It's in His Touch (8 page)

Except when she woke up from surgery. Even then, with her entire family around her for support, the loneliness and desolation that had engulfed her after losing the most feminine parts of her body had seemed insurmountable. Her mother and grandmother had been through it and tried their best to help Angelique cope, but she’d still felt alienated and alone for a time.

She offered a sympathetic smile. “At least you’re not completely alone anymore. Sounds like life is looking up for you.” She regretted the words as soon as she said them.

He drew in a breath, resting his jaw in the palm of his hand. An index finger tapped against his cheek as he studied her. “It was until recently.”

Angelique set her mug down. “I should get home.” She turned to him, holding out an open palm. “You have something of mine.”

Her thigh brushed against his, and he rotated her stool, his thighs framing hers. Heat pulsed through her. With two gentle fingers, he clasped a stray lock of her hair. She drew back ever so slightly, until his stare captured hers, and she saw the kindness there. The warmth. Even forgiveness.

She swallowed. Stilled. And let him tuck the strand behind her ear, his hand lingering there.

He stared down at her open palm, and then his eyes traced back up to her lips. “I lied.”

Her brow furrowed. “You what?”

“I lied about your dog,” he said. “I don’t have your panties.” When he spoke the P word, his eyes turned smoky.

“You cheated?” Her mouth gaped.
“Again?”

He inched closer, now both his arms and legs braced at her sides like a cocoon. “You almost broke my nose, so we’re even.”

Her breath caught as his heat washed over her. “You asked for it,” she whispered.

A wicked smile turned up his lips. “Yep.”

Before she could recover, he threaded one hand behind her neck and pulled her into him. His startling blue eyes held hers, their noses brushing just the slightest bit. His breath caressed her mouth, her skin, and for a moment the room melted away, and only the two of them existed in the universe. Her brain screamed,
No, no, no!
But even as a dozen reasons why this was a bad idea zinged through her mind, her double-crossing body leaned into him just a smidge. Her hands smoothed along his rock-hard thighs, over narrow hips and a taut abdomen. They found his chest. Just as solid as the rest of him.

She sighed.

A caressing thumb stroked across her bottom lip, his hand cradling the side of her face, angling her head to fit with his. Another gentle brush of his thumb to her lower lip coaxed her mouth open to wait for his. Her eyes fluttered shut under the tender touch, and she forgot to breathe.

A determined scratch sounded at the back door.

She blinked backed to reality, and Blake growled under his breath.

Another scratch, louder this time, had her jerking out of his grasp, and her eyes darted toward the sound.

A muscle in Blake’s jaw twitched, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. “I think your dog is paying another visit.”

“My dog?” Her brows drew together before realization dawned. Her eyes squeezed shut. “Oh,” she whispered.

He pulled himself off the barstool.

Good.
She breathed deep. Kissing him would’ve been a mistake, right?

Right.
Lips still burning with unrequited desire, she traced them with a fingertip. Rubbed them together to snuff out the pull of lust his touch had ignited.

He opened the back door. Sergeant Schnitzel darted straight to Blake, his tail wagging and his jaw clamped around a pair of her mint-green lace panties. The mutt completely ignored her while offering up her unmentionables to Blake like a prize.

Oh, for God’s sake.
“Sarge!” she hissed. “Give me those this instant.”

The dog didn’t even glance in her direction, his attention devoted to Blake.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. How the heck was Sarge getting ahold of her underwear? Did she leave a crack in her lingerie drawer? That long snout of his could probably wedge into the slightest gap and push the drawer open.

Her breath hitched. Thank the angels in heaven she didn’t actually bring good ol’ Harley. She really would have to serve that dog up on a bun if he got ahold of that thing. Didn’t women usually hide their tools in their lingerie drawer?

When Blake held out his hand under the dog’s mouth, Sarge dropped the ball of lace right into his palm. Blake scratched him behind the ears. “Good boy.”

“Good boy?” Angelique stood. “I’m going to give him away if he keeps this up.” Even though he did just save her from making a serious mistake. Sarge’s timing was impeccable.

Blake held the green swatch in his hand, and Angelique’s face burned like hot coals. “I kind of like his visits.”

She stuck one hand on a hip. “Well, I don’t.” She held out the other hand. “Give me my . . . things.”

She grabbed for the panties, but he moved them out of her reach. “If you want these back, you’ll have to trade for them.”

