The thing that pricked at her conscience the most was watching her old friend, Cooper Wells, and his wife walk away hand in hand and stop to hug the pastry shop owner who’d been cleaning his front window. While she’d sat in the waiting room, the fiftyish seamstress from three doors down popped in with a homemade cake for Nadine’s birthday, and they chatted about their kids’ dance recitals and little league teams. She’d listened to a group of silver-haired widows sing Doc Holloway’s praises and pay homage to his volunteer work all around northern New Mexico. Then she’d watched the very same Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some hustle across the street, only to stop and hold the door for a group of tourists who all wore Texas Longhorns shirts as they exited a quaint little souvenir shop. Jeez, he’d practically done every good deed except save a puppy.
Hell’s bells.
She slammed the file shut. Actually, he had saved a puppy. Hers. She gave Sarge, who was curled at her feet, a disgusted look. “This is all your fault. You realize that, right?” Sergeant Schnitzel took a contended deep breath without opening his eyes.
She pushed the chair back, careful not to wake her four-legged baby, and went to the kitchen. Her bare feet shuffled against the cool tile floor, and she uncorked a bottle of pinot noir from a local winery. Digging around in the cupboard, she found a wine glass and filled it.
The rich bouquet soothed her weariness, and she breathed it in before taking the first sip. A robust flavor drenched her taste buds and warmed her insides as it slid down her throat.
The firm had rented a nice cabin for her. Decorated in a rustic motif, it was warm, inviting, and quite charming. Luxurious cocoa leather furniture with brass studs adorning the edges filled the den. A vaulted ceiling soared overhead with strategic windows inset for natural lighting to filter in. An artistic log staircase hugged the right side of the den and ascended to a large master suite in the loft. Not cold and modern like the décor Gabriel had insisted on for the new house they were building before his indiscretion.
Another sip and the tension between her shoulder blades eased a bit.
She should probably make an appointment with Coop for that, but she’d already committed to more personal contact with the locals than was prudent. Maybe she could find a way to get out of the volleyball match. She sighed, grabbed her reading glasses and file, and wandered onto the back porch.
Easing into one of the Adirondack chairs, she pulled her legs up until they were crisscrossed and tossed the file onto a small side table that stood between the two chairs. With her glasses perched atop her head, she savored the hearty wine. The sun sank behind the jagged mountain peaks, hues of purple, pink, and orange jettisoned across the sky, and the chilly autumn air nipped at her toes.
It was beautiful up here. Peaceful and soothing to the soul. So much so that she wasn’t feeling very eager to disrupt the tranquility of Red River. A good legal fight usually got her juices flowing, the smell of victory bolstering her professional ego. The little town of Red River was outgunned. A fact that would typically have her zeroing in for the kill. Short. Sweet. Easy. No need to prolong the agony of her adversary.
Not this time. This case was her first since returning to work after all the surgeries and recuperation. Maybe the big C had taken away her zeal to go the distance against any opponent. Stolen her competitive edge or soured the taste of adding another notch to her belt of wins. Sucked everything but actual life out of her. Even though she’d never admit it to another living soul, she hadn’t been the same since her diagnosis.
Pulling on her wine again, she sighed. Cancer. She hated that word. It had cost her so much. Just about everything she thought was important. Was it possible that it had given her back some humanity? Allowed her to see past the thrill of the attack, the gratification of winning, and focus on the living, breathing people affected by her legal expertise?
She’d never gotten personally involved with a client. Didn’t care if they were innocent, guilty, or somewhere in between, because it didn’t matter. Determining innocence or guilt, fairness or injustice, wasn’t her job. Representing her clients, winning cases, that’s what she got paid to do. And she did it well, because losing wasn’t built into her DNA.
