, who served as Royal Memorial’s development officer. When the older woman didn’t correct her, Abigail plowed ahead. “So the funding isn’t something that can be reallocated.”

Dr. Chambers stared back at her, his jaw flexing with thinly veiled impatience. Did he think art was so inferior to his field? Her spine steeled with some impatience of her own.

“Assuming that’s the case...” He glanced at Mrs. McDowell for confirmation. At a nod of the woman’s steel-gray bob, he continued, “Why a statue? Will children really appreciate art at that level, or would we be better served giving them something more age-appropriate that stands a chance of engaging them?”

Resisting the temptation to open his presentation packet for him and point out where she’d addressed this very question, she told herself she was being touchy because she needed this job so much. The visibility, the credibility and the portfolio development were all critical, even without the benefit of the income. Making a living as an artist in Royal hadn’t been easy, even before Alannah’s death.

“The statue would be a starting point since the hospital board would like to unveil the first element of a larger installation in the children’s ward at a party later this month.” She lifted her own presentation packet and flipped it open to the page with her proposed timeline. “There are some further details on page six.”

Okay. So she hadn’t been able to resist temptation.

But Dr. Green Eyes was single-handedly turning her presentation on its ear. He scrubbed a hand over his short beard, looking skeptical.

“Are there any other questions?” she blurted too quickly, realizing belatedly she was probably being rude.

Damn. It. How had she let him rattle her? Probably had something to do with the hospital bringing up bad memories. Or her too-tight skirt and her surprising reaction to the doctor. She’d thought, after the colossal mistake she’d made in sleeping with her former boss at her temp job, she’d effectively sworn off men for a while.

It bothered her to feel very feminine flutters of response to superficial things like an attractive face. Or a beautifully made male form.

That rich male voice rolled through the boardroom again. “Can good art be crafted in such a short time?” Dr. Chambers asked, now scanning through the pages of her presentation folder. “Do you really think you can meet that kind of deadline?”

Could she? It wouldn’t be easy, of course. She had ten days. And she sure didn’t appreciate the implication that “good” art was measured by how long it took to create it. Brilliant works had been crafted over the course of years, and others in the span of hours.

“Of course,” she returned coolly. “Although, obviously, the sooner the committee reaches a decision, the easier it will be for the chosen artist to meet the deadline.”

The committee leader, Belinda McDowell, rose. “And we hope to give you a response as soon as possible, Ms. Stewart. Thank you so much for coming in today.” With a curt nod, she dismissed Abigail before turning her attention to the rest of the group. “I have one more artist I’d like you to meet if you can all remain for just ten more minutes.”

Dismayed that she was already done with her portion of the meeting, Abigail hurried to gather her things before she headed toward the door. Had she blown the most important presentation of her career?

Passing Dr. Chambers on her way out, she felt her gaze drawn to him in spite of herself. Maybe because she wanted to give his chair a swift kick for finding fault in her presentation.

More likely, her artist’s eye wanted to roam all over those intriguing angles of his face, the sculpted muscles of his body. At least, she hoped it was her inner artist that was having those ridiculous urges. Because if it was some kind of womanly desire for her surgeon heckler, who’d been about as charming as a Texas diamondback, then she had bigger worries than a depleted bank account and a baby on the way.

She needed a doctor all right. But only because she ought to have her head examined.

* * *

Vaughn Chambers flipped through the two artists’ presentations side by side at a table in the hospital’s doctor lounge later that afternoon. The lounge was busy at this hour during shift change, with colleagues darting in and out to grab coffee or a bite to eat. But Vaughn had positioned himself with his back to the room, earbuds in place, a coping mechanism he’d started using more often since his return from a military medical deployment with the United States Army Reserves.

Despite being the heir to an oil empire, Vaughn had never been willing to simply follow the path chosen for him. Instead of taking the easy route and accepting a CEO seat in the family company, he’d pursued a medical career. Inspired by his grandfather’s military service, he’d been compelled to make a contribution of his own, signing on after he’d already secured his medical degree. He didn’t regret those choices, but he was still paying for them.

He refused to let his service rob him of the career that meant everything to him, but coping with the aftereffects of his time as a brigade surgeon in Afghanistan had all but consumed him for months after he got home. Now, he understood the strategies for dealing with the post-traumatic stress. But since trauma was his surgical specialty, he could never fully insulate himself from the situations that triggered bad days.

Like today.

Vaughn stilled his restless knee under the table with effort, forcing a quietness in his body that he wasn’t feeling, while a groggy resident struggled to make a fresh pot of coffee at the snack table beside him. Vaughn’s patient this morning had been a stabbing victim, helicoptered in from a nearby ranch where a couple of cowboys had gotten into an argument over a card game. The surgery went well, though slowly, considering all the areas that needed repairing. But then, Vaughn had always been a rock during surgery, shutting down everything else in order to focus on the work he’d dedicated his whole life to perform.

The aftermath was what killed him, when he could no longer compartmentalize by focusing solely on the surgery at hand. And today, of all days, he’d had to sit in on a committee meeting about a new art installation right after he’d emerged from the operating room. He should have just blown it off. Except his colleague, Dr. Parker Reese, had asked him to attend as a personal favor. Or maybe Reese had been trying to do Vaughn a favor, nudging him back into the world outside a war zone, since Parker was one of the few guys who knew what Vaughn was going through. Either way, he’d promised. So Vaughn had dragged himself into that boardroom, adrenaline level crashing, knowing he wasn’t at his best.

Now, drumming his fingers on the lounge table as he stared at the two artists’ presentation packets, his eye landed on a photo of Abigail Stewart. Her long, espresso-colored curls fell over her shoulder as she smiled in a candid shot that captured a far more lighthearted woman than he’d met today. Sunlight behind her—like dawn breaking—made her glow. Her dark eyes glanced at something just off to the side of the camera, and whatever it was made her laugh. The photo wasn’t your standard head shot, but made sense for an artist. She practically vibrated with warmth and vitality in the image.