She narrowed skeptical eyes at him.

Clenching them into his fist, Blake crossed both arms across his chest. “I’ll make you a deal.” He raised a brow. “You’re good at that, right? Cutting deals.”

“Give them to me,” she seethed through clenched teeth.

“I will if you’ll agree to let me show you something.”

“I beg your pardon?” she blurted, her stare dropping to his crotch for a nanosecond. “I don’t make deals like that.”

A scoff intermingled with his laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. I want you to see what this community stands to lose if your clients get their way.”

His arrogant smile pissed her off. She hadn’t been in a courtroom battle for a year now. Maybe she was due for a good scrap. “You know what?” She grabbed her purse from the credenza and tossed it over one shoulder. “You keep that pair.” She snatched up Sergeant Schnitzel. “I’ve got plenty more where those came from.” She stomped out the door and down the porch toward her car.

When she got to the driver’s door, she glanced up. Blake leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over that firm chest and a lazy smile on his lips.

“I can’t wait to see them all. Sarge’s visits are better than a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.”

Oh, he did not just compare her panties to an X-rated catalogue!
She pulled open the car door. She thrust herself behind the wheel. Planting Sarge in the passenger seat, Angelique fired up the car and punched the gearshift into reverse. A cloud of dust filled her rearview mirror as she headed home, determined to stop her underwear from making any more public appearances.

C
hapter
S
even

After a fitful night of thinking about a certain irritating doctor who was as hot as a summer day in July, Angelique dragged herself out of bed at the first hint of dawn. Her parents were set to arrive after lunch, and Kimberly planned to drive in from Taos for the night, no doubt wielding the dreaded bucket list, but that wasn’t for several more hours.

Coffee. She needed coffee to clear the cobwebs from her sleep-deprived mind. Maybe fresh mountain air from a good run would kick-start her stiff muscles and dispel her grumpy attitude. Or a new neighbor. That’d probably work just as well, but since Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some wasn’t likely to move anytime soon, she decided on the run first.

She went to the window and leaned against the seal, pulling the sheer organza curtain to one side. Past the stream and footbridge that led to Blake’s cabin, her upstairs view made the top of his pitched roof and the stone chimney visible above the autumn palette of trees. The truth was, he’d probably be moving sooner than either of them expected. Because of her. Letting the curtain fall back into place, she shook her head.

It’s not because of me.
It was her client’s doing, and it was her job to represent her client. Period.

Angelique pulled on Nike thermal tights and a hoodie, and went for a run, trying to get her head back in the game, to stay focused on this thing she came here to do.

An hour later, she showered, dressed in her favorite fitted jeans, and paired them with a hooded red sweater, the color that always made her feel in charge. Tugging hot rollers out, she tossed them aside and ran a brush through her hair. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom and checked herself. Her long black hair hung in messy curls, the warm color of the sweater enhancing her dark features. She’d lost a little weight during her illness but still filled out her jeans with rounded hips and trim but muscular thighs from running.

She sighed. Why could she not see herself as attractive anymore? When she walked into a room, at least a few heads used to turn, and it’d been flattering. Now paralyzing fear gripped her in a crowd because she was certain the only thing people could see was a woman so insecure that she’d caved and had plastic surgery. And what kind of woman does that?

The scared kind
. The kind who wants to be whole again but doesn’t know how.

Grabbing a tube of lip gloss off the dresser, she swiped it across pursed lips. A frosty scarlet gloss shimmered back at her, and she leaned in close to the mirror. Gabriel’s favorite. Her rhythmic breaths fogged the mirror.

The same lip gloss the Cheerleader had purchased after hearing Gabriel compliment Angelique about it. The color had been forever burned into Angelique’s memory when it shimmered across the Cheerleader’s puckered lips as she screamed for Gabriel to screw her harder, Angelique frozen in his office doorway.

Jamming the wand back into the tube, she went to the trash can and tossed it in. She brushed her hands off with finality.

“Gone the way of Gabriel’s widescreen TV.”

It took two Kleenex and a wet rag to completely wipe the red color off her lips, but when she was done, her lips were like a fresh canvas. She fumbled through her makeup bag, cosmetics flying in every direction. Finally she withdrew a natural, earth-toned tube. She removed the brush and stared at it.

There.
A new color. Different. Fresh. Real.

