Expecting a Scandal

by Joanne Rock

  “Really? You wouldn’t mind?” She brightened, the same happy expression lighting her eyes that he’d seen when he first told her about the commission.

  He liked seeing her smile. Hearing the way her pleasure warmed the tone of her voice. He found himself wanting to get a whole lot closer to her and all that warmth.

  “I’m not on call at the hospital this weekend. Come by anytime.” He withdrew his phone to message her with his contact information, dragging her phone number from his electronic copy of the commission contract. “I just sent you the address.”

  “Thank you. I find inspiration just being out in nature, so I’d be grateful for the chance to see any of the woodlands.” She showed him a few more features of her studio, ending with the sunny corner where she liked to paint.

  His eye roamed over the paintings she’d taped up around the windows and walls. There were dozens.

  “You paint, you draw, you carve,” he observed. “You don’t ever feel like you’re spreading yourself too thin?”

  As soon as he asked, he wondered if the question was too pointed. If he sounded critical again, the way he had in the meeting earlier. But the query was honest, and some of his bluntness was simply a part of his personality, long before the PTSD had hit him hard.

  She shrugged, not seeming to take offense. “You repair everything from gallbladders to head trauma. I like to think I take that same kind of holistic approach to my expertise, too. It’s all art, so it’s all in my body of work.”

  “There are so many paintings.” He ran a finger over one image of a woman’s back. Or at least, he thought it looked the curve of a feminine spine. The colors were muted and the image was a close-up, so he couldn’t be sure. Yet there was a sensuality to the flare of hips, and the subtle shape of an hourglass.

  “I paint them quickly in the morning sometimes for a warm-up, just to get ideas flowing.” She glanced up at some of the paintings above her head, a rainbow of color on the wall behind her.

  “How about the drawings?” he asked, thinking back to the sketch she’d done of him. “What makes you decide to use charcoals instead of paints?”

  Her hesitation made him think that she understood exactly what he sought to discover. What had made her sketch him?

  She took her time answering, threading a finger under a loose curl to skim it away from her face. A prism hanging in a nearby window reflected flashes of light on her skin. “I’m inclined to draw when I’m unsettled. I often use the charcoals to vent emotions—nervousness, anger...grief.”

  Her voice hitched a bit, alerting him that he may have touched a nerve. Regretting that, he sought to reroute the conversation, not wanting to lose the tenuous connection he really wanted to strengthen with this woman. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an in-depth talk with anyone outside of the workplace.

  “It’s good you’ve got a productive outlet for that.” He wondered which of those negative emotions had driven her to sketch him. No doubt he’d upset her earlier in the day. “Too many surgeons I know detach so thoroughly that they become—” Jackasses? That seemed a harsh way to define some of his colleagues. “Dedicated loners.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to perform your job without some ability to detach.” Her hand alighted on his forearm in a gesture of comfort.

  The contact was a social politeness. An expression of empathy.

  But damn if it didn’t light up all his circuits like the Fourth of July. For the space of two heartbeats, her touch remained. He looked down at the place where she’d touched him, her fingers already sliding away. He missed the warmth immediately. Craved more of her caresses.

  “Detaching isn’t a problem for me,” he admitted, unwilling to confess how deeply he wrestled with the fallout from that skill. “Sometimes that makes me far too abrupt, as you witnessed firsthand in today’s committee meeting.”

  He watched her face, locking on her expression before he continued. “Were you venting negative emotions about that when you drew the picture of me?”

  Perhaps she’d been expecting the question, or maybe she’d simply been more prepared to revisit the topic after her initial embarrassment about the sketch. She lifted a brow, her gaze wary, but she didn’t flush with discomfort this time.

  “You noticed that and didn’t say anything?” She shook her head with a rueful laugh and leaned up against a built-in counter with cabinets below and shelves overhead. Paintbrushes in every size imaginable hung on a rack over the shelves. “I guess you are good at detaching. If I saw someone had made a picture of me, I would have been quick to ask a hundred questions about it.”

  His gaze traveled her body, where her position drew all the more attention to her curves.

  “I was curious.” He shoved his hands in his pockets to combat the urge to touch her. “I just didn’t think it was the right moment to ask.”

  “Truthfully, yes, I felt frustrated about the meeting when I returned to the studio. I didn’t have any preconceived idea of what I would draw. I just sat down to blurt out anything that came to mind.” She met his eyes directly. Openly. “I was surprised when I saw you take shape on the paper.”

  He wanted to think he’d ended up there because they had a connection. An undeniable spark.

  Because the longer he lingered in Abigail’s sunny studio, the more he felt his normal boundaries crumbling. And while he wanted that—craved following up on the attraction simmering between them—he wasn’t sure how he would handle anything beyond simple lust. The realization made him edgy.

  She filled the silence that followed with a sudden question. “Would you like me to finish the drawing?”

  His throat went dry. The question had gotten complicated in the space of a moment as he started to recognize that Abigail wasn’t going to be the kind of woman who would be open to a purely physical relationship.

  “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.” He couldn’t think of a more eloquent retreat with Abigail moving toward him. Touching him again.

