Anything but Love cl-3

by Beth Ciotta

“I’m calling an emergency meeting of the Cupcake Lovers.”

  “This about the recipe book?”

  “During our talk last night, Rae pitched an idea that could get us back on the fast track. Then again you probably know that since you two have been yakking on the phone the past couple of weeks.”

  “Your point?”

  “I don’t want to you to get hurt.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Sam—”

  “Leave it. What time’s the meeting and where?”

  “Moose-a-lotta. Just after closing.”

  Ben and Mina spent every other weekend with Paula’s parents. Sam wouldn’t have to worry about returning home at a certain time or preparing dinner or bribing Mina for her nighttime bath with a bottle of Mr. Bubble. Plenty of time to work magic on the old Rothwell house before driving back to Sugar Creek. “I’ll be there.”

  “Great. That makes almost everyone.”

  “Who bailed?”

  “Casey’s out of town until Monday and Luke’s already committed. Can’t blame him,” Rocky said. “It’s Saturday after all. You know Luke.”

  So his cousin was bartending at the Shack or showing a woman a good time. Or … he’d taken Sam’s suggestion about leaving the Cupcake Lovers. “See you then,” Sam said.

  He disconnected just as he turned onto Swamp Road. Even though the two-lane roadway had been plowed at one point, Sam’s tires rolled over at least three inches of packed snow and ice. Nothing he didn’t manage on a daily basis, but he was accustomed to winters in Vermont. He was wondering how Ms. Day, who’d been living on the sunny West Coast, fared the frosty elements just as he approached the side road that—“Fuck!”

  Sam swerved, narrowly missing the car that barreled out of Fox Lane, fishtailed across his path, and rolled on to its side. Adrenaline spiking, he braked and catapulted out of his truck. At least there were no other cars on the road. It could have been worse. Still, who drove that fast on ice when coming up on an intersection?

  He assessed the situation while crossing the road. The four-door rested on the passenger side, face down in a snowbank. He had to scale the chassis to get to the driver’s side. He smelled gas. Not necessarily ominous, but no reason to take chances. He wretched open the door and spied a woman curled in a ball and plastered against the passenger window.

  Her long dark hair covered her face and she was swaddled in a long furry coat. He couldn’t tell if he knew her. She was alone and she wasn’t moving. Heart pounding, he reached in to key off the ignition. “You okay, miss?”

  She groaned and stirred. “I think so.” She shoved her hair out of her face—a beautiful, unfamiliar face—and palmed the side of her head. Wincing, she shifted and grappled on the floor then, cell phone in hand, started texting.

  What the—

  Perched precariously on the upended side of the car, Sam tempered his frustration and stretched out his arm. “Give me your hand.”

  “Just a sec.” Focused on her phone, she continued to thumb in a message.

  “You better be texting 911.”

  “A client. Hold on.”

  Leaning in, Sam nabbed the phone and tossed it over his shoulder.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I was wondering the same thing about you, lady.” On the other hand, her sky-blue eyes were glazed and her hands were trembling. Maybe she was in shock. Sam swooped in and hauled her out. It wasn’t that far of a drop to the ground, but she squirmed and Sam lost his footing. He shifted, taking the brunt of the fall as they hit the road hard.

  Sam lay there a second, more stunned by his reaction to the woman in his arms than the bone-jarring impact. He’d never been much of a talker, but he was speechless. Even though they were both dressed in layers, he was well aware of her curves. And her face. She was gorgeous. Model gorgeous. Like one of those fantasy chicks in the bathing suit issue of Sports Illustrated. Her lush mouth incited a rush of wicked thoughts and a raging hard-on.

  Her blue eyes widened and Sam knew she felt the enormity of his desire pressed against her belly. “What are you, a pervert?” she asked while rolling off of him.

  Assuming that was a rhetorical question, Sam pushed to his feet and watched as she scrambled around in search of … ah, yes. Her phone. “Let me guess,” he said as anger loosened his tongue. “You were texting while driving.”

  “Thank God,” she said while dusting off her screen. “It still works.”

  The woman was oblivious. A drop-dead gorgeous flake.

  And she’d come straight from the direction of the Rothwell Farm.

  Hell.

