It's in His Touch

by Shelly Alexander

  Oh, she’d come over. He’d make sure of it.

  The work kept him busy, but his thoughts didn’t stray from the hardheaded Italian beauty living next door. He hadn’t been able to focus all morning because of last night’s images of Angelique in the clutches of an orgasm while under him . . . on top of him . . . even when she’d pulled on his T-shirt and they’d gone into the kitchen for a drink of water, they’d somehow ended up against the wall making good use of another condom before finally collapsing into bed again.

  She’d been every bit as beautiful naked as she was dressed. Of course he hadn’t seen her with the light on, but the plastic surgeon who had done her reconstruction was obviously good, because in the moonlight they looked natural and better than most real breasts he’d seen. Which was a lot, considering he was a doctor. He’d wanted to touch them, taste them, but she’d have to make that move eventually.

  Hopefully there would be an eventually. Stubborn-ass woman.

  By late morning, the mist had burned off, and the sun hung high and bright in the cloudless sky. Unable to stay away from Angelique any longer, he tossed his tools in the shed and headed across the footbridge.

  As he walked up to Angelique’s cabin, Blake heard Sarge bark from the backyard. As he detoured around the side, Angelique and Kimberly’s voices pierced through the quiet morning air. He stopped and listened to them chat on the back porch.

  “I told you Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some was fling-worthy,” said Kimberly, apparently slurping a cup of coffee.

  The corners of his mouth quirked up. They’d named him?

  The robust scent made his mouth water for both the coffee and Angelique, and he suddenly wanted to curl up in a blanket with her and sip from the same mug. Right before he took her back to bed and made her scream his name all over again.

  “It was one night,” Angelique said. “That’s it.”

  “Doesn’t have to be,” her friend argued.

  Damn straight it didn’t have to be, and he’d have to remember to thank Kimberly.

  “My work here makes it impossible.” Angelique called to Sarge.

  “Have you considered telling the firm to piss off? I mean, really, after Gabe the Douchebag was caught screwing your legal assistant on company property, they should’ve asked for his resignation, but they didn’t, and now he’s trying to pin his financial discrepancies and his case file mismanagement on you.”

  Blake bristled. Tried to focus on the cedar siding of her cabin, counting the rings in the wood to keep himself from rounding the corner, demanding Gabriel’s address, and driving all the way to Albuquerque to relieve him of his ability to chew for a while.

  “Gabriel can’t back up his accusations,” Angelique said.

  “What if the firm believes him? They haven’t held him accountable for any of his behavior so far.”

  “I’ll figure something out. I’m not about to let him ruin my chances for a partnership to save himself.” Angelique went quiet for a second. “He sent me a text this morning.”

  Blake’s fists clinched.

  “Said he wanted to drive back up here to my cabin and talk about the situation.” Angelique emphasized the last two words. “Alone,” she added.

  “Jeez, he’s a real piece of work,” Kimberly snorted.

  “I told him I had nothing to say unless one of the partners was present. I also warned him that if he came to the cabin, I’d call the police and the firm and tell them he’s harassing me.” She laughed. “He didn’t respond.”

  “Figures,” Kimberly said with a smirk. “He’s too chickenshit. So you’re just going to go back to Albuquerque and work side by side with that jerk?”

  Good girl, Kimberly.

  For being so smart, Angelique wasn’t using her brain. Gabriel wouldn’t leave her alone. He’d make her life miserable every chance he got and probably try to get her back in the sack, too. The raw jealousy in Gabriel’s eyes when Angelique introduced Blake as her new boyfriend had been impossible to miss. He knew the type. Rich boys who always wanted what they couldn’t have.

  Angelique’s armor had slipped last night in the back parking lot at Joe’s. He’d been happy to relieve her of it completely for a few hours, along with the rest of her clothing and another sexy pair of panties. The armor was firmly back in place this morning, and her false bravado was going to earn her more humiliation and another broken heart if she didn’t take Kimberly’s advice. She just didn’t see it yet.