But when she thought of Red River’s kind seamstress who wore a permed bob twenty years out of date, and the rotund pastry shop owner who had hollered a loud hello to pedestrians with a distinct German accent, and Cooper Wells, DC—even if he had made her go out with Simon the chess team captain in eleventh grade—and . . . and . . . Gah! And Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some, who made the local elderly women feel like they were beauty pageant contestants, well, it just didn’t feel like a victory at all. It felt like shit.
She polished off most of the wine and sulked at the powdered mountain peaks.
A hacking sound broke the spell, and her head swiveled toward it just as Blake rounded the side of the house, swinging a machete with his gloved hands. He stopped and took her in.
“Hi,” she finally said, curling the wine glass against her chest.
His chin hitched up a fraction. “Hi.”
The wine fogging her senses, she drank in his masculinity. A pair of faded Levi’s with a frayed hole in one knee fit him to perfection. He was earthy and powerful in a red flannel shirt, unbuttoned with a white T-shirt underneath, and suede-leather hiking boots. So the opposite of Gabriel’s polished appearance, which usually entailed wearing Armani on at least one part of his body at all times.
Blake just stared right back at her, and she wanted to know what he was thinking. About her. Wait. No, no. She probably didn’t want to know, because they probably weren’t nice thoughts.
“All the poison oak out front is gone. I bagged it and put it in the trash at my place. There’s just a little left back here.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “I didn’t hear you out front. I was working on the case.”
His expression dimmed a shade.
Hell’s bells. Why’d she have to bring it up? She glanced down at her glass. The wine. Definitely the wine.
“How’s the medication working, Ms. Barbetta?”
Right. Formality. Got it.
“It’s easing the discomfort. Thanks.” Fidgeting with her glass, she downed the rest. “Um, would you like a glass of wine? It’s the least I can do.”
“I haven’t eaten yet, so I better not drink on an empty stomach.” He gave the machete an absentminded swing, grazing the grass with its tip.
“Okay, well.” Were her words slurring? “I haven’t eaten either.” Probably why her words were slurring. “I was just about to throw together some shrimp linguini.” She was? Yes, of course she was. She’d bought all the groceries she’d need for at least two weeks, she just hadn’t actually planned out when to cook it all. “It won’t take long, and I’m not a bad cook. Not as good as my Italian mom or grandmother, mind you, but I know my way around a kitchen.” She bit her lip, the only way she could stop the incessant rambling. And jeez, it hurt. “Um, would you like to join me?” Seriously? Had she just invited a man who disliked her to the bone inside for dinner? A man she was going to have to squash like a bug in court.
Oy vey.
Something flickered across his face, then disappeared.
“You know what, it’s okay.” She stood and raised one palm toward him. “Bad idea. Sorry—”
“Yes.” He stood still as a marble statue, the faint rise and fall of his solid chest his only movement. Except his ridiculously blue eyes. Those babies skimmed down her legs before returning to meet her gaze.
“Um, what?”
“Yes, I accept your dinner invitation. Unless you’re already changing your mind.” One corner of his mouth turned up into that same sexy almost-smile that’d made her quiver in unmentionable places while sitting on his exam table. “Or unless you’ve already torn down the kitchen to make room for a hotel.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
A full smile spread across his face, and her knees weakened a little.
�
��Just kidding. Actually, I’m starving, and I don’t do much cooking myself. A home-cooked meal would be nice for a change.” He looked around the backyard. “I have a little more work out here, though.”
“Okay, well.” She was already kicking herself. That freaking delicious pinot noir. “I’ll get started on dinner while you finish up.” Turning to go inside, she stopped and looked back at him. “It’s shrimp, you know. Are you sure you don’t mind having bottom dwellers for dinner?”
Something new flared in his eyes. Like a satisfied hunter who watched his unsuspecting game walk into a baited trap.
“I’d love to taste bottom dweller for dinner.”
Her breath hitched, and a prickle raced across her skin.
“We can go back to being enemies tomorrow,” he said. “I promise.”