Something he’d stomped during their brief meeting. He’d known, even as he questioned her after her presentation, that he’d been abrupt. Tactless. But that was because he’d been battling to keep himself together. Normally when he got out of a more difficult surgery, he either escaped under the headphones, or he booked it back home to decompress with his service dog, Ruby. Today, neither option had been available. So he’d launched his reservations about the art project at Ms. Stewart with zero filter.

A clap on Vaughn’s back startled him. He whipped around too fast, too fierce. He could see it in Belinda McDowell’s wide-eyed expression, her tiny step back.

“I—” The seasoned hospital administrator was an endlessly competent woman, a tireless advocate for Royal Memorial and a consummate professional.

And Vaughn had just spooked her because he was having a bad day.

Damn it.

“Sorry about that.” Yanking off his earbuds, he turned on what little charm he could scavenge, smiling broadly. “I must have been falling asleep.” He gave a rueful head shake. “Good thing my residency days are behind me. I’d never cut it.”

The administrator thrust an envelope toward him. “No apology necessary. I’m very grateful to you for agreeing to pay a visit to Ms. Stewart so she can begin work on the art installation.”

After the presentations, the committee had voted unanimously to select Abigail Stewart to begin work on the statue for the children’s ward as phase one of a larger art installment. And because Vaughn had regretted the way he’d approached her, he had volunteered to deliver the news personally.

Ah, hell. Who was he kidding?

He couldn’t deny that he had volunteered because she fascinated him. In spite of the rocky start to their meeting. In spite of the day he was having that reminded him he might never be normal again. Something about Abigail Stewart called to him.

“It’s no problem to drop by her studio. I have to pass through downtown on my way home anyway.” Accepting the envelope from Mrs. McDowell, he glanced down at Abigail’s name typed on the front. “What’s this?”

“Half of her commission payment, which were the terms we discussed in the meeting,” she said crisply, nodding to a couple of the older cardiologists who’d been on staff at Royal Memorial for decades. “Please remind her she is welcome to work on site as often as she requires. There is a security badge and parking pass for her in there, as well.”

So he’d be seeing more of Abigail. Possibly a lot more. With only ten days until the Royal Memorial summer gala, the artist would have her work cut out for her. Vaughn would have a ready-made excuse to see her again—often—at the hospital. If he chose. He wasn’t sure how he felt about spending more time with a woman who cut through his usual defenses on the job, and elicited an elemental response in him in spite of how much he normally shut down at work.

“Of course.” He laid the envelope on the table near his phone. “I know we want to give her as much time as possible, so I’ll head over there as soon as I check on one last patient.”

He wanted to see his stabbing victim before he left the hospital. There were too many emotions dog piling on this day, making him antsy and ready to leave.

“Thank you.” Mrs. McDowell checked her vibrating phone before silencing it. “And do be sure to get some rest, Dr. Chambers. You’re an important part of our staff.”

She turned efficiently on her gray heel and strode off, leaving Vaughn to stack up his papers. He paused before he could slide the presentation packets into the file folder, Abigail’s photo catching his eye once more.

The noise of the lounge—residents laughing, an older doc dictating his notes in a monotone—all faded as Vaughn focused on the woman’s image. He leaned closer to her photo, studying the lines of her face. She was undeniably attractive. Sultry, even, with those dark eyes, endless curls and kissable lips. But there was more to it than that. Vaughn had been approached by plenty of women since he’d returned from Afghanistan. And not one of them had tempted him out of his self-imposed isolation.

He’d almost been worried about the lack of interest, except that he knew PTSD was a long haul in the recovery process and he’d made definite progress since he’d started working with his golden retriever. Ruby had helped him sleep more soundly, waking him before his nightmares got out of control, preventing people from crowding him when he went out. Hell, Ruby had given him a reason to get out of the house in the first place, and that had been good for him. He’d figured the rest would follow in time.

Today, despite the adrenaline letdown and the cold sweat on his back throughout that interminable meeting, Vaughn had felt a definite spark of interest as he’d watched Abigail Stewart in that boardroom.

A welcome sign of some normalcy.

No matter that he wasn’t in any shape for a relationship, he planned to at least see what happened when he saw her again.

Two

Circling her studio like a restless cat, Abigail cleaned and organized, too keyed up to work after the tense meeting at Royal Memorial. She’d tried drawing to decompress when she returned to her home-based art studio, but she couldn’t concentrate. She’d ended up scrapping the little sketch she’d started once she realized her charcoal was bringing Dr. Chambers’s likeness to life on the paper.

Now, she straightened her chisels in the storage block of wood, arranging them the way she liked—short-handled tools in front, longer blades in the back. The exercise wasn’t strictly necessary, but she felt like she ordered her mind when she organized her world. And she needed that right now. Normally, sketching or painting helped her to wind down and readied her thoughts for the bigger work of her studio—wood carving. But today her inner muse was still sighing over the meeting with the surly surgeon, and she could not afford to ruin the beautiful piece of elm she was working on by accidentally carving the doctor’s shoulders into it.

Not that the women of Royal, Texas, wouldn’t line up to admire those spectacular muscles. Maybe it could be Abigail’s breakthrough piece. But since her normal milieu tended toward fantasy creatures and more abstract pieces, she wasn’t sure a set of broad male shoulders belonged in her catalog. They definitely didn’t belong in her romantic musings when she was four months away from giving birth and eager to make peace with her sister’s death. Somehow, she had to find a way to honor Alannah’s life and move forward. She’d hoped maybe the Royal Memorial project would help her with that, but if Dr. Chambers had his way, she was already out of the running.

She turned up the folk music she’d been favoring for her creative time lately, hoping to quiet the demons while she got her studio in order, but the buzz of her doorbell cut right through the drums.

