It's in His Touch (3 page)

Angelique sat in her pearl-white Lexus SUV wearing a baseball cap and giant sunglasses. Parked against the curb in the middle of Red River’s business district—laughable, really, considering Red River wasn’t exactly a metropolis—she perused the buildings that lined both sides of Main Street.

An uncomfortable rash had crept up her neck in the middle of the night and now covered most of her legs, arms, and face. She rubbed it, trying not to use fingernails. Frick, it itched.

When she woke up this morning in agony from head to toe, she’d looked in the mirror and screamed at the unsightly splotches of red that greeted her. Kimberly charged in, panicked, and screamed too, covering her mouth with both hands.

Great. Sarge had even barked and growled when he first saw her.

While Angelique eased into a pair of yoga pants and a zip-up hoodie with nothing on underneath, Kimberly found the number and address to Red River’s town doctor. After Angelique had assured Kimberly that she’d be fine on her own, Kimberly returned to Taos, and Angelique stared at the information Kimberly had scrawled on the scrap of paper. The address was familiar. Too familiar.

Crapola.

Dr. Blake Holloway was located in one of the structures her clients planned to tear down.

She’d pinched the bridge of her nose—one of the few spots on her upper body that didn’t hurt—before punching in the number, and made an appointment for eleven thirty that morning under the name Angie Marone.

Double crapola.

Gabriel’s last name had just popped out. It was the first alias she’d come up with on the fly, while the receptionist smacked gum in her ear.

Pulling down the sun visor, she regarded herself in the small mirror. Incognito was the look she’d been going for. If her ill-mannered neighbor had already figured out who she was, it was only a matter of time before everyone else in town did, too. But really, she just looked like a slightly creepy stalker, hunched behind the steering wheel to scope out the buildings of downtown Red River. Blowing out an exasperated breath, she flipped the visor up again.

The long, eclectic strips of office buildings that lined both sides of Main Street were so obviously the pulse of this sleepy little town. The tourists weren’t hard to spot. They wore some sort of sweatshirt or windbreaker announcing their favorite college football team from Texas or Oklahoma because Red River’s tourist population was largely from those two states. People meandered down the narrow sidewalks, popping into the German pastry shop, the bistro on the corner, the hardware store, the pharmacy . . . the town doctor’s office. Even the local chiropractor’s office. His name, Cooper Wells, DC, was etched on the door.

Ouch. That one hurt. She’d gone to high school in Albuquerque with Coop and represented him in an unfortunate legal situation a while back.

Which of the businesses that occupied these outdated structures belonged to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some? She wasn’t sure because she hadn’t bothered to ask his name. Seemed pointless after his glaring hostility. Maybe he was the accountant on the north side of the street.

She gave her head an involuntary shake. Nah, didn’t seem the type.

Glancing to the other side of the street, she scanned the storefronts. Definitely not Red River’s seamstress. Her eyes scanned farther down. Aha! Al’s Plumbing and Septic Removal. Had to be him. None of the other establishments seemed to fit, and whoever said a plumber couldn’t be hot as a summer day in the Mojave Desert?

She’d reviewed the file last night for the first time, the partner’s notes citing that the community would be better off if the old, dilapidated structures were torn down, and replaced by a state-of-the-art resort and condos. The local economy would flourish, and the proprietors forced to move could find better locations, which would help their businesses rebound in the end. Some establishments would close, but those would be no real loss to the community since all the same goods and services could be acquired in Taos.

With the new resort, which would feature activities for both winter and summer, new small business ventures were likely to flood in from other upscale resort towns, creating a whole new sector of business owners. New blood with new ideas for the future, instead of the old, antiquated business district that could barely sustain the off seasons after the ski slopes closed every spring.

After reading the file, she could almost hear the birds chirping, the deer frolicking in the meadow on the outskirts of town, and the streets humming with content residents who were grateful for all the changes to their quaint mountain town.

Sounded legit. Except that small towns were often resistant to change. Progress scared them.

She stiffened her spine. Not her problem. She had a job to do, and an easy one at that. Her neighbor was right. The only attorney the townspeople could afford practiced out of his two-room cabin somewhere deep in the woods and had barely passed the bar on his fifth try. A little tidbit of information her firm had dug up and added to the file.

The locals would get over it. Move on. She was doing the very same thing in her own life. So could they.

But one thing niggled at her conscience. Buried deep in the client’s notes was a legal document stating that the resort developers had also bought out Red River Community Bank. The same bank that held mortgages for most of the business owners in town, and those loans were about to be called in. The proprietors would be forced to pay up or sell, probably at a fraction of what the real estate was actually worth. Her expertise was in criminal law, not real-estate law, but she knew how big businesses operated, and they never looked out for the little guy. Some of these small business owners had leveraged their homes to buy a share of the building, and they stood to lose both.

A wave of guilt hit her.

Looking up at Wheeler Peak’s soaring presence, its natural beauty disappeared for a moment and the snow-capped face seemed to frown at her. Loomed over her like a disapproving taskmaster.

Nope. Definitely not her problem. All she had to do was keep it professional, not get personally involved with this town or its residents. Easy. She could do it. Sure she could. She’d spend a few months up here, make sure this deal went through, and a partnership at Riggs, Castillo & Marone would be waiting for her back in Albuquerque. She’d feel like Caesar returning to Rome after a victory.

