It's in His Touch

by Shelly Alexander

When she looked up, the color drained from her face and the merriment in her eyes dimmed. Jesus, he’d never met anyone as competitive as her. She turned into a shark as soon as she stepped onto the court. It was in her stance, her posture, and the steely set of her jaw when she put her hands on her knees in front of the net and challenged him. No wonder she was so good at her job. She probably ate prosecutors alive in the courtroom. Then had the witnesses for dessert.

  Yeah. He should tear down the rickety footbridge with his bare hands to put more distance between them. Tomorrow.

  Warning bells should be going off in his head right about now because her killer instincts would likely ruin his business and steal his plans for the future.

  Blake waved to Dylan McCoy, one of Joe’s full time bartenders, and held up two fingers as he and Coop walked past the long bar. Dylan acknowledged him and set two frosty mugs on the tap, pulling the handles.

  Blake should protect himself and everyone else in town by exposing Angelique’s purpose here. Unfortunately, her purpose wasn’t what he wanted to reveal. The minute she’d walked into the community center gymnasium wearing those skintight athletic clothes, he’d wanted to peel every stitch of formfitting material off her tall, curvy body and feel her exposed skin flush against his.

  The old wood floor creaked underfoot as he and Coop made their way to the large group in the back of the room. Soft country music lilted through the cavernous space, and peanut shells crunched under each step. Angelique stole twitchy glances at him as he walked toward the table, and his eyes never left her. Not once.

  Train wreck waiting to happen. Don’t even sit by her, idiot. Flashing red and blue lights whirled inside his head. She’s a complication you don’t need in your life. Here in Red River he had all the things he’d lacked during his lonely youth and the years of residency that consumed him twenty-four-seven—an entire town he could call on any time of the day or night, an extended family, a practice where he knew his patients by name. Life was good. He liked his life.

  He was also fucking bored. And a little complication named Angelique Barbetta had him using the warning bells and flashing lights for target practice.

  An insecure man would probably not just walk but run from a woman like Angelique. A smart man, too. Blake smirked and walked up to the table. He should run from her, but he wasn’t insecure, and right now, he wasn’t acting too smart.

  Coop claimed a seat next to his wife, and Blake eased into the chair next to Angelique.

  Mistake. Big mistake.

  A raw satisfaction surged through him when deep scarlet replaced the white blanch in her cheeks. Uh-huh. General Patton wasn’t as indifferent as she’d like him to think.

  “Hey, cuz,” said Perry from across the table. “Tough game tonight. We’ll get these guys next time.” Perry motioned his beer bottle toward Angelique and Coop and took a swig of beer.

  Angelique stared at her beer bottle, examining the label like it was an important legal document.

  “Mmm. Can’t wait.” His nose throbbed as he adjusted the ice pack. A few more minutes, and maybe it would go completely numb.

  Angelique slid a tentative glance his way. She looked up at him from under long black lashes, and a miniscule quiver moved across her chin.

  “Sorry.” Her eyes darted to his swollen nose for a split second. “Is it broken?”

  “Just bruised.” Blake shook his head and winced.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “I really am sorry. Can I do something to help?”

  He gave her an assessing look. “I’m sure I can think of something.” She looked away, and the blush on her cheeks deepened. He shifted the ice pack to the other side. “Are you that vicious in the courtroom?”

  Her lips thinned. “Competitive,” she corrected. “Yes, I am.”

  Miranda, Cotton Eyed Joe’s manager, delivered frosty mugs to Blake and Coop and set an array of appetizers around the table. “Hey, Doc,” Miranda said. “What happened?”

  “I had a run-in with an overzealous volleyball.” He shot a glance at Angelique, who meticulously traced the beer label on her bottle. “It won.” He clinked mugs with Perry and chugged a third of the glass. Maybe it’d help the pain.

  Miranda shook her head, her black curly hair swishing behind her. “Some people consider the strangest things fun.”