  So maybe he could convince her of that before it was too late. Before Red River residents discovered her mission here, or before she won the case and went back to the firm where her ex would keep hurting her. Either that or he really was going to have to make the two-and-a-half-hour trip to Albuquerque and kick some lawyer-ass.

  He’d probably get sued, but it would be well worth it.

  Another little piece of intel may have escaped her notice. Blake was pretty smart and resourceful himself and didn’t mind playing dirty once in a while. Like using her panties against her. If her shrieking his name and having so many orgasms he’d lost count was any indication, she’d thoroughly enjoyed herself last night. Great sex was a powerful weapon that he could use to save Red River if he had to.

  But first, he needed to save Angelique from herself, and he hoped that she was worth it.

  He rounded the corner, and Angelique blanched. Sarge ran to him, tail wagging full speed. Blake bent to give him a scratch.

  “Morning, ladies,” Blake said, picking up a stick. He threw it across the yard, and Sarge tore after it.

  Kimberly plopped a hand on her hip. “That dog wouldn’t play fetch with any of us if we wrapped the stick in bacon.” She shook her incredibly wild head of hair, and not one strand moved. “Hi, Doc,” she said, and looked at Angelique’s pale face, rounded black eyes, and parted lips. “Bye, Doc.” Kimberly scurried into the house.

  “Hi,” he said to Angelique when the door banged shut.

  “Um, hi.” She looked down, suddenly very interested in her creepy puppet slippers.

  He sighed. Yep, she was going to make this difficult. He walked up onto the porch without waiting for an invitation and leaned against a wooden post. “I was out looking for more poison oak. Your place looks pretty clean.”

  “Thanks,” she said and clamped her mouth shut. She cradled the blue coffee mug in both hands and stared into it.

  The back door opened, and a single hand slipped through the crack, extending a mug of piping-hot coffee. “For you, Doc,” Kimberly offered, her voice muffled behind the door.

  Kimberly was obviously in his corner, and he’d take all the backup he could get. He grabbed the mug and resumed holding up the post.

  The hand disappeared, and the door shut.

  He took a sip as Sarge ran onto the porch with the stick between his teeth and dropped it at Blake’s feet.

  “Incredible,” Angelique whispered, and shook her head at the dog.

  Blake grabbed the stick and threw it again. Sarge lit out after it. “Last night was pretty incredible.”

  Angelique sputtered. “I wasn’t talking about last ni—”

  “You didn’t think last night was incredible?” Blake sipped at the hot coffee. “Because I got the distinct impression that you had a good time.” He let a beat go by. “A really good time. Was I wrong?”

  Light pink colored her cheeks. “Yes!”

  He arched a brow.

  “I mean no.” Her hand jerked when she said it, and coffee sloshed out onto the porch. “Crap.” She wiped a hand against her fitted jeans.

  The pink in her cheeks deepened.

  Pink wasn’t the least bit tacky. He’d have to convince her of that one day soon.

  “It doesn’t matter because it can’t happen again.” The armor slid back into place.

  He rolled the caramel-colored liquid around in his cup. “Why not? We both enjoyed spending time together. I’ll even promise not to make fun of your slippers anymore. Unless they give me nightmares, which
is entirely possible.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched, and a hidden smile danced in her eyes. It took a second, but her self-control won, and the smile never fully formed. She looked out over the backyard, Sarge carrying the stick toward them. “I just can’t. It’s impossible on so many levels.”

  He shook his head as Sarge scampered up onto the porch again. Blake grabbed the stick and threw it for another round. “Complicated, maybe. But not impossible. Complications can be worked out. It’s called compromise.” And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She didn’t like to compromise. She liked to win.

  “Professionally, it’s not possible.”

  “And what about personally?”

  She wouldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t answer him.

  “Is this about your ex?” Blake didn’t even want to say his name.

  “No.” A muscle in her jaw flexed. “This has nothing to do with him.”

  “I get that it’s difficult because of our legal situation, but if it’s not about your ex, then what is it about?”

  Her hand went to her chest, her palm flattening against her breasts. “What if it comes back?” A tremor threaded through her voice.

