His head shot up, and he stared at the cabin in front of him. Surely not.
Clutching the small animal under one arm, he climbed the steps and lifted the letter-carrying hand to rap a knuckle against the door. Before he connected, the door swung open and a tall, black-eyed, curler-laden beauty charged out, bumping smack into him and the dog.
The dog whined and wiggled, obviously familiar with the woman who had her silky hair wound around soda can–sized rollers. Her eyes widened as she looked up.
“Whoa,” Blake said, catching her by the arm as she staggered backward. “You okay?”
Stunned, she blinked, and his eyes locked onto hers. Like fine cut glass, her onyx eyes shimmered and held his, refused to let go. A slender, toned arm warmed his palm, and his brain forgot how to form words. Grasping at the front of her rather inviting Asian-style robe, her other arm anchored across her chest.
He released her and took a step back.
“I . . .” he mumbled. Like an idiot. “He yours?” Blake finally managed, giving the dog a gentle boost.
Something flickered in her big inky eyes before she turned them on the dog. Her hand pulled away from her neckline a fraction and hovered there. Her uncertain stare darted to Blake, then back to the pup. Finally she wagged a long, slender finger in front of the dog’s nose, and Blake took note of the lack of wedding ring on that elegant hand.
“Bad boy, Sergeant Schnitzel,” she scolded.
Sarge whined and buried his snout under Blake’s arm.
An assertive female voice called from inside the house. “Did you find that ornery dog? He’s probably just hiding in the bushes.” The other thirtyish woman appeared in the doorway wearing an ensemble that even Blake knew was a fashion faux pas.
Blake suppressed a grimace. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi, yourself. Who are you?” The spiky-haired blonde leaned against the doorframe.
“I live next door,” he said. “Just bringing your dog home.”
“We’ve never seen that dog before,” the blonde challenged just before she narrowed her eyes at the canine. Sarge squirmed in Blake’s arms and strained toward his master.
“Stop it, Kimberly,” Sarge’s apparent owner told her friend as she scooped him up.
Sunlight gleamed off her ebony hair, and several loose locks cascaded in a messy network around her long, slender neck. The strands of jet-black against her natural, tan skin caught him off guard. His mouth went dry, and his eyes anchored to the hollow of her neck.
The leopard-clad woman sighed and pushed herself off the doorframe. “Fine. I’ll go check on dinner.” She disappeared into the house.
The dog sneezed.
“There’s poison oak all over the place.” Blake gave Sarge a scratch behind the ears. “He may have gotten into it, but it doesn’t have the same effect on canines. He’ll probably just sneeze for a while, then he’ll be fine.”
“Thanks,” said the dog’s gorgeous owner. “He has a habit of running off. Sorry if he bothered you.” She launched a string of admonitions at the dog, whose ears folded back in shame. Then she pecked his nose with a kiss and cuddled him tight against her chest.
He’d never envied a dog before now.
Blake shook his head, trying not to focus on the fluttering hem of her robe as a feathery breeze breathed life into the delicate silk. “No bother.”
The silk robe hung close around her tall frame, revealing curves in all the right places. Well-defined calves appeared below the hem. His eyes traveled down athletic legs that disappeared into slippers that could easily double as furry puppets. Unfortunately, they’d probably scare unsuspecting children instead of entertain them.
“Did he, um . . .” Her cheeks pinked, eyes darted around. “Was he carrying anything?”
Ah, the owner of the mystery panties, no doubt. Stuffing one hand into a pants pocket, his fingers closed around the provocative “anything” in question. “Nope.” He shrugged, trying to look innocent. He didn’t have the heart to embarrass her by producing the panties.
She blew out a shaky gust of laughter. “Good! I mean . . . okay. Right.” She took a step backward over the threshold. “Thanks.” She reached for the doorknob and started to push the door closed. “It won’t happen again.”
