It's in His Touch (6 page)

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 came 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.”

She stood, too. “I’m not trying to upset you. This is just a friendly debate.”

He scoffed. “Easy for you to say when it’s not your life at stake.”

“Tonight was supposed to be a truce, remember? Enemies tomorrow, friends tonight,” she said.

He had no idea what possessed him to do what he did next. Her eyes widened as he closed the space between them.

His hand went to her neck, and she drew in a rocky breath but stood her ground. He’d expected nothing less from her. With the tip of an index finger, he traced down her creamy neck and across a strapless shoulder, her skin quivering under his touch.

“There’s something you should know,” he mumbled, staring into her dark eyes.

“Wh . . . what?” She trembled, and her voice shook.

So he affected her, the same way she affected him. Another sliver of intel he could file away for future use. Leaning in so his nose almost touched hers, he put a finger under her chin and tipped it up so her eyes met his.

“I’m not giving up without a fight.” He brushed a thumb over her bottom lip.

A rush of desire hit him so hard his chest constricted. Before he caved in like a bamboo hut in a typhoon and caught her up in his arms, he pulled away and headed to the door. The last thing he remembered was the rubber soles of his boots squeaking across the floor, the back door slamming with a thud, and the regret of never being able to feel her body against his.

C
hapter
F
ive

By Friday afternoon, Angelique was ready to call Coop and Ella to beg off from the volleyball game, using her poison oak outbreak as an excuse. Unfortunately, before she made the call, they’d shown up on her doorstep to give her the team uniform and saw for themselves that the rash was nearly gone. So roughly three hours and twenty-two minutes later—not that Angelique was counting—she pulled on a pair of black athletic leggings along with the red team shirt that said “Red River Chiropractic” across the back, grabbed Ella’s handwritten directions to the Red River Community Center, and drove into town.

This time of year Red River was cold but not brutal. The kind of weather that made a person long to bundle up inside a warm blanket and sip wine in front of a fire while soft jazz played in the background. Snuggling deeper into her purple fleece jacket, she got out of the car, thumbed the remote lock, and plunged both hands deep into the insulated pockets. The Lexus beeped, and the parking lights flashed behind her as she walked into the community center.

She stopped short and stared at the bleachers full of spectators. Families, couples, kids, even the local fire department filled the stands, chattering and laughing. Like a family.

A lump started to form in her throat. This was entertainment in a small town that didn’t even have a movie theatre. Her hands still shoved into deep pockets, Angelique glanced over her shoulder, seriously contemplating a quick, inconspicuous exit before anyone noticed her. Before anyone could ask prying questions about why she was really in Red River.

A sharp, earsplitting whistle, the kind blown between two fingers, rang out, and Ella Wells waved both arms in the air like a person marshaling airplanes on a tarmac.

Great. So much for making a quick escape. She forced a smile and waved back. As Angelique approached Ella and Coop, most of the spectators stopped to look at her, a new face in this tight-knit community. She smiled at a few, and they smiled back. Friendly and neighborly.

“You ready?” Coop asked when she reached them.

“Heck yeah, she’s ready,” Ella answered. “And you guys are going to kick some butt out there.” Her voice turned to a competitive growl, and Angelique liked her instantly. Angelique was the same fierce competitor on the court, on the high school debate team, in law school, in the courtroom, and in life. That trait had scared off some friends in high school and college and deterred more than a few guys she’d wanted to date. Losing wasn’t in her makeup, and Ella seemed to be a kindred spirit.

Coop tried to introduce her to some of the townsfolk sitting around them, and several shouted a friendly hello, until Ella interrupted.

“She can meet everyone after the match, Cooper. Get ready to play.”

When Coop said, “Yes, ma’am,” and laid a sultry kiss on his pregnant wife, Angelique felt a pang of envy.

The ref blew a whistle.

“Let’s huddle up,” Coop said.

Angelique took off her jacket, and Ella snatched it from her. Ella started to chant their team initials—RRC. “RR
C
, RR
C
, RR
C
.” Half the stands chimed in.

But then another mantra started from the other side of the bleachers. “Doc Hollo
way
, Doc Hollo
way
, Doc Hollo
way
.” Angelique scanned Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some’s cheering section, mostly a gaggle of women of all ages. She rolled her eyes. Blake and his teammate emerged from the stands and took the court, Blake giving an encouraging slap on the back to his partner.