  Frowning, Sam took out his own phone. “Yeah, Leo? Sam McCloud. Need a wrench, maybe a tow. Swamp Road across from Fox Lane. Car flipped in a snowbank. No. No injuries. Thanks.”

  Miss Sports Illustrated glanced over and held his gaze. “Sam McCloud? Rocky’s cousin?”

  He jerked a thumb behind him. “There’s a stop sign at the end of that road, Ms. Day.”

  “I tried to stop but the road was slick and—”

  “You were texting.”

  “It was important.”

  “As important as your life?”

  She glared as if he’d just issued the gravest insult. Her phone rang and she shoved back her bountiful hair to press the high-tech cell to her ear.

  That’s when Sam noticed the goose egg swelling at her temple. He moved in to inspect the damage just as she started yakking to some guy named Chico.

  She slapped at Sam’s hand, trying to push him away, but not losing a conversational beat. “I told you before, Chico, you can’t punch a member of the paparazzi. I know they’re a nuisance, but they’re necessary.”

  “You’re bleeding.” It wasn’t bad, but now Sam wondered if she had sustained any other wounds—possible contusions hidden beneath her shaggy red coat. He pulled a wad of tissue from his coat pocket and gently pressed the compress to her small cut. “Hold this in place,” he told her. “I’m taking you home.”

  “In a minute,” she said to Sam then went back to admonishing Chico. Some shit about TMZ (whatever that was) making the guy look like a self-righteous asshole.

  Sam eyed her car, in the ditch and out of the way of anyone who might drive by. Leo would arrive within the half hour. Meanwhile, it was fricking freezing and Harper Day was bruised and bleeding. Only one way to handle a stubborn, reckless, and injured woman.

  Sam hauled her over his shoulder and carried her to his truck.

  Meanwhile, she continued to admonish her Hollywood client while simultaneously stroking the dude’s ego. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll spin this crisis by noon. Hold on.” She glanced at Sam with those killer baby blues as he placed her in the cab. “Would you mind going back for my purse?” Holding the tissues to her temple, she flashed a quick smile. “Thanks. You’re a doll. No, not you, Chico. I mean … What? No, I can’t pop over for a drink. I’m out of town. Now listen…”

  Everything about this woman rubbed Sam the wrong way. Why the hell he still had a hard-on for her was a mystery. Except she frickin’ oozed sex and Sam hadn’t had any in a long while. Yeah. That was it.

  Crossing over to Harper’s upended car, he visualized cooling his dick in the snowdrift while sending a text of his own to Rocky:

  YOU OWE ME

  THIRTEEN

  Regardless of the icy roads, Luke broke the speed limit and ran a couple of stop signs in his haste to get to the Pine and Periwinkle.

  In anticipation of having Rae over for a baking lesson, he’d spent the morning cleaning his house. Sure Rae had maintained a frugal lifestyle the year she’d spent in Sugar Creek, but he assumed she typically lived in places as posh as her mom’s Bel Air mansion. Luke lived in a modest three-bedroom Colonial on a ten-acre plot southwest of town. He couldn’t do anything about the rustic décor, but he could collect rogue chip bags, beer bottles, discarded T-shirts and socks, and, as much as he hated the chore, he scrubbed the downstairs john. He’d been drinking coffee and surv
eying his baking supplies when he’d gotten the troubling call from Rae.

  “Luke, I—”

  “You’re not calling to cancel, are you?”

  “No. Yes. I’m sorry. I’m sick. I’m … I’m worried.”

  She’d sounded weak and shaky and her earlier warning rang in his ears.

  The first trimester … it’s iffy.

  “On my way.” Luke grabbed his coat and hauled ass. He’d never been a pessimist, but he kept thinking the worst. He would’ve been concerned for any woman and any baby. But, dammit, even though he didn’t wholly trust her, Luke had a soft spot for Rae. And apparently, his feelings ran deeper than he’d imagined regarding her baby. His baby. He felt a whole new kind of sick as he jumped in his SUV and peeled onto the road.

  Ten minutes later he skidded up to the Pine and Periwinkle Inn. Two minutes later he stood on the fourth floor in front of her door.

  He knocked. “Rae, it’s Luke.”