“Wait,” he said, and she stopped the closing door. He stared at her. Blinked once. Twice. Hell, he was the stupidest smart person on the planet. Sucking in a breath, he showed her the front of the letter. “I found this on the ground. Yours, too?”
Her eyes widened as they scanned the address, and she snatched it from his grasp.
“I must’ve dropped it when I unloaded the car.” She looked at the letter, then back at him. “Thanks . . . again.”
“So you’re the one,” he said, his voice low and simmering with quiet anger. And disappointment, which shook him a little. He hadn’t been interested in anyone in a long time. Years, in fact. The demands of medical school and residency didn’t leave much time for dating. And since he moved to Red River to take over his dad’s practice, no one had snagged his attention. Not until he’d walked over that rotting footbridge and laid eyes on this . . . this . . . Damn it. What was she? Not someone he should be interested in, that’s what.
A crease appeared between her eyes. “Beg your pardon?”
His gaze dropped to her perfect mouth. Yep, dumb as a stump regardless of what his med-school test scores said. Get over it. She’s biohazardous material wrapped in a pretty little package.
“You’re the bottom dweller who’s going to help destroy Red River.” The thought popped right out of his mouth before he could filter it through his malfunctioning brain.
At first her eyes rounded and those plush lips formed a perfect O. Then a stony expression slid over her flawless face, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to communicate with me through your attorney.”
The door advanced toward him again, but he reached out and stopped it mid-swing.
“That’s just it. We’re just simple folks who can’t afford a high-profile lawyer like you to protect us.” He studied her and didn’t miss the flash of victory that raced across her face. “And you know it, too. We’re easy pickings for someone like you.”
A hand went to her hair and discovered the apparently forgotten rollers. Her look of humiliation and horror was priceless. Blake smirked. Sucks to be you right now, doesn’t it? Which gave him little comfort, because the truth was, it had to be pretty sweet being her right now. She was in the catbird’s seat, and it sucked to be her prey. Which was him.
“This conversation is completely unprofessional and inappropriate—”
“Damn right it is.” He pulled the black strings from his pocket and held them up between two fingers. She blanched. “Women don’t usually send their panties to me, especially if they’re trying to put me out of business.”
Chapter Two
Two hours later, Angelique followed Kimberly into the Rain Dance Casino just outside of Taos. Hundreds of slot machines dinged in a constant disjointed harmony.
Angelique stumbled after Kimberly in stilettos so tall they were a safety hazard.
“I’d rather be home watching Sister Wives.” Angelique sniffed and pulled at the hem of her formfitting cocktail dress. “It makes me feel so much better about my life.”
Kimberly headed toward the cashier. “You’re just upset over your freakishly handsome neighbor. Don’t let it bother you.” Kimberly strutted along in her four-inch knee-high boots.
Through the skintight fabric of her dress, Angelique adjusted the snug waistband of her rubberlike undergarment. “I can’t believe you made me wear this thing. We’ll have to stop by the nearest fire station on the way home so they can pry me out of it with the Jaws of Life.”
“You’re five feet nine and all legs. That dress is made for you,” Kimberly said as they exchanged cash for chips.
“Well, I’m wearing a steel-belted radial.” Angelique scratched at her lower thigh. “And it�
��s kind of itchy.”
Kimberly grabbed Angelique’s arm and tugged her over to the roulette table. “Roulette is on our bucket list, so we start here.”
Angelique rolled her eyes. “Seriously, how many more things are on your bucket list? Because this is getting ridiculous.”
When Angelique was diagnosed, Kimberly had a meltdown. She sat by Angelique’s bedside for a week crying, cussing, then crying some more. Angelique didn’t have the heart to tell the poor girl what an ugly crier she was, but it had provided some entertainment while Angelique regained her strength. As a coping mechanism, Kimberly made a list of all the things they were going to do together while they still could.
“It took forever to get that temporary electric-blue dye out of our hair. I walked around for a month looking like an ethnic version of Katy Perry,” Angelique grumbled.