  Ah. She still hadn’t let go of the fear. He’d seen it in some of his patients. Once they let themselves slide down into that hole, it was hard to climb out. “What if it doesn’t?”

  “It wouldn’t be fair to put anyone through that again. I couldn’t stand to see the resentment in your . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked out over the expansive backyard. “. . . someone’s eyes.”

  “If you’re comparing me to Gabriel, don’t. I deserve a little more credit than that, and aren’t you being kind of arrogant?”

  “Beg your pardon?” Angelique gaped.

  “I’m a doctor for Chrissake. And I’m a grown man, unlike that little boy you were engaged to. Maybe you should let me decide for myself whether or not I want to get involved with you, instead of making the decision for me.”

  Angelique hugged herself, drawing inward. Away from him. Disengaging. “I couldn’t go through the rejection again. Everyone has a breaking point, and I think that would be mine.”

  “You’re willing to be alone the rest of your life?” Alone sucked. Emotional isolation had destroyed his mother, robbed her of every ounce of joy. Pushed everyone in her life away who wanted to help, including him. That wasn’t living. It was hell.

  “I’ve got my family.” Angelique looked at her feet. “And my career, of course.”

  “For being so tough, you’re a chicken.”

  Her gaze snapped to his. Finally. Whatever worked. Her eyes darkened.

  “You got a raw deal with your illness. That’s no excuse to stop living.”

  Anger flashed in her eyes. “You couldn’t possibly understand what it was like. What it took from me. And it’s none of your business.”

  “You’re right, it’s not.” But he wanted it to be. Damned if he didn’t want her to be his business in all of her stubborn glory. He ran a hand through his hair. “My mother died of breast cancer when I was in med school,” he blurted. Hell.

  Angelique’s mouth fell open.

  “You got a second chance, Angelique. Don’t waste it.” He set his coffee on the small table by the chair and walked off the porch. Stopping, he tossed a look over his shoulder and stuffed both hands in his pockets. “Maybe if you focus on people instead of wins, none of this would be so complicated. Because it seems pretty simple to me.” He strolled toward home.

  He really needed to practice what he preached, because he’d let his life get a whole lot more complicated by getting involved with such a headstrong woman. Give him a case of appendicitis to diagnose, and he was a genius. Give him a strong-willed woman, and he became a blithering idiot who was begging for trouble.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Angelique took a drink of the new concoction in her martini glass and smacked her lips. She had to admit, Mixology 101—number fifteen on the bucket list—wasn’t so bad. Putting her lips to the rim, she drew on the fancy glass again and let the mixture slide down her throat. Yes. Yes, the amateur bartending class was actually quite fun. Much more relaxing than gambling or arctic dog sledding. And Angelique needed a little relaxation after her confrontation with Blake a few hours ago.

  Blake. Since when did she start calling him by his first name?

  Oh, yeah . . .

  Heat crept up her neck, and she tossed back the rest of her cocktail.

  After losing his mom to breast cancer, why would he be interested in Angelique? Why would he chance putting himself through that again, unless he pitied her? Gah!

  She and Kimberly stood at one of the bar-height mixing tables at the Andalucia Vineyard and Winery, Kimberly studying the cocktail recipe chart like it was part of the bar exam.

  Angelique’s phone rang. Well, shouted the ringtone of Jack Nicholson yelling, “You can’t handle the truth!” She looked at the number and growled.

  “Douchebag?” Kimberly asked, looking up from the recipe chart.

  “How’d you know?” Angelique let it go to voicemail.

  “The grizzly bear snarl kind of gave it away.” Kimberly returned her attention to the chart.

  Angelique waited for the phone to beep, and then she listened to the message.

  “Ang, it’s Gabriel.”

  It irritated her that he still called her Ang.

  “We need to talk.” His voice was desperate. “Monthly finance reports are due soon, and I need my case files. I’ve got work to do for those clients. If the money and the files don’t turn up soon, I’ll have to tell the partners, and they’ll want an explanation. Call me back. Soon.” His last word turned angry.

