It's in His Touch

by Shelly Alexander

  She inhaled, slow and labored with a dash of dread.

  Please, please, please. He didn’t just catch her staring at his ass and now his . . . Slowly, her gaze slid up his torso, over the gradient slopes of well-defined pecs with a perfectly formed hollow in between and finally to his squared jaw and sapphire eyes. One brow slightly raised, the corner of his mouth quirked upward into an almost-smile.

  Hell’s bells.

  Retrieving two purple latex gloves from a dispenser, he pulled them on with a snap. When he advanced on her, she stiffened.

  “Okay, enough. Disagreements aside, I’m a doctor. Believe it or not, I’m a fairly good one. Only two of my patients have died this week.”

  Her head swiveled toward him, but a mischievous twinkle danced in his baby-blues, and she almost relaxed. Almost.

  “Very funny, Dr. Kevorkian.”

  “I double as a comedian at Cotton Eyed Joe’s across the street.” Gentle fingers grasped her chin and tilted her head to the side. “You should catch my act before the place is torn down.”

  He examined her neck and cheek, his breath whispering across her skin.

  She shivered.

  “Are you serious this time?” she asked, trying to steady her breathing. Having Mr. . . . correction . . . Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some invade her personal body space, even with good reason, was as unnerving as getting a pap smear. She kept a splayed hand over her chest.

  “About Cotton Eyed Joe’s getting torn down? Absolutely. You know that as well as anyone. What you don’t know is that Cotton Eyed Joe’s is the social core of this town. If you take it away, you’ll break the local spirit. The heart of the people who live here.”

  “No, I mean . . .” Her teeth ground together because she hadn’t been talking about Cotton Eye . . . whatever. And he darned well knew it.

  He tugged at the hand that was anchored to her chest, but she didn’t allow him to move it. He sighed in a way that said she was trying his patience.

  Good.

  “I need to see your hands and forearms.” His voice was the model of professionalism.

  Hesitating, she held her hands out for him to examine. Even through latex gloves, his touch was consoling. Nurturing. He moved to her feet and lifted them. Again, his gentle touch soothed her. Made her trust him, like everything would be okay no matter the problem. Pulling out the table extension so her legs rested straight in front of her, he leaned in and examined her calf, running caring yet disciplined fingers down to her ankle where the rash stopped.

  Her skin pebbled under his touch. When he turned her leg out and examined the inside of her knee, an electrical current jolted up her leg, down the other, and pooled between her thighs, a part of her anatomy she liked to call the Land of the Dead.

  Okay, snap out of it, dummy. That part of her life—the part that made her tingle in unmentionable places and required taking her shirt and bra off in front of a member of the opposite sex—was over. Hence, the nicknaming of her neglected girly parts.

  She let out an exasperated breath, trying to ignore both his bleeding-heart sentiment and the warm current flowing through her body that was trying to seek out the Land of the Dead and coax it from the grave. “Do you really do a comedy routine?”

  “Nope.” He straightened, peeling off his gloves with the same flare he’d put them on and tossing them into a red bin. “Your creepy puppet slippers protected your feet, so at least you can wear shoes.”

  “Liar.”

  He gave her an offended scoff. “Am not. Your slippers were definitely creepy.”

  Real mature. “What are you, five? I mean you lied about being a comedian and a doctor.” Whatever. She wasn’t going to sit here and argue with him. “Are we done here?”

  “I never lied about being a doctor. You didn’t care to ask.” He walked to the counter and grabbed a prescription pad and pen. “Is that how you justify what you do, by not getting personal? Keeping your distance?” He scribbled something down and tore the small piece of paper loose with a rip.

  She slid off the table, making sure the gown didn’t open in the back. “For your information, I’m not tearing anything down.”

  “You’re helping them do it.” He handed her the prescription between two fingers, just like he’d done her panties. When she hesitated, satisfaction flared in his eyes.

  “I have a job to do, just like you.” She snatched the script away. Same way she had the panties.

  “Except that I save lives and you destroy them. Get dressed and I’ll meet you at the front desk, Ms. Marone.”