“We have to watch out for Doc Holloway. He’s a good spiker, but he’s playing with his cousin, Perry. Nice guy, but not exactly an all-American athlete, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Angelique peeked over Coop’s shoulder at Blake’s cousin. About the same age but much shorter than Blake, Perry was stocky—to put it politely—and he wore a boyish grin that said he probably was the nicest guy in the county. Another Robin Hood act of charity. No wonder Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some was going under. He didn’t play to win. A guy like Blake could’ve had any number of tall and agile teammates, but he’d obviously given preference to his short and stout cousin, which was kind of . . . nice.

What?
No.
No, no, no
. It was foolish. A true competitor always played to win. Right? Angelique nodded at Coop. “Got it.”

“Their strategy is mostly for Perry to set it to Blake, then Blake pounds it over. If we play smart, we can take them. Pretend we’re back in high school and the smart-ass baseball team is on the other side of the net.”

Angelique nodded. “I can do that.” Piece of cake, because a smart-ass really was on the other side of the net.

They clapped and ran onto the court, squaring off against the other team.

Blake broke off his conversation with Perry mid-sentence to stare at Angelique. Not Coop. Just her. One side of his mouth slid up into that almost-smile. A playful lock of wavy chestnut hair drooped across his forehead. Wearing loose-fitting black nylon warm-ups and a fitted black compression shirt, he looked . . . well, hot-some. Tall and lean, his arms and shoulders all rolling hills of masculine flesh. His chest, defined with a swale in the center that beckoned to be touched. Kissed. Her tongue would fit nicely in that crevice . . .

Angelique nearly jumped out of her skin when the ref blew the whistle again and threw the ball to Blake.

The ref instructed them to shake hands, so all four players met at the net. Angelique shook hands with Perry and then turned to Blake, who wore a smile that could charm a block of ice. “Good to see you again, Ms. Barbetta.” He shook her hand but didn’t let go, as Perry and Coop returned to their places on the court.

She looked at their clasped hands, his engulfing hers. Strange that as his warmth blanketed her flesh, it also sent a shiver through her entire body.

“I wasn’t sure you’d have the guts to show,” said Blake. “Seeing as how you’re here to disrupt the lives of most of these folks.”

Her eyes rose to meet his. His expression remained pleasant, but his words cut her.

For the first time in a long time, a
real
grin so broad it almost made her cheeks hurt spread across her face, and she felt it to her bones. The joy of competition burned in the pit of her stomach, and adrenaline pumped through her veins. She dislodged her hand, set her jaw, put her hands on both knees, and stooped in an agile pose, ready to play. Hard.

“You’ll wish I hadn’t shown up once I’m done wiping the floor with you boys.”

Blake’s smile faded.

“I’m very competitive,” Angelique explained.

“No kidding? I wouldn’t have guessed that.” He walked backward to the serving line, the ball lodged under one arm. Eyes never leaving her.

The ref blew the starting whistle. Blake bounced the ball twice, zeroed in on Angelique, and took a fast step to the line as he sent a perfect serve flying over the net.

Angelique bent into a nice dig and popped it up in the air to Coop. Coop got under it and set it high, offering the ball up on a platter. She went in for the kill. As she plowed it over the net, Blake and his counterpart went up for a block, but the ball whizzed over their heads, landing within the boundary lines. Coop and Angelique high-fived, as Ella screamed her approval from the stands.

Hands on knees, Angelique and Blake faced each other at the net.

“You’re gonna lose,” Blake taunted her.

“I’m sorry, are you talking to me or your imaginary friend?” Angelique gave him a thin smile, trying to ignore the broadness of his shoulders and how his corded neck rippled when he spoke.

“You don’t like losing, do you, Ms. Barbetta?”

Losing sucks
. “Doesn’t bother me to lose once in a while.”

“Don’t you have someone to sue around here?” Blake glanced at the stands.

Ouch. That was a low blow, even if it was true. “Why don’t you go cure something important, like your own bad case of diarrhea-of-the-mouth?”

“I would, but you’d probably sue me.”

The ref threw the ball to Coop.

“You are so going down, Dr. Holloway.”

Her words drew a naughty smile from Blake. “Is that an offer?”