  Miranda took a handful of pink breast cancer ribbons out of her apron. “It’s October. Cotton Eyed Joe’s is selling pink ribbons for five dollars. All proceeds go to finding a cure for breast cancer.” Several people around the table took out their wallets and handed five dollars over to Miranda. She passed out the ribbons.

  Angelique handed her a twenty. “You can keep the ribbons.”

  Blake studied her. Her posture had gone rigid, and she twisted the bottle around in her hand.

  “You sure?” Miranda asked while everyone pinned the ribbons to jackets or hats.

  “Positive.” Angelique’s expression turned to stone. “I don’t need to wear a ribbon to support breast cancer victims.”

  The table hushed for a second.

  “Suit yourself.” Miranda put the ribbons back into her apron. “Let me know if you guys need anything.”

  Angelique took a long swallow of beer and set the bottle down a little too hard. The silverware clinked next to the bottle. When she let go of the beer, a slight tremor echoed through her hand.

  Blake studied her profile. She was young, probably too young for breast cancer. But women were getting it earlier and earlier, and she’d had health issues that she wasn’t willing to talk about. Any kind of cancer was a bitch, but a young woman having to go through breast cancer was just cruel. He’d seen some of his female patients go through it, and it messed with a woman’s head.

  “I really need to get home.” She fumbled around on the back of the chair, trying to retrieve her purse. After digging another twenty out of her wallet, she tossed it on the table. “It was nice meeting you all.” She glanced at Blake but refused to hold his gaze. “Do you still need a ride, Dr. Holloway?”

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind.” He really didn’t care if she minded. He chugged a little more beer and got up. Instead of tearing down that bridge and keeping his distance, he needed to spend a little more time with her. Maybe then he could figure out how to chip away the armor she hid behind and find the real Angelique Barbetta.

  Chapter Six

  The ride to Blake’s cabin was thick with silence, both of them focusing on the dark, winding road ahead. Because really, what could she say? She’d pummeled the guy’s face with a volleyball and then acted like a compassionless witch when the waitress tried to give her a pink ribbon. Refusing it was a knee-jerk reaction. She hadn’t been able to wear a pink ribbon since her diagnosis. It branded her a victim, cursed like an outcast among people her age. Especially happily married people with a baby on the way, like Ella and Coop. She might as well wear a scarlet letter.

  But her harsh reaction had startled a few people, and she didn’t miss the look of surprise on Blake’s face.

  Hell’s bells.

  Approaching Blake’s cabin, she slowed and flipped the blinker up. The ticktock filled the deafening silence of the car as she turned into his driveway.

  “You can pull around the back.” He pointed to the left of the midsize two-story cabin where the gravel drive snaked around to the rear of the house. “I never use the front door.”

  She followed the meandering gravel path and pulled up next to his red Chevy Silverado truck. She tugged the gearshift into reverse and gripped the steering wheel, the dash lights casting a glow on them both just enough. “Look, I’m sorry about your nose, but—”

  “And my shirt.” He pointed to the bloody stain that covered his logo on the front. “It’s Under Armor. Custom printed for my team. Very expensive.” He took the ice pack from his nose with slow and deliberate movements.

  She tapped a fingernail against the steering wheel. “Well, you played dirty by mentioning my panties.” And he had. I
t’d rattled her, and then it had pissed her off. But it was a pretty savvy tactic, she had to admit. She would’ve used it if she’d been in his shoes.

  “Anything to win, right?” His gaze wandered over her face.

  “Like I said, I’m sorry. Really.” She bit her lip for a beat. “I’ll even have the shirt cleaned for you. Or better yet, I’ll buy you new team shirts.”

  “I don’t want your money, Angelique.” Blake faced her, the silhouette of his wavy hair and athletic build illuminated just enough for her to appreciate. “Money isn’t everything.”

  But winning was. Some wins were sweeter than others.

  “And there are some things money can’t buy.” He still stared at her.

  Like a good win. And my life. Couldn’t he just get out of the darned car so she could go crawl into a hole somewhere? Because she really just felt like being alone to sulk after she’d busted up his nose and then snarked at their server.