Setting aside a small carving knife, Abigail rose from her workbench and edged around wood blocks and logs in various stages of drying around the sunny backroom that she used for making her art. She’d knocked down a wall and moved the kitchen in her house to accommodate the needs of her work. When she tugged open the side door that had the buzzer, she fully expected to see a delivery of some sort. A new awl, maybe, or the used palm sander she’d bought on eBay.

Instead of a cardboard package, though, she found the man who’d preoccupied her thoughts all afternoon.

“Dr. Chambers.” She felt the hum of awareness immediately. It didn’t matter that he wore a ridiculously expensive watch and drove the low-slung, European-made sports car sitting in the driveway behind him, even though she’d told herself she was done with rich playboys, like the father of her child.

The vivid green of the hot doc’s eyes watched her with interest. And, she guessed, radiated less animosity than he’d demonstrated back at the hospital. He’d left behind the scrubs she’d seen him in earlier. Now, he wore dark dress pants and a fitted blue button-down shirt open at the collar, a nod to the heat of a Texas July, perhaps.

The close-trimmed facial hair hid some of his face, and she guessed he would be even more overtly attractive when clean-shaven. Maybe that’s why he wore the beard. Sometimes that level of compelling good looks could be a distraction from the substance beneath. Abigail would bet the women he worked with noticed him either way.

“It’s Vaughn.” He thrust out a hand, the silver Breitling watch glinting in the late-afternoon sun. “And I hope we didn’t get off on the wrong foot earlier.”

The words caught her off guard, even as she took his hand briefly. The contact hummed up her arm and tickled its way along her shoulder.

“Abigail,” she said automatically, even though he clearly knew who she was. She hesitated, feeling awkward as she pulled her hand back. “And I’m surprised to see you. Unless—”

A surge of hopefulness made her tense. He wouldn’t have come all the way out to her studio to deliver bad news, would he?

“You won the job.” He relayed the information with a curt nod, as if he was reading the results of a CAT scan to a patient. The words were so spare and utilitarian, but the impact was tremendous. “I thought I’d deliver the news personally—”

Abigail didn’t hear the rest of what he said, a wave of relief rolling over her so fast she nearly stumbled backward from it. She clasped her hands together and squeezed the good news tight as a giddy yelp of laughter leaped out.

“Thank you!” She did a little dance in place, sandals slapping out a joyous rhythm. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

She would keep her house and the studio she loved. The commission was enough to smooth the way for her baby’s first year without having to worry about money every month. And, perhaps best of all, she would have a beautiful piece to dedicate to her sister’s memory. The tree sculpture would be for Alannah. A tree of life and hope.

On her doorstep, Vaughn stared at her feet, tracking the happy hop like he’d never seen anything like it before. “I thought it was the least I could do given my demeanor earlier—”

She waved away the concern. None of it mattered now.

“Would you like to come in?” She saw the folder beneath his arm. Guessed there might be a check inside that paperwork. How surprising that the ornery surgeon had ended up being the bearer of the best news she’d had in a long, long time.

The briefest of hesitations.

Maybe the rich doc wasn’t used to spending his time in an artsy bungalow downtown. With her folk music still blaring inside and her watercolors taped in all the windows, her work space was definitely on the eclectic side. Or maybe he just didn’t like art period. Today, she was too relieved to care.

“Sure.” Another clipped nod as his expensive leather loafers climbed the wooden steps. “Thank you.”

Abigail backed into her studio and turned down the volume on her music, eyeing him as he moved deeper into her space. She’d never had a man here in the two years since she’d relocated to Royal from Austin. He had a way of filling up the room, even though her studio was airy and open. Vaughn’s presence, while quiet, loomed large.

He took it all in, his gaze missing nothing as he followed her to the drawing table, where sketches lined the walls around it. She gestured to one of the chairs there, an armless seat she’d made herself of reclaimed wood.

“Have a seat. Can I get you some water? Sweet tea?” she asked as she headed into the kitchenette in the back corner of the studio. She would have gladly cracked open champagne if she wasn’t five months pregnant. Not that she kept champagne on hand. But this new commission changed everything for her.

And even though she hadn’t appreciated the doctor’s contentious approach at the time, he was here, offering her the job that would keep her afloat—financially, creatively and maybe emotionally, too—at the most critical juncture of her life. She couldn’t help but feel a softening in her attitude toward him.

“No. Thank you.” He sat forward in the seat, all business. Withdrawing the folder from under his arm, he laid it on the table. “I brought the contract for you to sign, along with the initial payment.”

He slid the papers out of the folder, carefully positioning them between her morning watercolor of a nuthatch on a tree branch, and an afternoon charcoal sketch of...him?

Oh. No. Horrified she hadn’t tossed the paper in the basket, she rushed back toward the table, hoping to move it before he noticed.

Had he already noticed?

“I. Um. That is—” She was by his side in a split second. Standing too close to him. Hovering over him. Sounding completely inarticulate.

“It’s all very straightforward.” He glanced up at her. Frowned. “Is anything wrong?”

She couldn’t tell from his expression if he’d noticed the half-drawn image of himself. Leaning forward, she slid her scattered papers together in a hurry, knocking the check on the floor and bumping his thigh with her knee. Awareness of him made her senses swim.

She’d been careful to leave her artist’s smock over her dress, so she didn’t think he’d noticed her baby bump. Not many people in Royal knew about it, after all, and she guessed the flash of male interest she’d seen in his eyes would disappear once he learned of her impending motherhood. Was it so wrong to want to savor that attraction just a little longer?

“Ah. No.” She shook her head, imagining she appeared about as innocent as a toddler with a hand in the cookie jar. “Just sorry about the mess.”

Her cheeks burned. All of her was feeling rather warm, actually, and it wasn’t just because of the awkward embarrassment. Her skin tingled beneath the hem of her skirt where she’d brushed up against his leg.