  She flinched at the name, and he studied her for a moment before disappearing out the door.

  Blake stood at the front desk and scribbled notes into Ms. Marone’s file. Leaning against the counter, he tried to concentrate on his work instead of the woman who was still in his exam room getting dressed.

  The waiting room was empty, and Nadine’s nails clicked against the keyboard as Blake scratched words onto the examination form.

  What just happened? He’d never spoken to anyone like that, especially not a patient. Not even during his residency when a female patient twice his age had thrown herself at him. No one had ever evoked such raw attitude from him. No one except Angie Marone.

  He raked a hand over his face.

  “Tough patient?” Nadine asked.

  “No, pretty ordinary.” Except that Angelique Barbetta, aka Angie Marone—whoever that was—was anything but ordinary.

  The patient in question emerged from the hallway and approached the front desk, each step and movement calculated and guarded. It was a wicked case of poison oak. Her legs had been exposed beneath the hem of that Asian robe thing she’d been wearing, so the outbreak there was understandable. Her chest, neck, and cheeks had probably contracted it from the dog after she’d scooped it up and let it rub all over her.

  Obviously, it had hurt too much to wear a bra, and he averted his eyes from the taut nipples that strained against her hoodie and her formfitting yoga pants that left nothing to the imagination. Actually, his imagination was springing to life, and he was having a hard time beating it back down. Sort of like a game of Whac-A-Mole at an arcade.

  She limp-walked up to the counter, and a ping of compassion swelled inside him. Damn that Hippocratic oath. He jotted down the last of his notes and handed the chart to Nadine.

  “What do I owe?” Angelique asked Nadine without so much as a glance in his direction.

  “Let me figure up those charges.” Nadine’s black-polished nails clicked against the keyboard some more.

  “This one’s on the house.” He leveled a stony look at Angelique.

  She shook her head and winced, pulling at the neckline of her hoodie. “Thanks, but I’ll pay.”

  “No,” he deadpanned and headed for the door. “I’m off to lunch, Nadine.” He threw a detached look over his shoulder at Angelique. “Just use the lotion three times a day, and stay away from poison oak.”

  He pushed through the front door of his office into the bright noonday sun with Angelique on his heels. Just like a Rottweiler. Probably why she was a good attorney. Had to be good if she was hired by the conglomerate real estate developer that was trying to buy out all of downtown Red River.

  “Wait!” She limped onto the sidewalk after him, and he turned. “How long will this last?”

  “You’ll see a noticeable decrease within a few days.” He shrugged. “Should be totally gone within two weeks at the most.”

  An old Ford truck tooled by and beeped. He turned to wave at one of his patients.

  “But I don’t even know what poison oak looks like. How do I know how to stay away from it?” She seemed desperate. City girl. Figured.

  Scrubbing a hand over his face again, he sighed. Heavily. He was going to regret his next words. He already knew it. “Since I live next door, I’ll come over later and chop it down. At least I can cut down the vines right around your cabin.”

  A middle-aged couple exited the pastry shop a few do
ors down and walked past holding hands. They pushed canvas sun hats onto their heads. She waited for them to pass before responding to his offer.

  “No thank you. I can do it myself.”

  Stubborn, pushy woman. He pinched the bridge of his nose where a dull throb started behind one eye. “Wearing what, exactly? You’re obviously extremely allergic to the stuff. Unless you have a hazmat suit handy, you’ll be eaten up head to toe.” His stare fell to her full nipples, clearly visible through her microfiber hoodie. Dropping both hands to rest on his hips, he looked down the street. A motorcycle club motored past, turning onto the street beside Cotton Eyed Joe’s.

  Avoiding her stare, he studied the black-leather-clad bikers. They parked along the side street and walked up the wood stairs to Joe’s with bow-legged struts.

  Hell. Had he really just asked her what she’d be wearing? And said the words “eaten up head to toe”? A distinct image of black strings popped into his throbbing brain.

  Definitely regretting the offer.

  “I’ll be done here by four thirty. Expect me around five fifteen. You don’t even have to come out of your cabin.”