Sarge greeted her at the bottom of the stairs, so she gave him a pat on the head and picked up the Red River Resort Development file.

Open it. Do your job. Then go back to Albuquerque like a champion.

The file and what it represented pricked at her conscience. That file held the key to her future—a prestigious partnership. What she’d wanted her entire professional life, worked hard for. Even made a few enemies to attain it, and it was the thing that would fill the emptiness now that she’d decided to keep her body to herself and let go of the possibility of having a family of her own.

It also held the future of a lot of honest and friendly folks. People who’d become real to her. People who were already accepting her into their close-knit circle.

The people who came in and out of her life because of the legal cases she dealt with had always seemed like a surreal videogame, and she held the controller. Moved them around their world like avatars on a screen. When she won, because she always won, she paused the game until the next case came along and then restarted it. Simple. Detached. Not a lot of emotion, because really, she wasn’t a shrink, and emotions could be dangerous in her line of work.

She tossed the file back in a drawer and slammed it shut. Out of sight, out of mind, at least for a few hours. “Be good, Sarge. I have to get out of here for a while.” She grabbed her purse and keys and left the cabin. Searching out a strong cup of coffee was a worthy mission, and it provided a good excuse to get out of the cabin where the Red River Resort Development file haunted her.

She’d thought the one-horse town mentality of Red River would wear thin. Instead, it was growing on her. She found it . . . charming. Warmth spread through her chest, filling an inexplicable void. Her time in Red River gave her a sense of . . . what was it?

Contentedness.

Big mistake. Letting a case get personal was stupid. Any good lawyer knew better.
She
knew better. Yet here she was, following Highway 38 west through Bobcat Pass, on her way into town to find some coffee and some . . . company.

She flipped on the radio and tried to find a jazz station. Static. Static. Country and western. Static. More C and W. Static again. Sighing, she shut the radio off.

Cracking the driver’s window, the fresh mountain air filled her lungs. Cleared her head. Instead of the natural scent of pine, maybe a crowbar would do a better job knocking some sense into her. She’d almost kissed Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some.

“Stupid, Barbetta,” she mumbled.

A relationship of any kind was not her goal, not even a one-time thing. It couldn’t be. Not anymore. The thought of having to explain her fake breasts to a man, having him touch them, kiss them . . .

Her hands tightened around the steering wheel. It was even difficult to let her surgeon do follow-up exams. The thought of anyone else seeing them made her nauseated. She punched the button on the door, and the window rolled down another inch. She sucked in a breath.

Maybe she’d never see Blake again.

Pfst.
The chances of that were about as good as Sergeant Schnitzel leaving her underwear alone. As if it wasn’t already hard enough to avoid someone in a town this size, he had to be her neighbor.

She had a plan for her future. A solid plan.

Until a nuisance who looked as good as a Michelangelo sculpture walked into her life carrying a pair of her panties.

Nope. She wouldn’t keep Blake Holloway or Mayberry, USA, in her life any longer than necessary. And really, just why was
Dr
. Holloway still single, anyway? Must be something wrong with him, or some cheerleader would’ve already snatched him up.

Angelique really, really disliked cheerleaders.

Yeah. Dr. T, D & H-some probably had some sort of inherent flaw that chased the ladies away. Okay, she could feel better now. She
did
feel better now. Sort of.

It would help if the pang of disappointment stopped reverberating in her chest. She rubbed the area just below her collarbone.

Nope.

The Red River city limits came into view, and she slowed. Where was she going, anyway? Seemed like a loaded question at the moment. If she couldn’t figure out where to park in a town of 475 people, then it shouldn’t come as a big surprise that her professional focus seemed to be derailing like a locomotive jumping its track at full throttle.

Slowing her speed, she tooled onto Main Street. She meandered through downtown Red River, and the Ostergaards’ German pastry shop next to Coop’s office caught her eye.

Yes! Fresh coffee.
Precisely what she needed.

She slid into a parking spot against the curb and got out.

She took a step but stopped. Leaned against her SUV and took in the long strips of businesses on both sides of Main Street. When she had first arrived in Red River, they had looked old and dilapidated. Obviously designed decades ago, the two-story red barn facade and red brick trim offered a look of Old West nostalgia. It fit. Belonged like the Eiffel Tower belonged in Paris. The imitation model in Las Vegas just wasn’t the same. And a new state-of-the-art resort wouldn’t replace the sentimental charm that kept tourists coming back to Red River year after year. Wouldn’t be the pulse of the town for its year-round residents.