Backing up a step, she tried to act casual even though her heart thudded too fast. He picked up the dropped check and returned it to the table.

“Your studio puts my office to shame.” He studied her with green-gold eyes that tracked her every movement.

“I was straightening up when you arrived.” She hurried over to her desk and shoved the papers in the top drawer before returning to the table. Taking the seat beside him, she tried to collect herself.

Hit the mental reset button.

To cool down and get her thoughts back on track, she turned the contract toward her and started reading.

* * *

The meeting with Abigail Stewart had gone from interesting to downright fascinating. The tension between them had shifted since the stressful morning meeting. He credited that to several things. Being further removed from the surgery that had threatened to give him flashbacks definitely helped him to relax more around her. Add to that the fact that Abigail was obviously thrilled she’d won the art gig, which put her in a happy frame of mind.

Best of all, he’d spied a half-finished sketch on her table of a man who bore a striking resemblance to him.

He would have written it off as a coincidence since he couldn’t be certain, of course. But then he’d seen the way her eyes locked on the drawing and her rush to remove it. There’d been a flare of unmistakable embarrassment. Awareness. Hell, the electricity between them had spiked to a shocking degree in those moments when she’d been close to him. The attraction had been a revelation considering how resolutely—and easily—he’d ignored dating since his deployment.

The heat Abigail stirred wasn’t going to be ignored.

Vaughn watched her read over the contract he’d brought, and lingered on her lovely features as she pursed her lips or tilted her head. For a moment, she traced a line of text with her finger, as if to slow her pace or concentrate. Dark curls pooled on the table beside the paper, the silky waves calling to his fingers to touch them. Test how they would feel against his skin.

She’d changed since he’d seen her at the hospital earlier. She wore an artist’s smock over a loose summer dress. The pale green cotton printed with daisies peeked out of the smock at the hem, the kind of simple summer staple that was probably comfortable for working. Yet on Abigail, the outfit was as seductive as anything he’d ever seen a woman wear. The low-cut neckline visible above the square-necked apron revealed ample curves, and a gold medallion knocked against the table as she bent to read the papers he’d given her. Beneath the table, she crossed her long legs, and her sandaled foot brushed his calf for an instant as she moved, sending his imagination into overdrive...

And damn. He shouldn’t allow his thoughts to roam in that direction until he knew more about her. What if she was married? Had a significant other? He didn’t see another car in her driveway, and her ring finger was bare, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was available.

Surely the drawing she’d made of him meant something, though.

“There.” Abigail signed her name with a flourish. “All set.” She pushed the paperwork toward him, straightening in her seat. “Would you like me to show you around the studio before you go?”

He couldn’t decide if that was a genuine invitation or a politely worded hint for him to be on his way. He used to be better at reading social nuances. These days, just keeping his own emotions in check took focus. And although he was anxious to get home and decompress from this day, he had to admit he enjoyed this time with Abigail.

“I’d like that.” Leaving her advance payment on the table along with the security badge and a few other documents, he slid the signed agreement into his folder. He’d give it to Belinda tomorrow to make copies. “It’s not at all what I expected,” he told her honestly, hoping to learn more about Abigail if he spent a little time with her.

“No?” She glanced at him over her shoulder as she led him past a shelf full of paint cans and chemicals, her dark eyes challenging. “Did you envision me sitting around my garret with a bunch of wine-swilling pseudointellectuals while we debated the novels of Kafka?”

He laughed out loud, surprised at the sound. “Not quite. But I definitely didn’t envision this many axes.” He stopped near a bunch of sinister-looking hatchets and hand tools leaning against the wall alongside ladders in varying sizes.

She paused beside him, her embarrassment from earlier in their meeting long gone. She smiled with something like fondness as she looked over the tools of her trade. The whole place smelled like hickory and apple wood, a welcoming scent that reminded him of fall bonfires.

“Wood carving can be strenuous labor, but I love it.” She straightened a few small blades on a shelf nearby. “I still work in other media, but I’ve been obsessed with wood for the last few years.”

“The tree sculpture you proposed for the children’s ward will be made from wood?” He hadn’t read the specs of her work very carefully, and besides, she had a great deal of artistic license in the project, so it wasn’t as though the hospital was dictating precise details for the project she crafted for the installation.

“Yes. I have a perfect length of bay laurel in mind. It’s been drying for years, and I’ve always known that I wanted it for a tree of some sort.”

“Years? How long have you lived in Royal?” He didn’t remember hearing about her work until after he returned from his deployment.

“It’s been a little over two years.” She stepped carefully around a short sculpture of a bird with an ox’s head, moving deeper into the stacks of raw wood.

“Do you mean to tell me you that you brought some of this with you when you moved?” His gaze wandered over all the huge logs of varying sizes.

“I brought almost all of it since I had access to a lot of wood remnants where I lived in Austin. I haven’t found a good source here yet.” She moved aside some of the limbs with relative ease, making him realize that she had the larger hunks secured with ropes hanging from the rafters so they wouldn’t fall. She spotted the bay laurel she had in mind for the hospital sculpture and showed him some of the features.

“You should come out to my place sometime,” he said when she finished, even before he’d worked out if she was single or not. “That is, if you want to check out the trees.”

“I don’t take any fresh wood. Only fallen pieces.” She stepped carefully from her place among the knotty branches and gnarled slabs in every shade and fiber. “Do you think you have any downed trees on your property?”

“That’s not the sort of thing I typically look for when I go riding. But I’ve got over two hundred acres, so there’s bound to be something if you’d like to take a look sometime.”

“Really? You wouldn’t mind?” She brightened, the same happy expression lighting her eyes that he’d seen when he first told her about the commission.

He liked seeing her smile. Hearing the way her pleasure warmed the tone of her voice. He found himself wanting to get a whole lot closer to her and all that warmth.