Forty-five minutes later, a delicious aroma caressed Blake’s nose and made his mouth water. He discarded his work gloves and machete on the chair next to the back door. Beside the chair, a thick file folder lay on the table with neatly typed lettering across the tab. He leaned over to read the words. Red River Resort Development.
Huh.
With the sunlight almost gone, he peered through the window. Settings for two trimmed the table to the left, while his hostess stirred the sweet-smelling concoction over the kitchen stove to the right. He reached for the folder, then hesitated.
Damn his conscience. Why’d he always have to be the nice guy? Didn’t nice guys finish last? He’d likely be practicing out of an RV parked down by the river when she was done here, and he felt guilty about breaching a tiny little line of ethics that was right in front of him practically begging to be breached.
He grabbed the file and knocked.
“Come in.” Angelique’s voice lilted through the door.
He turned the knob and entered. Breathed in the hearty scent of sautéed something and almost melted. Whoever said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach was smart. Definitely a woman. A very savvy woman. He looked around the kitchen at the various dishes in progress. Probably an Italian woman.
Funny, he wouldn’t have pegged her for the domestic type at all.
Sarge greeted him at the door with a wagging tail and innocent eyes. Blake laid the folder on the bar that separated the dining area from the kitchen. “You left this outside. It looked important.” He bent to give the dog a scratch.
When her eyes locked on to the file, she blanched. She dropped what she was doing, scurried over to retrieve the file, and tossed it into a drawer, slamming it shut.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” She returned to the kitchen island, where she scooped salad onto small plates.
Her long, slender legs didn’t seem to end, and a loose sweater slid off one shoulder, exposing bare skin. When he didn’t answer, she stopped mid-scoop and lifted an eyebrow in his direction.
“Sure.” He showed her both hands. “Do you mind if I wash up first?”
When she lifted a finger to point, it tremored, even though her expression was as cool as the evening breeze outside. “Around the corner.” She pointed an index finger, salad tongs still in hand. “Down the hall, first door on the left.”
He nodded and followed directions. Rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, he scrubbed like only a doctor would, then splashed some water on his face. After drying off with a hand towel, he returned to the kitchen, where she was setting their meals on the table. She waved him into a chair, noticeably not at the head of the table. She saved that position of power for herself.
Sad that every move obviously had to be calculated, strategic.
He eased into the designated chair and took a drink of wine. So did Angelique. Several small, nervous little sips, in fact.
She placed a napkin in her lap and twirled linguini onto a fork. “I hope you like Italian.”
Her lips closed around the fork, and his throat turned to chalk dust. “I do. Very much.” Then he gave himself a mental kick in the pants and said, “I like anything that’s home-cooked. I don’t get a lot of that.”
The savory aroma made his stomach growl, unlike his usual meals scraped together at the Red River Market—the town’s only grocery store. They required little more than punching the keypad on his microwave or smearing mustard across a slice of store-bought bread.
“Your mother didn’t teach you to cook?” She forked up salad and sipped wine again. Fork, sip, fork, sip.
Hmm. Ms. Badass Attorney was nervous. Because of him. That could work to his advantage if this legal situation got ugly, which it was likely to do.
“My parents divorced when I was young. I grew up outside of Phoenix with my mom. She was a nurse and worked long shifts at the hospital. So no, there wasn’t much cooking in my house.”
When his mother did have spare time at home, it wasn’t spent in the kitchen. Silent and smoldering in bitterness over her five miscarriages, she’d pushed his father away more with each lost child until he finally left. Once they divorced, she completely withdrew into herself. It had been like living with a stranger. A lonely only child, his youth had been quiet and isolated. He’d spent a few holidays and long weekends every year in Red River with his dad and cherished those visits because they were the only time he felt like he belonged to a real family. Those few weeks in Red River each year had been his refuge growing up.
Now the people of Red River were his family, along with his dad, stepmom, a few aunts and uncles, and a smattering of cousins. Probably the reason he wanted to get married and have a houseful of kids. He wanted a family of his own.