The streets fairly deserted on an early Saturday morning, she strolled across and stepped into the pastry shop. A string of bells jangled to announce her arrival, and the sweet scent of fresh pastries made her melt inside.

A rotund man with a cheery smile and rosy cheeks, presumably Mr. Ostergaard, appeared from the back room, wiping his floury hands on an apron. “Allo,” he said with a heavy German accent.

“Hi.” She looked into the cabinet that housed a half dozen different pastries. The display wasn’t even half full.

“Vhere are you visiting from?”

Her insides twisted, his accent a connection to his heritage, just like her parents had kept thick New York accents and mannerisms from the old Italian neighborhood even though they’d moved to Albuquerque decades ago. The vernacular, the gestures, the food. They all said
family
. Roots. The traditions of culture that wouldn’t be forgotten no matter how many generations removed. Unless the place was torn down to make way for a new resort that would attract chains like Stardust’s Coffee—corporate-owned chains with which a mom-and-pop shop like the Ostergaards’ bakery couldn’t complete.

“I live in Albuquerque.”

“Ah! Vhat can I get you?”

She perused the delicious-looking pastries. “How about a honey cinnamon pecan scone.”

“Goot choice!” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Cheese Danishes are our best, but my wife makes those, and she hasn’t felt well lately. Scones are our next-best recipe.”

Angelique smiled at him. “In that case, I’ll take two. And a coffee.”

His chest puffed out as he served up the scones and rang up her total. She pulled a bill out of her wallet and put a generous tip in the tip jar.

Mr. Ostergaard’s equally portly wife appeared, wandering in from the back kitchens. And just like that, Angelique’s heart twisted like a pretzel. Mrs. Ostergaard wore a light-pink terrycloth head wrap with a dainty dark-pink breast cancer ribbon embroidered on one side. The exact same head wrap Angelique’s oncologist had given her in a hot-pink gift bag during the initial consultation. Really? A gift bag? With a pink sparkly bow and everything. That day she’d vowed never to wear the hateful color again. Thankfully, Angelique never had to use the
thoughtful
gift.

But Mrs. Ostergaard did. The wrap covered most of her balding head, leaving only a remnant of unhealthy skin visible at the bottom. But it was enough for Angelique to know that Mrs. O had breast cancer and was getting treatment for it.

“Allo,” Mrs. Ostergaard greeted her.

Angelique smiled and reached for a wad of napkins before settling into a chair.

She took a bite, and the buttery scone melted on her tongue the same way her mother’s Italian desserts did.

She looked up and found the Ostergaards staring at her expectantly. Angelique stopped mid-chew.

“Um . . . it’s really good,” she said around a mouthful of cinnamon, honey, and pecan. Swallowing, she said it again. “The most delicious scone I’ve ever tasted.”

At the compliment, they both let out the breath they’d been holding. Angelique almost laughed. She
had
to introduce the Ostergaards to the Barbettas, because they were four ethnic peas in a pod.

“I should bring my parents by.”
Real smart, Barbetta.
Her parents didn’t know the details or the repercussions of her work in Red River either, and if they found out, they’d probably try to ground her. “You’d like them.”
Way more than you’d like me if you knew why I’m here.
“Although, my mom might try to mutiny and take control of your kitchen.”

The Ostergaards blinked at her, expressions blank, bodies frozen in place.

She shrugged. “You know how pushy New York Italians can be.”

“Ah!” They both threw their hands up in understanding. Angelique’s simple phrase explained an entire culture with just one sentence. They busied themselves with straightening tables and chairs that were already perfectly aligned. “Then ve’ll get along just fine.” Mrs. Ostergaard grabbed a broom and started sweeping the spotless floor.

The strand of bells jingled as the door swung open. Angelique looked up and nearly choked on a bite of scone. Her coffee tilted off balance, and some of it splattered onto the spotless floor.

“Hi, Angelique,” Gabriel said. His tall frame perfectly filled out the Ralph Lauren slacks she’d given him last Christmas. The first two buttons of his tailored dress shirt were unbuttoned in an attempt to look elegantly casual—which he pulled off like a champ—and the sleeves were cuffed up just below his elbows. “You’re looking well.”