New York Doc to Blushing Bride. Janice Lynn

      A small smile tugged at one corner of his lips. “I suspect you have a sharp tongue, Cara.”

      If Cara weren’t so cold, feeling so emotionally bereft, if her eyelids weren’t so heavy, she might have smiled at his comment. Wasn’t that what her father had often said of her mother? That she’d had a tongue so sharp she could cut diamonds with a few well-chosen words? Odd. She hadn’t thought of that in years. Instead of acknowledging the memories flooding her, she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered again. “I’m so cold.”

      Sloan sucked in a deep breath and crawled into the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms and cradling her next to his long, lean, warm body. “You won’t be for long, Cara. I promise.”

      She wasn’t.

      Instead, she closed her eyes and, although being in bed with him should have kept her wide-awake, she slept, peaceful in the knowledge that he was there.

      Not only there but stroking her hair, telling her how sorry he was at her loss, at how her father had been a good man and would be sorely missed. His low, gentle voice soothed aches deep inside her. She snuggled closer into him, knowing that if she wakened and needed him, he would still be there for the simple reason that he’d said he would be.

      Funny how much that thought comforted her when he was essentially a stranger and she didn’t like him.

      Still, her father had liked him, trusted him, which was partially the problem. But in a moment of crisis that had to count for something.

      In his arms was the only place she’d found any comfort since her entire world had turned upside down with a phone call he’d been the one to make.

      Sloan lay very still, listening to the even sounds of Cara breathing. She’d gone right back to sleep. That was probably a good thing because no matter how many times he reminded his mind that this was a good deed, his body responded to her closeness in an all-male way.

      He inhaled a slow whiff of the scent of her hair. Clean with a soft cherry flavor. That’s what she smelled like. Cherry blossoms.

      Unable to resist, he ran his fingers into her hair, stroking the sweet softness of her tresses between his fingers.

      What was he doing?

      Sighing, he let go of her hair and wrapped his arm back around her body, holding her close.

      She wriggled against him, causing torturous awareness to zing to life.

      “I don’t like you,” she mumbled under her breath, so low he barely could make out what she said.

      “I noticed,” he whispered back in resigned acknowledgement of her feelings toward him.

      “Even if you are scorching hot and wear sex appeal like a second skin.”

      Sloan’s entire body went stiff. Her breathing was still even and her body hadn’t moved away from where she spooned with his. Was she awake?

      “You think I’m sexy?” he asked, curious as to whether she’d respond and, if so, what she’d say.

      “You are so hot you melt my insides just looking at you—but don’t think I’ll ever tell you that,” she answered, her body still relaxed against his. “I won’t, because I don’t like you.”

      Asleep. She was talking to him in her sleep. No way would she have just said that and not gone all tense if she were awake.

      Despite his current uncomfortable predicament, Sloan grinned. It no longer mattered that Cara didn’t like him, because apparently she was as physically aware of him as he was her. Somehow, at the moment, that seemed a lot more important in the grand scheme of life than merely being liked.

      “Good night, Cara,” he whispered against her hair, brushing his lips against the silkiness in a soft kiss. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow but we’ll get through it. Then we’re going to have this conversation when you’re awake and not mentally and emotionally exhausted, because looking at you melts my insides, too, and I do like you. I like you way too much.”

      Cara gradually became aware of her surroundings, drifting somewhere between sleep and an awareness of the world around her. The quietness was the first thing that struck her. No New York City noises in the background of her inner world, as she’d expected.

      But her sleepy inner world definitely had noises.

      Male noises.

      Soft male breath sounds.

      And warmth. She felt so absolutely warm that she hated to move and risk letting any coldness seep into her snuggly world.

      John didn’t usually hold her like this. He wasn’t a snuggler and said he couldn’t breathe if she was in his personal space, that she made him sweat. Cara slept on her side of the bed and John slept on his. They met in the middle from time to time, but lately that had been less and less frequently.

      Actually, Cara couldn’t recall the last time she and John had had sex or held each other. Way before her father’s last visit.

      She couldn’t recall the last time he’d smelled so wonderfully manly, either. A light spicy musk that made her want to remember sex, to remember intimacy, that made her want to wiggle her body against his, and to have him want her, not just want her, but have to have her.

      Which she must have done, because his arm tightened around her and his lower half woke up. Way up.

      Good. Since her father’s visit she’d gone from thinking John was going to propose to wondering if he even wanted her anymore. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself or to anyone else, but something had definitely changed in their relationship. These days he certainly didn’t seem to care one way or the other if they maintained a physical relationship.

      Sex wasn’t the most important aspect of a relationship to Cara, but the closeness of being intimate with one’s mate was important. Very important, and she missed that intimacy.

      She missed being held and touched and loved.

      Which was silly. Of course John loved her. He told her every morning and every night just like clockwork. Just as she told him.

      She was being held and touched and loved right now in an mmmm, good kind of way and she craved the feelings rushing through her more than she’d realized or been willing to admit.

      His lips brushed against her hair in a caress that could only be described as worshipful. She rolled over, wanting to feel them against her mouth, to have him kiss her, to make love to her with this newfound passion.

      He must have been waiting for her, because he immediately covered her mouth with his. His lips toyed masterfully with hers, teasing, tasting, tantalizing.

      Mmmm, she thought. So good. She didn’t recall John kissing so well, or with so much passion, but she wasn’t complaining. All her insides were coming alive at how he was kissing her so enthusiastically, at how his body moved against hers, making her all too aware of the clothes separating their bodies. She arched into him, ran her hands into his hair, held him close, kissed him back with an enthusiasm that matched his own, awed at the butterflies dancing in her belly. Lower. It had been so long since she’d felt this way, since she’d wanted, felt wanted, desirable, needed. Had she ever?

      “Cara,” he moaned. “You feel so good.”

      Only “he” hadn’t been the he she was expecting. He wasn’t John and all the feelings hastening through her came to a quick halt.

      No longer sleepy, Cara’s eyes sprang open and her body jerked away from the man in her bed.

      In horror, everything came rushing back.

      The awful phone call she’d gotten, telling her that her father had died.

      Making arrangements at work to be off for her father’s funeral.

      John refusing to go with her.

      Flying