  Silence.

  Chest tight, he tried her cell.

  No answer.

  “Dammit.” He glanced across the hall, eyed the stocked housekeeping cart and the wedged open door. He peeked inside. Viv Underwood was making up a guest’s bed. “Viv. Hey.”

  She looked over her shoulder, ponytail bopping. She smiled. “Luke. You aiming on coming in here and taking advantage of me and this bed?”

  He forced a smile of his own. “Nice thought, but no.” Luke had dated Viv awhile back. She was fun in the sack, but too clingy. He’d eased out of the relationship, wanting to spare her feelings before she was in too deep. “I need a favor, hon. Can you let me into room 412?”

  “Is it registered to you?”

  “To a friend. She’s not feeling well and she’s not answering her phone or door. I just want to check in. Make sure she’s okay.”

  Viv frowned. “A woman friend, huh?”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Mmm.” She moved into the hall and around her cart. “I could get fired for this.”

  “I won’t tell a soul.”

  She inserted a master card key.

  Luke turned the knob. “Thanks.” He gave her cheek a peck then slipped inside and shut her out. He eyed the spacious, elegant suite, the empty queen-sized poster bed.

  His fricking heart rammed against his chest. “Rae!”

  “In here.”

  Luke found her in the bathroom, curled on the tile floor in between the tub and the toilet. His gut knotted as he stooped and palmed her pale face. “Did you faint? Are you hurt?”

  “Just resting.”

  “What?”

  She met his gaze, wet her lips. “Woke up sick in the middle of the night. Dizzy, nauseous. I’ve been puking and … stuff … all night and morning. It stopped a while ago, but … weak. Thought I’d rest here awhile.”

  He spied her cell phone, on the floor, within her reach. “Why didn’t you answer when I called?”

  “You called?”

  He thumbed on the screen. “You lowered the volume.”

  “I did?”

  Was she delirious? Luke pocketed her phone, adrenaline racing. She looked small and vulnerable and, short hair aside, a helluva lot like the dysfunctional woman who’d roped his interest back in October. The woman who’d fallen apart when that jerkwad college student had grabbed her ass and caused a scene. Luke weathered a swarm of emotions, most of them tender. Pulse kicking, he finessed her into his arms.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “I’m putting you to bed then calling a doctor.”

  “Researched on-line while I was still vertical. Symptoms indicate food poisoning. I think I’m okay now. Just weak. I wouldn’t have called, but then I got worried.” Her voice caught. “What if the baby—”

  “I’m sure the baby’s fine.” He wasn’t sure at all, but he wanted to calm her. He laid her on the rumpled comforter, smoothed away her shaggy bangs, and felt for a fever. Her brow was clammy but cool. “Why do you think it was food poisoning? What did you eat?”

  “Sweet and sour chicken. Had it delivered from that new Asian place. I was starving. Wolfed it down. If it tasted odd, I didn’t notice. But that had to be it.”

  “You’re probably right. Haven’t heard the best things about King Chow’s.” Not that Luke considered every new restaurant as competition for the Shack, but he did take note. King Chow’s had opened their doors a month ago. Knowing how popular Chinese food was, Luke had asked Anna to add three Asian dishes to their menu. Those additions had paid off in spades. Then again, Anna was a gourmet chef.

  Luke eyed a quart of bottled water on the nightstand. He poured a glass then eased Rae up against the pillows. “You need to hydrate. I know that much.”

  She took the glass with both hands, sipped.

  Luke sat beside her, nabbed his cell, and speed-dialed Doc Worton’s office.

  “So much for keeping my pregnancy secret,” Rae said.

  Luke’s call rolled to hold. He listened to sappy elevator music while watching Rae sip water. She’d scrubbed away the meticulous eye makeup and bold lipstick of Regan Devereaux. She’d dressed down in baggy pajama pants, a bright green hoodie, and fuzzy slippers. She didn’t look like the daughter of a Hollywood celebrity. She didn’t look filthy rich. She looked real.

  And sweet.

  His heart jerked just as the receptionist answered. “Doctor Worton’s office. How can I help you?”

  “Hi, Leslie. Luke Monroe. Can I get a quick word with Doc?”

