That Loving Touch. Ashley Summers

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.”