  “Put the car in park, Angelique, and come inside.” He unlocked the door and pulled the handle, planting one foot on the ground. The interior light came on, and she flinched.

  “I can’t. I’ve got to go.”

  He turned back to her with a teasing smile. “I’ll tell everyone what you’re really doing in Red River.” He patted his pocket. “And don’t you want these back?”

  She glared at him. “That’s cheating.”

  He shrugged. “If it’s the only way I can win with you, then I’m good with it.”

  She stared him down like a courtroom adversary. Only he didn’t crumble under her scrutiny like witnesses did. Raising an eyebrow, he gazed back at her, his sea-blue eyes caressing her cheeks, down her nose, anchoring on her mouth for a brief moment before returning to meet her stare.

  She swallowed, her lips parting a tad. The movement lured his stare back to her lips, and for a second, Angelique wanted him to kiss her. Wanted to satisfy the need that swelled in her nether regions, the need to feel him, the need to experience his taste firsthand. The need to feel like a woman again.

  Without looking away, he reached for the gearshift, pushed it into park, found the keys, and killed the engine. “Come inside. I don’t bite.”

  Too bad.

  What? Wait. She shouldn’t. Should she? The feelings stirring inside her weren’t part of her plan. They were exactly what she didn’t need right now.

  Of course she shouldn’t go in.

  “Okay.” Her tone was wary, and the tip of her tongue darted out to trace her bottom lip. “Just for a minute. Then I’m leaving.”

  His mouth twitched into a smile.

  “But for the record,” Angelique warned, “I bite when backed into a corner.”

  He laughed, pointing to his nose. “Yeah, I got that. No corners, okay?”

  She followed him onto the porch and shifted from one running shoe to the other, one shaky hand clasping her other arm for warmth against the chilled night air and shielding her from the heady testosterone that wafted off of her host in waves. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and flipped on the lights. Besides the array of unpacked moving boxes that littered the den, his cabin . . .

  Well, his cabin screamed single straight guy, doused with a generous helping of hillbilly yokel, from the top of its steeply pitched roof all the way to its rustic, unvarnished wood floors. She scanned the open floor plan that merged the kitchen, dinette, and den into one room with just a bar and half wall separating the rooms.

  Faded framed wildlife photographs hung in the den, slate-blue paint dulled with age covered the walls, and old rustic furniture filled the place. A rather disturbing stuffed moose head with giant antlers and macabre glass eyes stared at her from the dinette.

  And he called her Cookie Monster slippers creepy.

  “Coffee, wine, or beer?”

  “Coffee would be nice.” She set her purse and keys on the credenza next to the back door.

  Blake went straight for the coffeepot. “I haven’t had time to unpack everything or fix the place up.”

  She walked to the fireplace while he put together the ingredients and flipped the switch to the on position. A pair of antique cross-country skis hung crisscrossed over the vaulted stone face. The fireplace was the focal point of the entire cabin. The hearth held a basket of chopped wood—hence, the nice guns Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some sported every time he flexed his arms—and huge mason stones angled up into a chimney that soared past the upstairs loft and into the vaulted ceiling above.

  The cabin she’d planned to buy up here a year ago had a similar fireplace that was double sided and could be used from the bedroom side, too. She’d fallen in love with it, imagining her and Gabriel sharing a king-size bed while a roaring fire and a glass of wine kept them company.

  Her eyes went to the door to the left of the fireplace, and she imagined Blake tangled in sheets.

  Don’t go there, stupid. She blinked the image away.

  After a few gurgles, steam swirled from the top of the machine as dark-brown liquid started to stream into the pot. The aroma filled the room, and it suddenly became cozy. Intimate.

  “Is this a double fireplace?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  “Yeah. How’d you know?” He retrieved two mugs from the cupboard.

  Her hand went to her collarbone and rested there. “I almost bought a place up here very similar to this a while back. Probably the same builder.”

  “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Cream. Two sugars.”