“The color complimented your olive complexion.”
“That was the week I tried to go back to work. It probably set my partnership back another year.”
Kimberly, clad in a black leather miniskirt and zebra-print sweater, stuck out a hip and planted her right hand on it. “We were celebrating the fact that you got to keep your hair. Besides, after two days, you decided it was too soon to return to the office. Remember?”
How could Angelique forget?
On Angelique’s second day, she’d gone back to the office late to pick up a few files. Walking in on Gabriel balls deep in her legal assistant, Ciara Mathews, with her ankles wrapped around his neck, wasn’t something Angelique would likely forget in this lifetime.
That’s when the ship carrying Angelique’s sex life had sailed without her. And when she confronted him, he’d actually had the nerve to blame his cheating on her, accusing her of shutting him out. Seriously? That torpedoed her USS Coitus and it sank to the bottom of the ocean somewhere between Bite Me Island and the continent of Go to Hell in a Handbasket.
The croupier set the wheel in motion and dropped the ball. Click, click, click—the rhythmic bouncing caused a ripple of anticipation around the crowded table.
“And pretending to be a cop so you could frisk that guy at Cold Stone Creamery almost got us arrested.” The spinning wheel made Angelique a little dizzy, and she reached for the table to steady herself. “By the real police.”
“Seemed like a good plan, mocha java chip and the feel of firm thighs at the same time.” Kimberly shrugged. “That was much further down the list, but the opportunity presented itself.”
The bouncing ceased and the croupier called out the winner, causing a squeal from a scantily clad woman at the far end of the table. She immediately placed her winnings plus a few more chips on the same number.
“What number is gambling on your bucket list?” Angelique couldn’t hide the irritation in her voice.
“It’s our bucket list, and gambling is number twelve.” She put a hundred-dollar black chip on number twelve. “Right before having a fling with someone tall, dark, and hot-some. Preferably on an island, so come on, place your bet. I hear Barbados calling to us.”
“I’m not having a fling. With anyone. Ever.” Angelique ran her fingers across the round disks in her hand, finally selecting a red five-dollar chip.
“Oh, come on!” Kimberly hooted. “You’ll be living right next door to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some for the next three months, and he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He’s perfect fling-worthy material only without the island.” Kimberly looked thoughtful. “Did you get his name?”
“No, I didn’t get his name, and you know why I’m not interested in a fling.”
But he really had been tall, dark, and really, really hot-some. Probably six feet, which would be a nice fit with her five feet nine height. Wavy chestnut hair and blue eyes the color of the ocean. Not the same ocean her USS Coitus had sank in. That ocean was a polluted abyss. This ocean was beautiful, calling to her every time his gaze met hers.
Until he’d called her a bottom dweller.
Crap, had she really held a fifteen-minute conversation with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some wearing hot rollers, a kimono, and Cookie Monster slippers? Not to mention he was on the opposing side of a legal battle that she was just stepping into, and he’d seen her thong. Held it in his incredibly powerful-looking hand, taunting her with it like it was an incriminating piece of evidence before she managed to snatch it from him.
Gah!
Dammit, it had been a gag gift from Kimberly.
Nope. No fling. Especially not with a man from Mayberry, USA, whose idea of progress was probably replacing a four-way stop with the town’s only traffic light. Instead of bringing the freaking thong panties to Red River, she should’ve packed Kimberly’s other gag gift—a neon-purple battery-operated device called the Harley. Because that was as close to a fling as she would ever get.
She’d never give another man the chance to look at her bared chest and see revulsion in his eyes, newly reconstructed boobs or not. Even though every doctor who’d examined her said it was nice work, she just couldn’t see it. They were fake!
He might be fling-worthy material, but she wasn’t. She looked down at her chest. Who would want to get naked with this?
Illness had cost her dearly. Stolen her chance for a family because no way was she passing this nightmare down to another generation. But no more. She was back in control of her destiny. And where a man was conspicuously absent, a partnership at Riggs, Castillo & Marone would stand in the gap.