  Before she could protest, Cooper Wells emerged from his chiropractic office next door.

  Angelique recoiled, her countenance shrinking. She wrapped both arms around herself.

  He held the door for his very pregnant wife, Ella, and she waddled out after him and shielded her eyes against the bright sun.

  “Hey, man.” Coop notched his chin up at Blake. Coop popped a trendy pair of sunglasses onto his nose and shook a sandy tousle of loose curls off his forehead.

  Ella was Red River’s very own celebrity. A strawberry-blonde, rock-star erotic romance writer who had turned Coop’s life upside down last year. Coop hadn’t been the same since. Thank God, because that boy had needed some straightening out.

  Ella, looking ready to pop, leaned against a metal post.

  Coop ran to her side.

  “Don’t touch me,” she warned through clenched teeth. “That’s what caused this to begin with.” She waved to a woman across the street who stood in the door of a souvenir shop. The woman waved back.

  Coop backed off like she was a rabid animal ready to bite, and Blake got a little scared. Growing up an only child, he wanted what Coop and Ella had—a family to come home to at night. He’d even been a little jealous last year when they tied the knot, and four months later, she called asking for a referral for an ob-gyn in Taos. By the look on Ella’s face, now he wasn’t so sure he envied Coop.

  Coop glanced up and did a double take. “Angelique?”

  She turned around, a thin smile on her lips. Instead of the granite jawline and determined black eyes, her expression was sad. Mournful. Her hand went to her abdomen for a moment, then dropped to her side.

  “Hey, Coop. How are you?” A delicate tremor shook Angelique’s voice.

  Huh.

  Coop ran over and tried to hug her, but she held up a palm, warning him off. “Sorry.” She pointed to her face. “Poison oak. It hurts to hug.”

  “Did you drive in from Albuquerque for the weekend? If I remember correctly, you were buying a vacation place up here the last time I spoke to you,” Coop said.

  She squirmed, avoiding Blake’s inquisitive stare. “My plans changed. I’m renting a place out in the Mountain Shadows subdivision.”

  I’ll be darned. Ms. Hard-Ass didn’t seem to want anyone to know the truth. Probably wise. The residents of Red River stuck together, and if they found out what she was really doing here, they might come after her with pitchforks.

  “Babe,” Coop said to his wife, the clear skies and bright sun making Ella squint when she looked up. “This is Angelique Barbetta.” He walked to Ella and placed his sunglasses on her. She pushed them up the bridge of her nose.

  “Nice to meet you in person.” Ella tried to straighten, but sagged back against the pillar. “Thanks for helping Coop out last year.”

  An off-road Jeep meandered by and honked. Both Blake and Coop waved back.

  Angelique nodded. “Sure thing. I love my job, especially when my clients are innocent.”

  Now that was rich. What about when her clients were hurting innocent, hardworking folks? Blake crossed both arms and leaned against a light pole. Angelique pretended not to notice the weight of her own comment and his exaggerated reaction to it, but oh yeah, she’d noticed. Deep scarlet crept into her cheeks, and she swallowed.

  He couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to say something, because this might just be interesting. “So you two know each other?”

  “You bet,” Coop said with a boyish smile. He stroked the space between his wife’s shoulder blades, and she gave a tiny whimper of approval. “We went to high school together.”

  Blake slid a glance at Angelique, who looked guilty. Well, at least she did have a conscience, albeit a guilty one. “Really?” Definitely interesting.

  “Weren’t you going to lunch, Dr. Holloway?” Angelique asked with a sharp tone in her voice and a plastic smile on her lips.

  No way was he leaving now. He wouldn’t miss this for all the attorneys at the bottom of the sea. “Nope, I’m good. I bet you two know some really good stories about each other.”

  Coop laughed, then hid it behind a cough when Ella threw fiery darts at him with her eyes. It was no secret that Coop had been a player before he met Ella. “Angelique was good enough to take my case last year, even though she lost a bet to me in eleventh grade, and I made her go out with a geeky member of the chess team.” He shrugged. “Thanks for not holding a grudge, Ang.”

