That Loving Touch. Ashley Summers
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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.