And maybe good ol’ Harley. If she got desperate, he could help her out from time to time.
“Even if I was interested, and I’m not”—Angelique pursed her lips at Kimberly before continuing—“he hates me, and I wasn’t exactly impressed with him either.” Except for the fact that her rusty girly parts sputtered to life and did a dance when she first laid eyes on him, and then proceeded to turn cartwheels by the end of their rather awkward conversation. “And what about the conflict of interest?”
“Sweetie, if you think you’d be the first attorney to sleep with a player on the opposing team, you obviously haven’t spent enough time in the Federal Court building.”
The croupier cleared his throat, looking a little intimidated by the angry red faces at the other end of the table. “Are you ladies ready, or should I start without you?” He was actually asking Kimberly’s permission while gazing at her Grand Canyon–sized cleavage.
“We were born ready, darlin’,” Kimberly said and winked at him.
Angelique placed the red five-dollar chip on a black diamond.
“That’s it? Five dollars on black?” Kimberly huffed.
“Fits my mood and my appearance.” Angelique glowered. “Dark and cheap.”
“The bucket list says a hundred bucks at the roulette table. And not in nickel increments.” Kimberly waggled all four fingers in a come here movement. “Give it up.”
Angelique pulled a black chip from her stack and placed it on number seven. “Do you think people can go to hell for gambling?”
“Not unless they use the chip to commit murder.” Kimberly shook her head. “You Catholics.”
The croupier spun the wheel and dropped the little white ball. It tapped around the board, finally landing on Angelique’s number.
“We have a winner!” the croupier announced and pushed a stack of chips in front of Angelique. She snatched all of them up and deposited them into her handbag.
“You go ahead and gamble away your future child’s college fund,” Angelique said. “I’m out.”
She gave Kimberly a fake smile and scratched her leg again. Did something bite her? Maybe she was allergic to the rubber undergarment that was squeezing the life out of her with every passing moment. The freaking thing was probably bulletproof.
Angelique wandered over to a vacant group of slot machines and sat down. Crossing her legs, she looked at the complicated winning combinations listed on the front of the machine and tried to figure out the payoffs.
“Hello,” said a wheezy voice from behind h
er. A chubby man in his late fifties slid into the chair next to her. Cheap cologne singed her nostrils, and Angelique gave a little cough. “Is this seat taken?” He ogled her crossed legs.
She tugged her skirt down, but seeing as how it was the size of a Band-Aid, she gave up and angled her legs to the other side, away from Mr. Aqua Velva’s bulging eyeballs.
“Um, no, be my guest.”
Angelique retrieved a twenty-dollar bill from her handbag and slid it into the machine. When she tapped the button, the wheels spun, landing on a cherry and two bars. The red number of credits in the upper-right corner decreased by four.
A strange itch started just below her collarbone, and she rubbed it. Now both of her legs were itching. Darned if she’d wear latex underwear again. As Angelique reached up to press the button again, Aqua Velva put his hand on the back of her chair and leaned toward her.
“You looking for company, little lady?”
Angelique turned a gaping mouth on him. His comb-over fell forward a fraction, and he wiggled bushy brows that met in between his eyes. His leer slid over her. “You look expensive, but I can afford it.”
She reeled backward, a mixture of revulsion and hysterical laughter bubbling through her lips in an indiscernible string of sounds. She grabbed for the machine to prevent falling off the stool and punched the Play button by accident.
The first wheel stopped on seven, then the next seven slammed into place. Angelique’s heart skipped as she turned back to the machine. The last wheel slowed, and a seven slid into the window. The siren on top of the machine started to wail, and she looked around, alarmed, wondering what she’d done wrong.
“You won!” Kimberly ran over. “Hot darn, now we can afford that arctic dog-sledding trip. I think it’s number forty-three on the list.”
It's in His Touch Page 2