  “Not at all.” She took his hand briefly to lead him toward a chair near her painting spot, her touch fanning the flame inside him, making him think about so much more. “Have a seat and I’ll finish up. You can see what it’s like to watch an artist at work.”

  In the space of five minutes, Vaughn realized he’d somehow used up all his emotional reserves today. All of his ability to detach. Because that simple touch from Abigail sent all the wrong messages to his brain. He hadn’t given himself the outlet of a sexual relationship since he’d returned from Afghanistan. And now, the consequences of that had him on sensory overload, when he’d already battled the aftermath of a hellish surgery this morning.

  A perfect storm of too many emotions without enough time to process them. He should have taken the time to go home and pick up Ruby before he came here. Having his dog beside him would have helped.

  But he was already sitting in the seat Abigail had shown him when she returned with a heavy pencil in one hand and her half-made sketch in the other. She set both on a low table nearby, then moved closer to him, her gaze all over him. Studying him.

  Seeing inside him somehow.

  “Do you mind if I position you just a little?” she asked, already setting aside the folder he’d been carrying.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d agreed or not. His forehead broke out in a sweat. Warning heat blasted up his back. He wanted her.

  “Here.” Abigail set her hands on his shoulders and gently shifted them toward her.

  She stood close, her knee brushing his thigh as she moved him, her breasts at eye level. She smelled like cinnamon and oranges, a spicy, tangy fragrance that would be burned into his memory forever. Sunlight kissed her face as she lifted his chin with one palm, her eyes taking a critical assessment of his features while he battled lust and a whole knot of other things he couldn’t come close to naming. Hunger for her gnawed
at him. Hot. Persistent.

  “I’ve got to go.” He clamped a hand on her wrist. Too hard at first. But then, realizing his responses were all out of whack, he gentled his hand. Released her. “I’m sorry, Abigail. I forgot that I said I would—” He rose from the chair. Sidestepped her. “Upload my notes on a critical-care patient after some—” His brain worked to come up with something vaguely believable before he did something stupid. Like kiss her until they were both breathless. Senseless. “Technical difficulties at the hospital.”

  His voice rasped drily as he grappled for control.

  “Of course.” She nodded even though she appeared as perplexed as he felt. “I’m sure I’ll see you at the hospital when I start work on site.”

  “Right.” He didn’t reiterate his offer for her to come by his ranch. He needed to get his head on straight first. “I’m sure you will.”

  Backing out of the door, he lifted a hand in a quick wave.

  “Thank you for coming by. I couldn’t be more excited about the project,” she called after him.

  But Vaughn didn’t answer. He was down the steps and seated in his truck in no time, slamming the door behind him while he turned over the engine and blasted the air-conditioning on his overheated body.

  He didn’t know what the hell he’d been thinking, pursuing this sudden attraction he was clearly not ready to handle. Maybe some other day, when he wasn’t already depleted from a surgery that had brought back too many memories. But for right now, he needed to put some distance between him and a woman who stirred a surplus of emotions. No matter how much he thought he had mastered detachment, Abigail Stewart made him realize he’d only succeeded in getting damn good at lying to himself.

  Three

  A few days later, Abigail wondered if it had been presumptuous of her to accept Vaughn’s offer to search for pieces of fallen wood on his ranch outside of town. Driving out of downtown toward the address Vaughn had given her, she knew it was too late to turn back now. She did really want the chance to walk through the trees and find inspiration, along with some different kinds of boughs for the oversize statue she was creating for Royal Memorial. That much was true.

  But there was no denying her interest in the lone wolf doctor who so fascinated her.

  When she’d texted her request for when she’d like to come to his property, the response had been almost immediate, making her wonder if he was just that prompt. Or if he’d been thinking about her, too. She was intrigued to see him again even though she knew she needed to tell him about her pregnancy.

  Now, turning down the road that passed the Ace in the Hole Ranch, where she used to work for the man she’d believed to be Will Sanders, she couldn’t stop the flood of memories. The main house was massive, with a deep front porch and multiple rooflines, plus an open breezeway connecting to a guest cottage. The crisp, white-painted home and dark shutters were immaculate, the trimmed hedges in perfect alignment. In the years she’d lived in Royal, she’d never seen the rolling lawn allowed to grow a millimeter too long. At night, it was really something to behold, with the many windows lit from within, and landscape lighting that illuminated the prettiest features.

  Working at the Ace in the Hole had been rewarding if only to step onto that gorgeous property every day for a few weeks last winter. Her actual duties had been straightforward enough—organizing files and transferring them to more secure storage for Will.

  Or, more accurately, the man who’d been impersonating Will Sanders, his former friend, Richard Lowell. Not many people in Royal knew that Will Sanders had returned to town to crash his own funeral. The FBI was now involved in the quiet investigation since they hoped that they might lure Rich Lowell back. Abigail knew about it because she’d received a letter from an attorney asking her to attend the funeral, since she was named as one of Will’s heirs. She’d nearly fainted when Will walked into the service himself.