She bit her lip at the images her poor choice of words evoked. Heat rose up her neck, exposed because of her upswept hair. Blake laughed at her.
At
her, dammit.

Coop waited for the whistle and then sent a nice serve flying right at Perry. Perry’s hit came down a little too far from the net, making it impossible for Blake to spike it over. The ball caught on the top edge of the net and bounced back at Blake.

The ref declared a point for RRC, and Ella started another round of chanting in the bleachers while she yelled a demand for more of the same. Coop and Angelique obliged, scoring five more points before losing the serve to the other team.

The game went back and forth, the spectators chanting louder and Ella getting more obnoxious with every point.

Angelique had to laugh. “Coop, maybe you should tell your wife to calm down. She might work herself into premature labor.”

Coop’s expression turned a little fearful, and he raised both brows. “Yeah. You want to be the one to tell her that?”

Angelique looked at Ella for a second, her face as red as her hair from yelling while she rubbed her rounded belly. There weren’t many things on earth as beautiful as a woman close to labor, ready to bring forth a new life. Not many things scarier either. Angelique gave her head an exaggerated shake. “Nope. I’m good.”

Coop nodded. “That’s what I thought.” He clapped and returned his attention to the opponents on the other side of the net. “Let’s play.”

They did, and finally, with RRC one point shy of winning, Coop called a time-out.

Angelique wiped the sweat from her forehead with a sleeve and tossed her ponytail over one shoulder. Her breathing heavy, she put both hands on her hips and waited for Coop’s instructions.

“We’re almost there. All we have to do is win back the serve, and the game is ours,” Coop said, the anticipation of victory flowing through his voice. “We just have to keep Blake from spiking it.”

She glanced up at Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some, who had the ball lodged under one arm and his other hand on his hip. Nice trim hips that angled up and out into wide shoulders. He smiled in her direction, confidence oozing from his stance. Overconfidence. From a man who had to have the help of a dog to get into her panties.

She nodded to Coop. “We have to keep hitting it to Perry, but they need to be hits that he can’t return.”

Coop smiled. “Exactly.”

They broke huddle, and Angelique took her place against the net.

Blake stood behind the serving line and spun the ball on his fingers. He hesitated for a second, then jogged forward to meet her at the net. The crowd went silent, and Blake leaned in.

“By the way, I have something of yours,” he half whispered and patted his pants pocket. “That dog of yours wandered over to my house early this morning.” His smile turned wicked.

No. Way
. How could Sarge have gotten ahold of another pair of panties?

Before Angelique could respond, Blake jogged back to the serving line. When the whistle blew, he popped a serve right over the net and straight at her. Her mind still reeling over the object in his pocket, she sent the ball flying out of bounds. A point for Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some. She glared across the net in disbelief. He smiled back. The next few serves went about the same, until it was game point for Blake’s team.

Ella let out a few bloodcurdling screams about making the other team eat the ball, and Coop huddled up with Angelique.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Angelique nodded, brushing a sleeve across her forehead. Kicking at the floor with the tip of her shoe, she squeezed her eyes shut and drew a deep breath. “Sorry, I just haven’t played in a while.” And the way Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some’s gaze kept drinking her in like a tall glass of water didn’t help her concentration.

“No worries.” Coop squeezed her shoulder. “Let’s mix it up a little. Just as he steps forward to serve, let’s switch places. I’ll set up the spike for you this time. They won’t be expecting that.”

Angelique smiled big again and felt it down to her toes, her competitive edge finding its way home. The thrill of victory coursed through her. “You got it.” They clapped and did just what they’d planned. When Angelique went up for the spike, Blake and his teammate followed for the block. Angelique hammered the ball straight down over the net, and it slammed into Blake’s nose.

Blood squirted out, and the good doctor fell back onto the court clutching his face.

An “ohhhh” rippled through the crowd of spectators, and Angelique stared in horrified silence as Coop and Perry ran forward to help Blake.

Oy vey.

Guilt welled in her, because she’d probably just broken his nose.

More people gathered around Blake. Angelique stepped toward him to offer an apology, but she couldn’t get close enough because of the cluster of women trying to help. For a moment, Blake disappeared under the crush of protective females, but Coop insisted everyone back off so Blake could breathe, and the crowd thinned.