“I’m not on call at the hospital this weekend. Come by anytime.” He withdrew his phone to message her with his contact information, dragging her phone number from his electronic copy of the commission contract. “I just sent you the address.”

“Thank you. I find inspiration just being out in nature, so I’d be grateful for the chance to see any of the woodlands.” She showed him a few more features of her studio, ending with the sunny corner where she liked to paint.

His eye roamed over the paintings she’d taped up around the windows and walls. There were dozens.

“You paint, you draw, you carve,” he observed. “You don’t ever feel like you’re spreading yourself too thin?”

As soon as he asked, he wondered if the question was too pointed. If he sounded critical again, the way he had in the meeting earlier. But the query was honest, and some of his bluntness was simply a part of his personality, long before the PTSD had hit him hard.

She shrugged, not seeming to take offense. “You repair everything from gallbladders to head trauma. I like to think I take that same kind of holistic approach to my expertise, too. It’s all art, so it’s all in my body of work.”

“There are so many paintings.” He ran a finger over one image of a woman’s back. Or at least, he thought it looked the curve of a feminine spine. The colors were muted and the image was a close-up, so he couldn’t be sure. Yet there was a sensuality to the flare of hips, and the subtle shape of an hourglass.

“I paint them quickly in the morning sometimes for a warm-up, just to get ideas flowing.” She glanced up at some of the paintings above her head, a rainbow of color on the wall behind her.

“How about the drawings?” he asked, thinking back to the sketch she’d done of him. “What makes you decide to use charcoals instead of paints?”

Her hesitation made him think that she understood exactly what he sought to discover. What had made her sketch him?

She took her time answering, threading a finger under a loose curl to skim it away from her face. A prism hanging in a nearby window reflected flashes of light on her skin. “I’m inclined to draw when I’m unsettled. I often use the charcoals to vent emotions—nervousness, anger...grief.”

Her voice hitched a bit, alerting him that he may have touched a nerve. Regretting that, he sought to reroute the conversation, not wanting to lose the tenuous connection he really wanted to strengthen with this woman. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an in-depth talk with anyone outside of the workplace.

“It’s good you’ve got a productive outlet for that.” He wondered which of those negative emotions had driven her to sketch him. No doubt he’d upset her earlier in the day. “Too many surgeons I know detach so thoroughly that they become—” Jackasses? That seemed a harsh way to define some of his colleagues. “Dedicated loners.”

“You wouldn’t be able to perform your job without some ability to detach.” Her hand alighted on his forearm in a gesture of comfort.

The contact was a social politeness. An expression of empathy.

But damn if it didn’t light up all his circuits like the Fourth of July. For the space of two heartbeats, her touch remained. He looked down at the place where she’d touched him, her fingers already sliding away. He missed the warmth immediately. Craved more of her caresses.

“Detaching isn’t a problem for me,” he admitted, unwilling to confess how deeply he wrestled with the fallout from that skill. “Sometimes that makes me far too abrupt, as you witnessed firsthand in today’s committee meeting.”

He watched her face, locking on her expression before he continued. “Were you venting negative emotions about that when you drew the picture of me?”

Perhaps she’d been expecting the question, or maybe she’d simply been more prepared to revisit the topic after her initial embarrassment about the sketch. She lifted a brow, her gaze wary, but she didn’t flush with discomfort this time.

“You noticed that and didn’t say anything?” She shook her head with a rueful laugh and leaned up against a built-in counter with cabinets below and shelves overhead. Paintbrushes in every size imaginable hung on a rack over the shelves. “I guess you are good at detaching. If I saw someone had made a picture of me, I would have been quick to ask a hundred questions about it.”

His gaze traveled her body, where her position drew all the more attention to her curves.

“I was curious.” He shoved his hands in his pockets to combat the urge to touch her. “I just didn’t think it was the right moment to ask.”

“Truthfully, yes, I felt frustrated about the meeting when I returned to the studio. I didn’t have any preconceived idea of what I would draw. I just sat down to blurt out anything that came to mind.” She met his eyes directly. Openly. “I was surprised when I saw you take shape on the paper.”

He wanted to think he’d ended up there because they had a connection. An undeniable spark.

Because the longer he lingered in Abigail’s sunny studio, the more he felt his normal boundaries crumbling. And while he wanted that—craved following up on the attraction simmering between them—he wasn’t sure how he would handle anything beyond simple lust. The realization made him edgy.

She filled the silence that followed with a sudden question. “Would you like me to finish the drawing?”

His throat went dry. The question had gotten complicated in the space of a moment as he started to recognize that Abigail wasn’t going to be the kind of woman who would be open to a purely physical relationship.

“I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.” He couldn’t think of a more eloquent retreat with Abigail moving toward him. Touching him again.

“Not at all.” She took his hand briefly to lead him toward a chair near her painting spot, her touch fanning the flame inside him, making him think about so much more. “Have a seat and I’ll finish up. You can see what it’s like to watch an artist at work.”

In the space of five minutes, Vaughn realized he’d somehow used up all his emotional reserves today. All of his ability to detach. Because that simple touch from Abigail sent all the wrong messages to his brain. He hadn’t given himself the outlet of a sexual relationship since he’d returned from Afghanistan. And now, the consequences of that had him on sensory overload, when he’d already battled the aftermath of a hellish surgery this morning.

A perfect storm of too many emotions without enough time to process them. He should have taken the time to go home and pick up Ruby before he came here. Having his dog beside him would have helped.

But he was already sitting in the seat Abigail had shown him when she returned with a heavy pencil in one hand and her half-made sketch in the other. She set both on a low table nearby, then moved closer to him, her gaze all over him. Studying him.

Seeing inside him somehow.

“Do you mind if I position you just a little?” she asked, already setting aside the folder he’d been carrying.

