That Loving Touch. Ashley Summers

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СКАЧАТЬ just as though he knew what he was doing. Quickly he fetched a pan of water, wet the washcloth and wrung it out, then laced it with alcohol. With remarkable delicacy for a man with ten thumbs, he drew the cloth across her forehead.

      Her lashes fluttered.

      “It’s all right,” he said. Ignoring the sting of alcohol on his skinned knuckles, he kept sponging her face. The repetitive motion left his mind free to wonder why she had come to the camp, as cottage owners called it. What drove her out into a December snowstorm? A broken romance? Or maybe, like him, just the season itself?

      Annoyed by his speculations, he focused on the task at hand. Although his patient still thrashed about—much like the deer he’d rescued, he thought with a brief smile—she gave no sign of being aware of his presence. Watching his long fingers slide the washcloth over her soft cheek, he wondered if she knew what he was doing. If so, was she grateful? Or furious? Was he doing the right thing? Maybe not, maybe he should have left her clothes on and just covered her with the blanket...

      Sam’s jaw clamped tight against clamorous self-doubt. He had enough to contend with—her skin was still so hot! Even her breath reeked of fever. He felt a sudden flurry of panic. What if he wasn’t doing enough? She could die!

      The thought shook Sam to the roots of his being. Suddenly frantic, he cast about for something else to do to help her.

      Nothing came to mind. Muttering something between an oath and a prayer, he moistened the washcloth again.

      

      Sam Holt lifted his head, realizing with surprise that at some point during this very long evening the wind had stopped blowing and a sweet stillness embraced the cabin. Intent on his self-appointed task, he’d lost all track of time. At first he’d been disheartened, for nothing he did seemed to have any effect. Gradually, however, her skin cooled, and she’d fallen into a natural sleep.

      “At least I hope it’s natural,” he muttered. But he felt encouraged. There was a soft sheen to her skin, and fever no longer flamed her cheeks.

      As for Sam, every muscle in his long frame ached with tension. A glance at his watch evoked a startled whistle. Midnight? It was around nine when she’d stumbled in—no wonder he was so stiff! Yawning, he carried the water bowl to the kitchen, then indulged in a full-body stretch. Maybe a shot of scotch would relax him.

      A sound from the living room acted upon him like an electric prod. Sam strode back to the couch.

      Perplexed green eyes gazed at him. “You’re real?” She sighed. “I thought you were an angel. Your white sweater...”

      Relieved that she was conscious, Sam leaned down to her. “No, no angel. How do you feel?”

      She didn’t reply. Realizing that she’d fallen asleep again, he switched off the overhead light, leaving only the soft glow of a floor lamp. For a moment longer he stood beside her. Now that he had time to think, he was astonished to realize he didn’t even know her name. But then, this was an astonishing night, spent with a complete stranger, doing intimate things she might or might not appreciate.

      He touched her hair, so bright, like a sunset. Or a bonfire. Nervously he wondered which best suited her temperament. Then he wondered why he wondered. She meant nothing to him.

      Idly he let his gaze roam her pert features. Her face, framed by that mass of tiny auburn curls, had a curious flowerlike quality. Wildflowers, he decided with a lopsided smile; the beguiling innocence of a daisy.

      His eyes flinted. Was that aura of sweet purity just a facade? Probably. Women could be masters of deception. “As alike as peas in a pod,” he ended on a note of acrid humor.

      It wasn’t fair to include her in that unflattering estimation, Sam conceded. He didn’t even know her. But experience had made him a skeptic where women were concerned. That didn’t keep him from enjoying them, though. Absently he ran a hand over his stubbled chin. This pretty redhead might awaken at any time. He suddenly, urgently, needed a shower and a shave.

      

      A short time later, clad in jeans and a red wool shirt, Sam returned to the living room. He stopped to check his sleeping patient and found himself studying her countenance as if seeking the answer to an unrealized question.

      The face of an angel. Smiling at the vapid phrase, Sam laid the back of his hand on her forehead. No more fever, thank God.

      She stirred under his touch. Her lashes lifted and she stared at him in astonishment. “Ohmigod, Mel Gibson!” she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

      “What?” Sam asked, startled. “Sorry, wrong guy. I’m Sam Holt. And you’re...?” he prodded.

      She blinked at him. “I don’t know any Sam Holt.”

      “I know you don’t, but you were ill, you see.” Obviously her mind was still foggy. “You collapsed in my arms and I—well, I tended you.”

      “You did? Oh.” She smiled, those extraordinary eyes passing through a mossy virilescence, shading from the green of new leaves to a light emerald. “Thank you. You’re very kind,” she said primly. She licked her lips. “I’m so thirsty. Please, may I have some water?”

      Sam brought her water and a can of orange juice. She sipped a little of each, then nodded off again. Placing the beverages on the end table, he sat down in a recliner. He ought to stay awake in case she needed something. But he was so tired and sleepy. Yawning, he closed his eyes, just for a moment...

      A crashing sound jerked Sam awake. His patient, blanket wound around her lower torso, lay sprawled on the floor next to an overturned lamp. He came to his feet in one swift bound.

      “Are you hurt?” he asked, hurrying to her side.

      With a soft gasp, she scooted backwards and huddled against the couch, eyes wide with apprehension. “Don’t!” she cried. “Stay away from me! Don’t come near me—I know karate!”

      “What the hell!” Sam exclaimed, jolted by her outburst. Why this explosion of fear—after all he’d done for her! Her delicate features were drawn tight with tension. He found his righteous anger annoyingly undependable when she looked like that. “Hey, hey now, it’s okay,” he added quickly. Kneeling beside her, he stretched out a hand, then quickly withdrew it when she shrank away. “It’s okay,” he repeated as if gentling a wild-eyed colt. “I’m not going to touch you.” Moving backwards until his legs hit the ottoman, he sat down and gave her his best smile. “I wouldn’t dare. You know karate.”

      Sam held his smile until tension slowly drained from her pretty face. “You all right?” he asked, rough voiced; she looked so damned fragile.

      Visibly collecting herself, she squared her shoulders. “I’m all right. But I...I don’t understand...”

      “What don’t you understand?” he asked, frowning.

      “What I’m...” Carrie stopped, inhaling sharply as she looked down at her half-nude body. He’d taken off her clothes! Shock swept through her and drained into the emotional swamp of her mind. She tugged at the twisted blanket until it reached her shoulders. Keep your head! she warned herself, trying not to tremble. To her surprise, a glance at his face gifted her with a soft flush of relief. Those clear blue eyes reassured her in a way she could not explain.

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