  “He’s with a patient, Luke.”

  “I need some medical advice.”

  “Nurse Dunlap’s available.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Jane Dunlap was a registered nurse and practiced alongside Worton. She was also another ex of Luke’s, although they’d never slept together. “Yeah. Hey, Jane.”

  “Luke. Everything okay?”

  He froze for a second wondering the best way to approach this while honoring Rae’s reputation. If he was too cryptic about a “friend” in need, Jane might pry and even if he skimped on details, he’d be setting himself up for gossip. Sugar Creek thrived on juicy dirt—real or embellished. “Here’s the thing. I think I got slammed with food poisoning. Spent the night gushing out both ends, if you get my drift.”

  “Loud and graphically clear. Anything else?”

  “Dizzy, sweating.”

  “Classic signs. How are you now? Still throwing up?”

  “No. All that ended about a half hour ago.”

  “Feeling feverish or chilled.”

  “Feverish or chilled?” he repeated.

  Rae shook her head.

  “Nope. Just weak as hell.”

  “That’s to be expected,” Jane said. “When did it start? Did it last more than twenty-four hours?”

  “About half that.”

  “Sounds like a mild case of food poisoning or a plain old bug. Rest, drink lots of water, and try to keep down some chicken broth.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Based on what you’ve told me,” Jane said. “If the symptoms lasted longer than two days or if you had a high fever or if you were a child under three or a pregnant woman, I’d suggest seeking medical attention just to be safe. Doctor Worton has a full schedule today but if you’re worried—”

  “No. I’m good. Thanks, Jane.” Mouth dry, Luke disconnected and glanced around for Rae’s suitcase. Not seeing one, he made a beeline for an antique bureau. Unlike his drawers at home everything was neatly folded, even her underwear and socks. He bypassed the silk and lace bras and thongs, opting for one of those cami tops and a pair of wool socks. Long-sleeved pullover, jeans …

  He dumped his haul on the bed and peeled off her thin pajama bottoms.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting you into some warm clothes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m taking you to the hospital.” He met her panicked gaze and tempered his own misgivings as he helped her into the jeans. “Just to be on the safe s
ide.”

  His heart did another funny jerk when she blinked back tears and said, “Okay.”

  * * *

  The closest hospital was in Pixley—a thirty-minute drive on a clear day. Given the icy conditions it would take longer. Rae was glad Luke was driving and not her. Not that she was capable of driving.

  Rae couldn’t remember ever being this sick, feeling this weak. After helping her to dress (something she didn’t want to think about right now) and grabbing her purse, Luke had carried her to his car. She hated the way people stared as he whisked her through the lobby, but it would have taken them twice as long if she had tried to walk. At this point, she wanted to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. She needed to know that she hadn’t put her baby at risk because of a stupid food craving.

  Fear and guilt caused her to blurt her mind. “Admittedly, I only scanned one article on food poisoning last night, but it didn’t mention anything about a pregnancy risk.” Heart heavy, she slouched against the passenger door as Luke veered onto the main highway. “I should have called for help sooner. I just … I didn’t realize it was going to get so bad.”

  “Shouldn’t you be traveling with a personal assistant or a bodyguard or two?”

  She frowned, perplexed by the turn of conversation. “Why would I do that?”

  Luke shrugged. “Paris Hilton. Ivanka Trump. Don’t heiresses typically travel with an entourage?”

  Amazingly, she didn’t detect sarcasm in his tone. The Luke who’d rushed to her rescue today reminded her of the charming man she’d initially fallen for, not the angry man who’d tracked her to Bel Air. “The last thing I want is an entourage. Yes-men. People who cater to your every whim while taking advantage of your prestige and fortune. Olivia’s cup of tea, not mine.”

  “Then what about a bodyguard?”

  “Why?”

  “To protect you. Watch over you. You’re worth a lot of money. What if someone tried to kidnap you for ransom?”

  “I don’t think that’s an issue.”

  “What about the paparazzi? We’ve all seen how they hound celebrities. Look at what happened to Princess Di.”

  “I’m not royalty. And I’ve made it a lifetime mission to avoid the paparazzi.” In spite of her anxiety, she managed a small smile. “I’m actually pretty good at it.”