He wasn’t sure if he’d agreed or not. His forehead broke out in a sweat. Warning heat blasted up his back. He wanted her.

“Here.” Abigail set her hands on his shoulders and gently shifted them toward her.

She stood close, her knee brushing his thigh as she moved him, her breasts at eye level. She smelled like cinnamon and oranges, a spicy, tangy fragrance that would be burned into his memory forever. Sunlight kissed her face as she lifted his chin with one palm, her eyes taking a critical assessment of his features while he battled lust and a whole knot of other things he couldn’t come close to naming. Hunger for her gnawed at him. Hot. Persistent.

“I’ve got to go.” He clamped a hand on her wrist. Too hard at first. But then, realizing his responses were all out of whack, he gentled his hand. Released her. “I’m sorry, Abigail. I forgot that I said I would—” He rose from the chair. Sidestepped her. “Upload my notes on a critical-care patient after some—” His brain worked to come up with something vaguely believable before he did something stupid. Like kiss her until they were both breathless. Senseless. “Technical difficulties at the hospital.”

His voice rasped drily as he grappled for control.

“Of course.” She nodded even though she appeared as perplexed as he felt. “I’m sure I’ll see you at the hospital when I start work on site.”

“Right.” He didn’t reiterate his offer for her to come by his ranch. He needed to get his head on straight first. “I’m sure you will.”

Backing out of the door, he lifted a hand in a quick wave.

“Thank you for coming by. I couldn’t be more excited about the project,” she called after him.

But Vaughn didn’t answer. He was down the steps and seated in his truck in no time, slamming the door behind him while he turned over the engine and blasted the air-conditioning on his overheated body.

He didn’t know what the hell he’d been thinking, pursuing this sudden attraction he was clearly not ready to handle. Maybe some other day, when he wasn’t already depleted from a surgery that had brought back too many memories. But for right now, he needed to put some distance between him and a woman who stirred a surplus of emotions. No matter how much he thought he had mastered detachment, Abigail Stewart made him realize he’d only succeeded in getting damn good at lying to himself.

Three

A few days later, Abigail wondered if it had been presumptuous of her to accept Vaughn’s offer to search for pieces of fallen wood on his ranch outside of town. Driving out of downtown toward the address Vaughn had given her, she knew it was too late to turn back now. She did really want the chance to walk through the trees and find inspiration, along with some different kinds of boughs for the oversize statue she was creating for Royal Memorial. That much was true.

But there was no denying her interest in the lone wolf doctor who so fascinated her.

When she’d texted her request for when she’d like to come to his property, the response had been almost immediate, making her wonder if he was just that prompt. Or if he’d been thinking about her, too. She was intrigued to see him again even though she knew she needed to tell him about her pregnancy.

Now, turning down the road that passed the Ace in the Hole Ranch, where she used to work for the man she’d believed to be Will Sanders, she couldn’t stop the flood of memories. The main house was massive, with a deep front porch and multiple rooflines, plus an open breezeway connecting to a guest cottage. The crisp, white-painted home and dark shutters were immaculate, the trimmed hedges in perfect alignment. In the years she’d lived in Royal, she’d never seen the rolling lawn allowed to grow a millimeter too long. At night, it was really something to behold, with the many windows lit from within, and landscape lighting that illuminated the prettiest features.

Working at the Ace in the Hole had been rewarding if only to step onto that gorgeous property every day for a few weeks last winter. Her actual duties had been straightforward enough—organizing files and transferring them to more secure storage for Will.

Or, more accurately, the man who’d been impersonating Will Sanders, his former friend, Richard Lowell. Not many people in Royal knew that Will Sanders had returned to town to crash his own funeral. The FBI was now involved in the quiet investigation since they hoped that they might lure Rich Lowell back. Abigail knew about it because she’d received a letter from an attorney asking her to attend the funeral, since she was named as one of Will’s heirs. She’d nearly fainted when Will walked into the service himself.

None of that changed the fact that she’d had a one-night stand with the man who’d impersonated Will.

And now, she needed to let Vaughn know about the pregnancy. She was trying to move beyond the anger and frustration surrounding the father of her baby. She still worried about what she would tell her child about his or her daddy down the road. That he was a felon? A sociopath? Guilty of more crimes than she even knew about?

Shuddering, she touched her belly protectively and felt an answering flutter. The shifting movements of this life inside never failed to amaze her since she’d started noticing it in the last few weeks. Amid so much grief this past year, those signs of vibrant renewal felt like the most precious gift in the world.

Pulling up to the gates of Vaughn’s property, some of those happy feelings faded, however. The gates were huge. Imposing.

And the most definitely ensured privacy.

She knew many doctors earned a good living, but an electric gate with wrought-iron scrollwork outlining the house number suggested a whole different level of wealth. The arched entrance was a good ten feet tall on the sides, swooping up to fifteen at the peak of the arch. She pressed the call button on the keypad and Vaughn’s voice answered as the gate mechanism whirred softly, pulling open to the paved road that must lead to his home.

“Glad you found the place, Abigail,” he said, through the speaker on the security system. “You can park in front of the house and I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Her voice sounded flat. Because she was intimidated? Or because she’d hoped to find Vaughn living somewhere more...accessible?

She knew it wasn’t fair to hold it against him that he’d done well in life. But after seeing how Will Sanders’s money had corrupted someone into impersonating him, she sure didn’t take any pleasure from the wealthy trappings that other people might find appealing.

Rounding a bend surrounded by live oaks, Abigail had to admire the old growth buffering the home from the roadway. There were walnut and maple trees, ash and pecan.

And then, there he was.

Vaughn Chambers stood out in front of his ranch home built of sandstone, the dusky browns and tans of the rock walls blending with the hills and trees so seamlessly it looked like a part of the landscape. A planked porch wrapped around two sides, with the main roofline continuing down to the porch, a trick of building that provided plenty of shade to homes in the summertime. The darker roof and wooden porch columns set off the lighter stone. Three dormers graced the main roof, giving the house a modest-sized second floor and a huge footprint on the main level. A detached garage with huge, dark wood doors looked big enough to hold a monster truck. Or, more likely, multiple vehicles.