  He measured out sugar into a spoon, preparing the coffee to her specifications. “What happened?”

  She turned to him and shook off the wistfulness that threatened to stir up too much emotion. Emotions she’d put behind her and refused to let control her anymore. When she didn’t answer, he paused and looked up at her.

  “The cabin. Why didn’t you buy it?”

  She caressed the area just over her breasts. “Bad timing.”

  Another dream that had slipped through her fingers after the diagnosis. She sucked up her resolve. Cabins came up for sale all the time in Red River. Another opportunity would present itself. Except that Red River wouldn’t be the same quaint community it was now. Not after she was done . . . winning the case. So why didn’t the usual thrill of imminent victory course through her, the euphoria of an inevitable conquest?

  He stared at her for a moment before pouring half-and-half into the mugs. Metal clinked against ceramic as he stirred. She wandered over to a bookshelf. A single item sat on one shelf—a pink Power Ranger doll, well worn like a favored toy that’d been outgrown and now sat on a shelf, lonely and unloved. One arm was missing; the other limbs were scratched and twisted into odd angles. Battered and bruised just like her.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place.” She turned and stood in front of the moose head.

  He didn’t miss her jab. “It came like this. Obviously, I haven’t gotten around to buying my own furniture. Except a new bed.”

  She shot a look at him and looked away just as fast. Studied the ghoulish moose head, whose eyes seemed to follow her around the room. Anything to avoid making eye contact with Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some over the topic of his bed, especially since she’d just been visualizing that very thing. With him in it.

  “Interesting choice in knickknacks.” She joined him at the kitchen bar and pulled out an Amish-style barstool.

  “You mean Harry?” He nodded toward the moose.

  “You named it?”

  “How could I not?” He walked around the bar. “He’s hard to ignore.” He set both mugs on the counter and took the seat next to her. “Harry’s gotta go when I get around to redecorating.”

  She chuckled. “Good call, but actually, I meant the pink doll.” She threw a glance over one shoulder toward the bookshelf.

  He nodded, taking a sip of coffee. “That’s one of my most prized possessions.”

  “An old pink Power Ranger doll?” She grabbed her cup and blew on the piping-hot liquid.


  He stared down into the caramel-colored coffee like a fortune-teller would a crystal ball.

  They sipped in silence for a few moments. “This is good.” She tried to break the uncomfortable silence. At least it was uncomfortable for her. Blake seemed to be completely at ease. His laid-back, nonchalant demeanor kind of irritated her. Is that what life in the country did to a person? No worries, no fast lane, no ambition.

  Boring.

  “A patient gave the doll to me during my residency.” He stared down into his cup. “A little girl named Jenna who was in the hospital with end-stage leukemia.”

  Angelique didn’t know what to say. She stared into her cup. “That part of your job must be hard.”

  “It’s the hardest part.” He let out a heavy sigh. “All of a sudden their hospital bed is empty, or they miss an appointment and you know they’re never coming back. They’ve become like friends or family or a little sister, and they’re just gone.”

  She studied his profile for a moment. An army of doctors had poked and prodded her. They’d saved her life, but she’d bet not one of them remembered her name like Dr. Blake Holloway did his patients.

  He rubbed a hand over the shadow of stubble on his chin. “There are a lot of people I can help, and that’s how I move on.” He took another languid sip of coffee, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t slack. Setting the cup down, he swiveled his stool toward her and was dangerously close to entering her personal space. “What about you? How do you move on after a case is over?”

  Kind of like her doctors. It was easy to move on to the next file waiting on her desk if she stayed emotionally detached from the clients.

  “I just think about the next win,” she said honestly. A fact that had given her a sense of pride until Blake walked into her life carrying her runaway dog and thong panties.

  She pushed her mug away. “Thanks for the coffee, but I should go. My parents are driving in from Albuquerque tomorrow afternoon, and I have a few things to do before they arrive.” Like what? Okay, not really, but she really should leave before he pulled on more of her heartstrings.

  “It must be nice to have a close family,” he said.