He forked up his own pasta and nearly moaned when the savory morsels touched his tongue. “Mm,” he said with his mouth full. “This is really good.”
At the compliment, the rigidity of her shoulders eased. “So how’d you end up in Red River?” She passed him a basket of warm bread and slid a saucer of shaved butter toward him. Very Martha Stewart.
“My dad grew up here. He moved back to Red River after he and my mom split.” He took a drink of wine and buttered a piece of bread. “So I did my residency in Albuquerque and bought out his practice a few years ago when he retired.”
She hesitated. “Your dad was a doctor?”
He nodded, suppressing another moan as he chewed another generous bite of shrimp linguini. Italian-flavored bottom dwellers weren’t bad. He glanced at Angelique. Not bad at all. “Yep, he is a country doctor, too. He volunteers on most of the Native American reservations in the area. Gives him something meaningful to do in his retirement.”
She stilled. Stared at her plate, picking at noodles and chewing on her bottom lip. “The tribes allow him to do that? My firm collaborated on some legal work for one of the tribes last year, and the leaders are pretty particular about letting in outsiders.”
“My stepmom is half Navajo.” He shrugged. “That helps.”
“So acting like Florence Nightingale is a family tradition, then?”
He stopped mid-chew and locked his stare on to hers. He swallowed, then stabbed at his salad. “If helping people who are ill and too poor to travel long distances for medical care makes me a target for smart-ass remarks, then so be it. At least I can sleep at night.”
“It was a joke, Doc.” The chandelier light glinted off her big black eyes.
“Oh,” he said back, because that was the most intelligent word he could think of with those onyx gems shimmering at him.
“But for the record, I sleep just fine.” She swirled more noodles onto her fork.
In what? He almost asked out loud, because if the panties were any indication . . .
“There are two sides to every story, Dr. Holloway.” A long, slender finger traced the edge of her wine glass. “Think of it this way. You’re trained to give medical attention to anyone who needs it, regardless of who they are, what wrongs they may have committed against you or anyone else, right?”
Hell. He already knew where this was going. He nodded, feeling like he was on trial.
“So if a criminal c
ame into your office, or needed your services in some way, you wouldn’t turn them away?”
“Absolutely not. It’s against the oath I took. I may not like it, but I’d do it anyway, because it’s the job I swore to do.”
Turning a palm up, she lifted her bare shoulder. “I live by the same set of rules, just a different profession.”
“But after I treated the criminal, I’d call the police and turn him in.”
She laughed, a wine-laden huskiness threading through the sound. “Touché. But you don’t get to determine who deserves medical treatment and who doesn’t. It’s the same thing in our judicial system. Everyone is entitled to representation, just as they’re also entitled to medical care.”
“Still doesn’t change the fact that the little guy usually loses because the system is stacked against him.”
She looked away, fingered the stem of her glass, then regained her composure.
Obviously, he and the rest of the business owners were in trouble. Angelique Barbetta didn’t seem to have a shred of mercy when it came to doing her job.
“So what am I supposed to do? Walk away from a job that’s all I have left . . .” She paled, snapped her mouth shut, and pushed her glass away. Obviously the wine was talking for her, and it had just said too much. “I can’t just leave a client who has legal rights hanging because a few people deem the case as unfair.” She shook her head. “It’s called progress, Doctor.”
He swiped the napkin across his mouth and tossed it on the table. The chair scraped against the wood floor when he shoved it back. “It’s called ruining the livelihoods of good, hardworking, salt-of-the-earth people.”
Like him. He was one of the small-town folks who stood to lose everything, and then where would he be? He wouldn’t have the capital to start over here. He’d have to move back to a big city where he could make some real money to pay off his medical school loans. A big city where doctors were robots and patients didn’t have names, they had file numbers.
He stood, his chair clawing against the wood floor again. “Thanks for dinner.”
It's in His Touch Page 5