The house was lovely, and couldn’t be more different from the manicured beauty of the Ace in the Hole. Vaughn’s home had a rustic, natural appeal.

As for the man himself, her breath caught to see him again. The short beard and moustache appeared freshly trimmed today. His thick brown hair was darker and spiky from a recent shower. He wore a gray T-shirt with jeans and boots that looked like they’d seen real work. A golden retriever sat at his feet, its long fur brushed and gleaming in the July sunlight.

“What a beautiful dog!” She was grateful for the animal, a welcome topic of conversation to hide her nervousness.

“This is Ruby.” He scratched his canine behind the ears, the affection in his voice obvious. “Ruby, meet Abigail.”

“May I pet her?” She liked to ask first even though the dog appeared well-trained. Her sister had once startled a stray in her eagerness to pet it when they were kids, and she had a scar on her leg from the bite for the rest of her too-short life.

How daunting that a hundred and one things every day still made her think of Alannah. Her chest went tight with the familiar squeeze of sorrow.

“Sure. She’s a social dog and she likes a good scratch on the haunches.”

Bending closer to Ruby, Abigail stroked the silky fur. Her knee brushed up against the animal’s collar as she patted one side of her back, the movement jingling the silver tags. One had her name engraved on it and, she guessed, Vaughn’s contact information on the other side. It was the second tag that caught her eye for the red caduceus and the Service Dog—Full Access notation.

Vaughn had a service dog?

She knew it was rude to ask about it, a working-dog etiquette tip she’d picked up from her friend Natalie St. Cloud, who owned the Cimarron Rose B and B in Royal, where Abigail occasionally stopped for a meal. Natalie had an autistic son who had a service dog, another golden retriever, and the animal had made a world of difference in their lives.

Straightening from petting the dog, Abigail swallowed the questions pinwheeling through her brain. If Vaughn had noticed her reading his dog’s tags, he didn’t indicate it. He gave the dog the command to “free play,” and Ruby sprinted over to a pair of weathered gray barns on the side of the house near a large, fenced pasture.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He turned toward her again. “I regret the way I left in a hurry on Wednesday.”

The hint of hunger in his green eyes made her feel things for him she shouldn’t. She really needed to tell him about her pregnancy. End this heart-fluttering tension between them and focus on her work and her baby.

“It was kind of you to make the time to stop by personally in the first place.” She took a deep breath, prepared to tell him the truth.

“Would you prefer the walking tour or a horseback version?” he asked and gestured toward the barn before she could get the words out.

She loved riding, but it had been years she’d been in a saddle and wasn’t sure how she would fare. Five months pregnant might not be the best time to try refreshing her skills.

“Maybe I’d do best on foot today. My horseback-riding skills are decidedly rusty.”

“I have a utility vehicle with a cart attached. If you see something you like while we’re out, you can just let me know and I’ll use the cart to pick it up for you later.”

“That would be great.” She had planned to simply use the day for inspiration in creating her own tree for the children’s ward, but she appreciated the offer of bringing some pieces home with her. “Thank you.”

They started down a worn path between the house and barns. Ruby remained close to Vaughn’s side even though she wasn’t on a leash. The golden retriever didn’t dart off to examine butterflies or sniff interesting fence posts. Clearly, the dog was tightly bonded to Vaughn.

Abigail enjoyed walking with them both as they entered a wooded area on the southern side of the ranch. Part of her delight was being in nature, something she missed in her downtown bungalow. With the earthy scents of green and growing vegetation around them, she breathed deeper, her fingers trailing over tree trunks and brushing against mossy logs. But another aspect of her pleasure had to do with Vaughn’s very male presence beside her. His warmth and strength. The simple consideration he showed for her when he lifted a low sapling branch out of her way or pointed out a rocky patch in the terrain.

“I didn’t get to ask you something the other day.” Vaughn held out his hand to her to help her across a rivulet.

She accepted his offer, squeezing his fingers for balance as she hopped over the water, his touch making her far too aware of him. “What’s that? After our first meeting, I can’t imagine you holding back on any question you wanted to pose,” she teased lightly, telling herself not to let the brush of his fingers affect her.

“Are you seeing anyone?” He stopped beside her, his boot cracking a twig underfoot as he pivoted to look at her, his hand still holding hers.

Everything inside her stilled. Because with that question, he was making it clear that she hadn’t misread the signals he’d sent. If she hadn’t been expecting a baby, maybe this could lead to something more. Something special.

Her heart thudded so hard he probably felt it in his hand where her palm grazed his. Staring up into his eyes, she allowed herself a flash of if-only thoughts, where this moment would play out differently.

And then, she forced herself back to reality.

“No. I am definitely not.” With a resolute shake of her head, she stepped back, disentangling their fingers with more than a little regret. “But my life is about to get very complicated, Vaughn, because I’m five months pregnant.”

* * *

Too stunned to hide his shock, Vaughn dropped his gaze to her slim figure. She wore three-quarter-length yoga pants and a blue-and-white floral blouse that covered her midsection. Now that he thought back on it, all the times they’d met she’d been wearing loose tops or, like the other day, her artist’s smock.

He’d just assumed she was single when he didn’t see a ring and felt—thought he felt—the sparks between them. Damn. Damn. Damn. He knew it was rude to stare and, belatedly, he forced his eyes to meet hers.

“I had no idea.” He shook his head, feeling like a first-rate idiot as a bird whistled and circled overhead. Ruby pressed against his leg, her head lightly nudging his knee. “I never would have guessed—”

“Well, I haven’t made a habit of advertising it yet since I’m still trying to come to terms with what this pregnancy means for me.” Abigail rubbed one hand over her other arm as if to ward off a chill, even though the day bordered on being hot. “Would you mind if we keep walking?”

