New York Doc to Blushing Bride. Janice Lynn

started the Jeep and pulled out of the funeral parlor parking lot, heading down the highway toward the quiet neighborhood where Preston’s house was located.

      About halfway to Maple Street he glanced toward where she sat, staring blankly out the open doorway. The wind tugged at her hair, pulling strands free from where she had it pinned back. Utter fatigue was etched on her face. He reached across the seat, put his hand over hers. That skin-to-skin electricity zapped him again.

      Her head jerked toward him. Had she felt it, too?

      Regardless, she looked ready to demand he take her back to Greenwood’s, that she’d only temporarily lost her mind in asking for his help. But whatever had sparked to life within her deflated just as quickly. Without a word, she went back to staring out the open doorway. Within seconds her body relaxed and her head slumped against the headrest.

      Hand still tucked beneath his, she’d gone to sleep.

      He parked the car in front of Preston’s gray-and-white Victorian-style home, jumped out and went to Cara’s side of the car.

      Should he wake her or just carry her inside?

      No doubt she’d not slept much, if at all, the night before. If he woke her, would she be able to go back to sleep or would she lie grieving through the long night hours?

      Memories of her tearstained face from the day before decided it for him.

      Digging his key ring out of his pocket, he unlocked the front door, went back to the Jeep and carefully scooped Cara into his arms.

      She was as light as a feather.

      And smelled of heaven.

      Or as close to heaven as Sloan had ever smelled. Like the soft, sweet fragrance of cherry candy mixed with an amazing, almost addictive freshness that made him want to inhale deeply. Then there were those electric zings. His entire body sparked with excitement.

      He held a woman who had fascinated him for months, long before he’d met her. As he’d dated and tried to make a life for himself in Bloomberg, he’d found himself comparing every woman to the woman Preston often spoke of, never satisfied, always feeling as if he was waiting for something more.

      Waiting for her to come home perhaps?

      Which made no sense.

      He blamed Preston. Preston compared every woman Sloan dated to Cara so, of course, Sloan had done the same. The man’s dying words had been a request for Sloan to promise to take care of Cara.

      A promise Sloan had given and meant.

      But, much as he didn’t understand his interest in Cara, he couldn’t blame everything on Preston. Cara herself had captured his imagination with the various photos of her hanging on Preston’s office wall.

      Sloan did his best to tamp down the awareness of her that his body couldn’t seem to prevent because he was positive that his all-too-male response wasn’t what his friend had meant regarding taking care of his daughter. Besides, she was exhausted, grieving for her father. He had no right to be thinking of her as a desirable woman, to be aware of her feminine attributes. He should only be seeing her as the grieving daughter of a man he’d loved.

      He kept telling himself that as he carried her into her room, managed to get the covers pulled back, and gently placed her in her bed.

      The glow from the hallway light illuminated her lovely face, free from anguish for the first time since he’d met her, with the exception of when she’d been caring for Mrs. Goines. Then her natural nurturing instinct had taken over. He ached to see the twinkle in her eyes that shone in Preston’s photos, to hear laughter spill from her full lips, to have her look at him with something other than disdain.

      Unable to resist, he brushed a strand of hair away from her face, stroking his finger over the silky smoothness of her skin.

      Based upon her reaction to meeting him, he doubted he’d ever experience any of the things he’d like to experience about Cara, which was a real shame because she fascinated him. Probably because of his love of Preston. Probably.

      If only he could convince himself of that.

      He turned to leave but her hand grabbed his.

      “Don’t go.”

      Sloan stood perfectly still. Was she even awake or just reaching out in her sleep? He turned, met her sleepy gaze. “Cara?”

      “I don’t want to be alone in this lonely house. Not tonight.” Her voice was small, almost childlike in its plea. “Please, don’t go.”

      Sloan knew staying shouldn’t be an option. Not in Bloomberg. His Jeep was parked outside. Everyone knew his Jeep. Bloomberg was a small town. Nothing would happen. Not when she was so distraught, but, still, the right thing for him to do would be to leave, to not give gossips anything to gnaw upon.

      But walking away from her might take a much stronger man than he’d ever claimed to be.

CHAPTER THREE

      CARA CLUNG TO Sloan’s hand as if letting go would mean falling into an abyss she might never climb back out of.

      She just might.

      Goose bumps covered her skin. Her insides trembled. Her teeth fought chattering.

      Which was crazy. The house wasn’t cold. Not really.

      But she felt chilled all the way to her bones, had from the moment she’d lost contact with Sloan’s body heat when he’d laid her into her childhood bed. She’d suddenly felt more alone than she could recall ever feeling.

      In his arms, and in the cocoon of her exhaustion, she’d felt warm, safe, not alone.

      She’d not slept the night before, had tried, but the house haunted her, filling her mind with noises and memories of days gone past.

      By the time she’d left for the funeral she’d been grateful for a reason to leave the ghostly haven.

      She shivered again and grasped Sloan’s hand tighter as she felt his inner struggle on whether to go or stay. No wonder. She didn’t like him, hadn’t been receptive to any of his friendly overtures. Yet now she was begging him to stay as if he was the only thing protecting her from nighttime monsters.

      He was.

      “Don’t go,” she pleaded, grateful for the dim lights. She hated begging. She hated the thought of being alone in this house even more. “I need you.”

      Still he wavered. “Are you sure, Cara? I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

      Please. She rolled her eyes. Typical man. She just wanted him to ward off the ensuing nightmares and he thought she was offering sex.

      Perhaps she couldn’t fault him for that because maybe her pleas had sounded as if she wanted more than what she’d meant.

      “So long as you keep your clothes on, Casanova, and I keep on my clothes, you aren’t taking advantage. I just don’t want to be alone. Please, don’t make me.”

      The dark shadows of the room didn’t hide him digesting her words. His expression confused, he looked down at where she held his hand. “Just so we’re clear, what is it you want from me, Cara?”

      Her brain felt fuzzy and she almost said, “Everything.” But that was all wrong. All she wanted from him was the comfort of knowing another person was near, that she wasn’t really alone in this house, in the world. She needed human contact. Not him really. Just another human near to offer companionship, to ground her to reality.

      “Just hold me and don’t let me go.”

      He still looked torn. She wished she could read his mind to know his thoughts. But then his lips pursed and he gave one slight nod.

      “I can do that.”