  Hmm. Gabriel wasn’t giving up, and a desperate Gabriel could be bad news. What if he really did try to pin this on her? How convenient since she wasn’t around to defend herself.

  She tossed the phone back into her purse. “Next weekend would you help me with something?” she asked Kimberly.

  Kimberly poured ingredients for the next cocktail. “Does it require shovels and Gabriel’s lifeless corpse?” She covered the metal cocktail shaker and shook the daylights out of it. The tip of her tongue clenched between her teeth on one side of her mouth, she concentrated on the ice pinging against metal.

  “Um, no. No bodies, and remind me never to piss you off.”

  Finally the shaking stopped—thank God, because it made Angelique a little dizzy—and Kimberly poured her newest mixture into fresh glasses. “It won’t be as much fun as duct-taping Gabriel and forcing him into my trunk, but you know I’d do anything for you.” She threw two olives in each drink.

  Angelique snagged one of the new cocktails and sipped. Okay, gulped.

  Flipping the chart to the next recipe, Kimberly started organizing bottles of vermouth, gin, and bitters. “So what is this thing you need help with next weekend?”

  The tasting room filled with a buzz of tipsy chatter from the dozen and a half people who had signed up for the Sunday afternoon class just to get schnockered. Really, did no one go to church anymore?

  Angelique hiccupped.

  “I got a second chance. You know, with my health.” Hadn’t Blake said that? She’d gotten a second chance, unlike his poor mother. “I think I have a way to pay it forward. There’s this nice German couple in Red River, the Ostergaards. They own the pastry shop on Main Street. Mrs. Ostergaard is going through chemo.”

  Angelique put her empty martini glass down and picked up Kimberly’s drink. Plucking out the cocktail pick, she pulled the olives off with her teeth one at a time. She gazed at the late-afternoon sky through the tasting room windows and chewed.

  “Maybe it’s a stupid idea.” Since the Ostergaards won’t be in business much longer. “But when a person’s ill—like big C ill—a small gesture can boost their morale. Help them get through one more day.” Angelique knew that all too well. Some days she’d felt like an arcade duck at a county fair all shot up with holes. The phy
sical and mental battles started on day one of the diagnosis.

  Angelique hadn’t been able to forget the image of a rosy-cheeked Mrs. O wearing a head scarf to cover her balding head. The sight had melted Angelique’s heart into a puddle right there on the bakery floor, and that’s where it still lay.

  “I got off easy with only oral meds as treatment. I can’t imagine what it would be like to go through chemo or radiation.”

  Kimberly stopped mixing and studied Angelique. “That’s the first time you’ve said you had it easy. The first time you’ve looked at the bright side of your illness. Did Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some have something to do with that?”

  “No.” Yes. Dammit.

  Angelique’s fate after the diagnosis could’ve been much worse, and she was finally beginning to see that. Thanks to Mrs. Ostergaard. And Blake. Angelique shook her head. Hell’s bells, she needed to stop thinking of him as Blake. She needed to stop thinking of him period. Except that Blake Holloway was all she thought about anymore. Somehow, he’d invaded her mind, her body, and her life, and she wasn’t sure how to walk away from him. Wasn’t sure she could.

  “I thought we could help the Ostergaards bake. Their display cabinets were kind of bare, and I think it’s because Mrs. O is ill.”

  A warm smile lit Kimberly’s face, and she stared at Angelique. “You’re so sweet.”

  “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but sweet isn’t one of them.” Another hiccup, this one a little louder, and Angelique giggled behind one hand. “Most people just think I’m bitchy and intimidating.”

  “Okay, then you’re one classy bitch. I’ll drive in next weekend, and we can bake our brains out for the Os.”

  Angelique knocked back the rest of her drink. “I knew I could count on you.” She hiccupped again.

  Kimberly eyed her. “Think you should slow down with the cocktails? I’m just having a taste of each recipe since we have to drive home.”

  Angelique gave her head a decisive shake. The alcohol was nice. Liquid courage. She’d pop over to Blake’s cabin when they got home and make him understand why she had to sever their . . . their . . .