“Sure.” He nodded, his hand scratching Ruby’s head automatically as they stalked deeper into the woodland portion of the ranch. “You’re not...with the baby’s father?”

She shook her head. “I’m not even sure he’s alive.” Her words were halting. Troubled. Then, as she slanted a look his way, something fierce lit her dark eyes. “But even if he is, he won’t be a part of my child’s life.”

“He won’t?” Vaughn knew she might not have a legal say in that since the father could sue for paternal rights. If Vaughn had a child, he would move heaven and earth to make sure he had a role in the baby’s life.

Not that he would ever be a father after the way his world had changed forever. Besides, from the vehemence in her voice he suspected it wasn’t the right moment to speculate about possible legal action involving her baby.

“Are you close with anyone in the Texas Cattleman’s Club?” she asked, surprising him with the quick turn of conversation. Her tone was different now. Confiding. Confidential.

How sad that he felt like they were getting closer on the same day she pulled away. He still couldn’t believe the woman he was so attracted to was carrying another man’s child. He was too shocked at the news to figure out how he felt about that.

“I’m not active, but my father still is.” His dad had asked him to stop by the club more than once since his return from Afghanistan.

His parents didn’t really understand how hard he battled the PTSD, or that Vaughn didn’t socialize more than strictly necessary. He pointed to a turn in the path through the woods, silently showing Abigail the way while she continued.

“Then you might know—and your father most likely already knows—that Rich Lowell was impersonating Will Sanders before the imposter faked Will’s death.”

Vaughn had heard rumblings, but not the full story. Will Sanders was a man who had it all—including a prestigious family with deep roots in Royal, and with the Texas Cattleman’s Club. He owned one of the largest ranches in Royal in addition to being CEO of Spark Energy Solutions, an energy company with ties to oil, gas and solar.

Or at least, he was CEO. Before his supposed death eight weeks ago.

“I heard something about Will Sanders walking into his own funeral this spring, but the story was too incredible to believe.” Vaughn wondered how Abigail knew about it. The story hadn’t been in the local news outlets even though Will Sanders was a high-profile member of the community.

And then, he understood. Abigail wasn’t a member of the TCC. So if she knew about the FBI investigation that was allegedly probing into the impersonation and embezzlement schemes of a man posing as Will Sanders, it could only mean she’d been questioned. Or was close to one of the main parties under investigation.

She halted beside him, her brows lifted, as if fully expecting he would have put the pieces together.

He stroked the top of Ruby’s head, taking comfort from her presence when he should probably be offering support to Abigail. “Is the man who pretended to be Will Sanders the father of your child?” he asked.

The hum of summer insects in the meadow nearby penetrated the woods, filling the air with a rising, buzzing sound, an ominous underscore to his question.

“Yes.” The terse reply communicated a wealth of resentment.

Or was it something more complicated than that? He couldn’t read her expression, but there was a plethora of emotions there.

“I’m so damn sorry.” He spotted a place he’d wanted to show her, where a fallen log made a mossy seat beside a rushing brook. No doubt, this day wasn’t going to be the kind of prelude to romance he’d hoped for, but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t still drawn to the compelling woman beside him. He took her hand again, craving the feel of her in spite of everything. “Come sit for a minute.”

“I don’t regret this baby for a moment,” she confided as she followed him toward the creek. “But I hate that I won’t have a happy story to share with my child about his or her father. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Abigail’s artist’s gaze seemed to take in every detail as he led her under a low-hanging branch to show her the bend in the brook, perfect for dipping your toes on a hot day. The whole glade smelled like balsam and loamy earth.

“He deceived you along with the whole town.” Vaughn couldn’t imagine how devastated she must have been. But according to local gossips, Abigail hadn’t been the only woman taken in by the fake Will Sanders’s charm. The lowlife had been married to Megan Phillips and had an affair with a woman while abroad on business. “That’s a lot to process in addition to the baby news.”

He felt protective of Abigail, damn it. Was that why he kept hold of her hand, or steadied her waist when she stepped up onto the log? She deserved his care.

But as he sank to sit on the fallen tree beside her, Vaughn knew he was lying to himself. He would take any excuse to touch her. Get closer to her.

“Our night together should have never happened in the first place.” She wrapped her arms around herself, her feet dangling just above the brook’s edge, while Ruby settled along the back of the log, faithfully watching Vaughn’s back, the way she’d been trained. “I was doing temp work at the Ace in the Hole last winter. I didn’t even know him that well. He told me he was separated from his wife, and I believed him.”

Vaughn wasn’t sure how to offer comfort. So he just listened. Waited. The rush of the water filled the silence while a soft breeze rustled through the hickory tree overhead. He couldn’t deny a sense of relief that her relationship had been just one night and not a deep, emotional relationship. Yet at the same time, he knew it was irrational of him to feel that way since he barely knew her.

“I was working late that night because it was my younger sister’s birthday.” Her voice changed. Softened. “Alannah.” She glanced over at him, blinking fast before she looked away again. “She would have been twenty-four. Only she died ten months before that, and I was really...struggling that day.”

Whatever he’d thought she might say, it hadn’t been anything remotely close to that. Understanding made his chest ache for her. He related to that kind of loss all too well.

His arm went around her shoulders. Behind him, he felt Ruby shift. Even his dog nudged Abigail’s back, whimpering with the kind of empathetic emotion that animals keenly understood.

“Honey, I’m more sorry than I can say.” He tipped his cheek to the top of her head. “She was taken from you far too soon.”

He didn’t even want to think about some bastard taking advantage of her grief. Because as much as Vaughn could admit he liked the feel of Abigail in his arms, he would never use her vulnerable state for leverage. That was just...so damn wrong.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.