  None of that changed the fact that she’d had a one-night stand with the man who’d impersonated Will.

  And now, she needed to let Vaughn know about the pregnancy. She was trying to move beyond the anger and frustration surrounding the father of her baby. She still worried about what she would tell her child about his or her daddy down the road. That he was a felon? A sociopath? Guilty of more crimes than she even knew about?

  Shuddering, she touched her belly protectively and felt an answering flutter. The shifting movements of this life inside never failed to amaze her since she’d started noticing it in the last few weeks. Amid so much grief this past year, those signs of vibrant renewal felt like the most precious gift in the world.

  Pulling up to the gates of Vaughn’s property, some of those happy feelings faded, however. The gates were huge. Imposing.

  And the most definitely ensured privacy.

  She knew many doctors earned a good living, but an electric gate with wrought-iron scrollwork outlining the house number suggested a whole different level of wealth. The arched entrance was a good ten feet tall on the sides, swooping up to fifteen at the peak of the arch. She pressed the call button on the keypad and Vaughn’s voice answered as the gate mechanism whirred softly, pulling open to the paved road that must lead to his home.

  “Glad you found the place, Abigail,” he said, through the speaker on the security system. “You can park in front of the house and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Her voice sounded flat. Because she was intimidated? Or because she’d hoped to find Vaughn living somewhere more...accessible?

  She knew it wasn’t fair to hold it against him that he’d done well in life. But after seeing how Will Sanders’s money had corrupted someone into impersonating him, she sure didn’t take any pleasure from the wealthy trappings that other people might find appealing.

  Rounding a bend surrounded by live oaks, Abigail had to admire the old growth buffering the home from the roadway. There were walnut and maple trees, ash and pecan.

  And then, there he was.

  Vaughn Chambers stood out in front of his ranch home built of sandstone, the dusky browns and tans of the rock walls blending with the hills and trees so seamlessly it looked like a part of the landscape. A planked porch wrapped around two sides, with the main roofline continuing down to the porch, a trick of building that provided plenty of shade to homes in the summertime. The darker roof and wooden porch columns set off the lighter stone. Three dormers graced the main roof, giving the house a modest-sized second floor and a huge footprint on the main level. A detached garage with huge, dark wood doors looked big enough to hold a monster truck. Or, more likely, multiple vehicles.

  The house was lovely, and couldn’t be more different from the manicured beauty of the Ace in the Hole. Vaughn’s home had a rustic, natural appeal.

  As for the man himself, her breath caught to see him again. The short beard and moustache appeared freshly trimmed today. His thick brown hair was darker and spiky from a recent shower. He wore a gray T-shirt with jeans and boots that looked like they’d seen real work. A golden retriever sat at his feet, its long fur brushed and gleaming in the July sunlight.

  “What a beautiful dog!” She was grateful for the animal, a welcome topic of conversation to hide her nervousness.

  “This is Ruby.” He scratched his canine behind the ears, the affection in his voice obvious. “Ruby, meet Abigail.”

  “May I pet her?” She liked to ask first even though the dog appeared well-trained. Her sister had once startled a stray in her eagerness to pet it when they were kids, and she had a scar on her leg from the bite for the rest of her too-short life.

  How daunting that a hundred and one things every day still made her think of Alannah. Her chest went tight with the familiar squeeze of sorrow.

  “Sure. She’s a social dog and she likes a good scratch on the haunches.”

  Bending closer to Ruby, Abigail stroked the silky fur. Her knee brushed up aga
inst the animal’s collar as she patted one side of her back, the movement jingling the silver tags. One had her name engraved on it and, she guessed, Vaughn’s contact information on the other side. It was the second tag that caught her eye for the red caduceus and the Service Dog—Full Access notation.

  Vaughn had a service dog?

  She knew it was rude to ask about it, a working-dog etiquette tip she’d picked up from her friend Natalie St. Cloud, who owned the Cimarron Rose B and B in Royal, where Abigail occasionally stopped for a meal. Natalie had an autistic son who had a service dog, another golden retriever, and the animal had made a world of difference in their lives.

  Straightening from petting the dog, Abigail swallowed the questions pinwheeling through her brain. If Vaughn had noticed her reading his dog’s tags, he didn’t indicate it. He gave the dog the command to “free play,” and Ruby sprinted over to a pair of weathered gray barns on the side of the house near a large, fenced pasture.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” He turned toward her again. “I regret the way I left in a hurry on Wednesday.”

  The hint of hunger in his green eyes made her feel things for him she shouldn’t. She really needed to tell him about her pregnancy. End this heart-fluttering tension between them and focus on her work and her baby.

  “It was kind of you to make the time to stop by personally in the first place.” She took a deep breath, prepared to tell him the truth.

  “Would you prefer the walking tour or a horseback version?” he asked and gestured toward the barn before she could get the words out.

  She loved riding, but it had been years she’d been in a saddle and wasn’t sure how she would fare. Five months pregnant might not be the best time to try refreshing her skills.

  “Maybe I’d do best on foot today. My horseback-riding skills are decidedly rusty.”