  “No problem.” Angelique smiled a genuine, hearty smile that spread across her blotched face.

  A smile that stole Blake’s breath, knocked it right out of his lungs, because it was the first time she’d done it for real in his presence. The smile lit her pretty face, and it matched the rest of her soft, curvy body. Warm, lush.

  Fascinating.

  “I got you back when I kicked your tail on the volleyball court, remember?” Angelique said, the joy in her voice threading through each word.

  And for a fleeting moment, Blake glimpsed the real Angelique Barbetta. The one hiding under steel armor.

  This time Coop really did laugh. “I’d forgotten. The girls’ volleyball team challenged the boys’ varsity baseball team to a match during assembly. You wiped the floor with us poor schmucks.”

  Ella straightened and put both hands to her lower back. Applying pressure sent a wave of relief across her face. “How long will you be in town? If you’re that good, Angelique, then we need you. I can’t play right now, and our team is dropping in the city league rankings.” She shot another testy glare at Coop.

  “Not my fault.” Coop shook his head.

  “You and your brother are getting your butts kicked every match.” Ella crossed her arms, resting them on her perfectly round stomach.

  “I noticed,” Coop said. “We’d be winning if you could still play.”

  “Uh, pregeeeers.” She pointed to her stomach.

  “That kind of is my fault.” He put both hands on his wife’s basketball-shaped midsection and rubbed affectionately.

  Blake could swear Angelique’s breath swooshed out. He studied her. No. No way. He had to be mistaken. Not the maternal type.

  “So what do you say, Ang?” Coop asked. “You up for some volleyball?”

  “Well, I’ll be in town for a while, but—”

  Ella clasped her hands together, and her tone turned competitive. “Angelique, you have to. We can’t lose another game.”

  “Well, I . . .” Angelique bit her lip. “Sure. I suppose.”

  Ella and Coop whooped.

  Blake laughed. It would be interesting to see her on the court. Maybe she’d let her armor slip again and the real Angelique would come out to play. He pushed off the light pole. “Better take care of that poison oak rash by Friday night, because that’s when you and Coop play my team.”

  Before her scalding glare coul
d melt him like hot wax over an open fire, he turned, said good-bye to the Wells family, and jogged across the street.

  Chapter Four

  The pantry door nearly rattled off its hinges when Angelique slammed it shut. She set Sarge’s bowl and dog food on the counter and closed her eyes, still simmering over Dr. Holloway’s arrogance. Honestly, she was more irritated with herself for sticking around to chat it up with Coop and his wife like she was one of the townsfolk. She doubted they would be so friendly if they knew her real purpose in Red River. Now she was committed to a community volleyball league?

  Sarge cocked his head to one side and whined, wanting his dinner. Getting involved with the local folks was a bad, bad idea. Bad.

  She fed Sarge, walked him, and showered. After applying the lotion she’d picked up at the pharmacy with a cotton ball, she pulled on a soft pair of black leggings and a steel-gray cashmere sweater, then settled in at the oak kitchen table to pore over the Red River Resort Development file, as it was labeled on a color-coded tab across the top.

  Running a thumb across the tab, she wondered if the Cheerleader had typed it. Helpful as always. So helpful, in fact, Angelique hadn’t seen the deceit behind the Cheerleader’s perky smile, her strokes of admiration, her willingness to do personal errands for Angelique and Gabriel, her enthusiastic volunteering to work overtime to help Gabriel when Angelique had to take so much time off from the firm.

  By the time she’d studied every document in the file, three hours had passed. She took off her reading glasses and rubbed both eyes. The owners of the resort development firm had bought the local bank as a separate investment. Red River Community Bank didn’t fall under the umbrella of the development company, so it was perfectly legal. They’d done their homework, hiring consulting firms to conduct studies and provide irrefutable reports that would sway any judge in their favor. This resort project was good for the community.

  On paper.

  There was just one tiny fly in the resort’s progressive ointment. One little loophole that could bring the entire project to a halt unless the opposition’s incompetent attorney overlooked it, which he obviously had.