She swallowed.

Caesar died a horrible death, with no friends or loved ones watching his back.

She thumped her head against the steering wheel, sending her cap askew.
Okay, get your game face on. This isn’t personal, it’s business.

Straightening her hat, she pulled the keys from the ignition and threw them into her purse. Careful not to move too quickly and send more shockwaves of pain over her tender skin, she slid out of the SUV and locked it up. With every step, her clothing rubbed over the fiery rash, and she gingerly picked her way across the street toward the door labeled “Dr. Blake Holloway, MD.”

The first order of business was to get some meds for this hellacious rash and then get out of town and back to her cabin before someone figured out who she was and came after her with a dagger.

C
hapter
T
hree

Blake walked Ms. Nelson out of exam room A and escorted her toward the front desk, where the waiting room brimmed with female senior citizens. The seventy-seven-year-old and her club of widowed pinochle players made appointments in his office every week en masse, mostly because they were lonely without their husbands. Colorful quilts decorated the walls of his office, all handmade by their quilting group.

He handed Ms. Nelson’s file to his thirtysomething receptionist, Nadine, who tossed it aside and scurried around the counter in hot-pink breast cancer awareness scrubs to run interference. She had his back. Thank God, because the pinochle posse could get a little too touchy-feely for his comfort. The whole pinching-his-butt-when-he’d-turned-to-retrieve-a-tongue-depressor incident had . . . well . . . nearly scarred him for life.

“Dr. Holloway,” Ms. Nelson crooned as he pried her fingers from around his arm. “Are you sure it’s not contagious?”

Since high cholesterol and arthritis weren’t known to spread, he was pretty sure she just wanted attention. “I’m positive it’s not contagious, Ms. Nelson. Take your usual medications and use your walker if you need it. You’ll be fine.” He communicated a nonverbal cry for help to Nadine.

She stepped up for the handoff, and Blake placed Ms. Nelson’s hand on Nadine’s arm.

“Do I need a prescription? Maybe I should make an appointment for tomorrow.” Ms. Nelson batted her eyes and reached for him again, but Nadine went for the block and clasped the old woman’s hand with an affectionate squeeze.

Nadine lifted a penciled-on eyebrow at Blake, the red pen behind her ear moving as she chewed a wad of gum. Heavy eyeliner stretched both eyes into catlike formation, her dyed jet-black hair making the thick makeup look even more severe. Blake didn’t mind. If she kept him from getting pinched again, her semi-Goth look was fine by him.

“No new prescription, and you don’t need to come back in tomorrow unless something new comes up.” He slid a glance at Nadine, whose artfully drawn eyebrow rose even higher.

Something
always
came up.

“Nadine, why don’t you help these young ladies to the door?” Blake said.

“I want a raise,” she whispered over one shoulder as she turned Ms. Nelson toward the door. “Come on, you beauties, your chariot awaits.” A murmur of approval rose from the silver-haired horde. “You first, missy.” Nadine led Ms. Nelson to the door and handed her off to the Red River senior center’s bus driver, who loaded them into a white passenger van.

Nadine waved from the front door until the van drove away, then she let it swing shut.

Blake chuckled. She pretended to be a hard-ass, but deep down, she was a softie just like him. That’s why he’d hired her. When he traveled out to the Native American reservations to see patients or set up a free vaccination clinic in one of the impoverished villages in the area, she was the first to volunteer her time.

Kaylee, his newly graduated nurse who was so full of energy and enthusiasm he could barely keep up with her, emerged from the back office and handed him a file.

“Okay, Doc. A new patient’s up next. Just moved here. Looks like a bad case of poison oak.” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Just like the vacationer we had yesterday. Poison oak always gets the newbies, right?” Her words hummed with energy. “By the way, I finished inventory on the meds cabinet, and we’re running low on a few vaccines. I made a list.” She glanced at her watch. “We’re almost five and a half minutes behind, so can I help catch us up somehow? Am I doing something wrong?”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Take a deep breath, Kaylee. We’ve got lunch after this, so the world won’t end if we’re a few minutes behind schedule.”

Her shoulders deflated.

Blake looked at the file and read the name. Angie Marone. Yeah, had to be a newbie to the area. In a town the size of Red River, he knew just about everybody, but this name was new. He walked to the exam room and opened the door a fraction.

“So, Doc, is there anything you want me to do over the lunch hour?” Kaylee followed him.

He turned back to her, the door cracked a bit. The paper on the exam table crinkled, the waiting patient moving around inside.

“I could clean the bathrooms. Or maybe restock the break room,” Kaylee offered.

“Kaylee, why don’t you take a real lunch break?” He gave her a fatherly look. “You know, walk across the street and have lunch at the Gold Miner’s Café with a friend.” Couldn’t be too hard in this town to bump into someone she already knew. Really well. “Go find your boyfriend or gossip with a girlfriend over a tuna on rye.” Jesus, he might even pick up the tab just to get her out of the office for an hour. Her initiative and drive made him feel about two decades older than he should.

“Are you sure? Because I can work through lunch.”

He pointed the file toward the front office, his other hand still on the doorknob. The paper rustled from inside the room again. “Positive. Go. Now.” He turned and pushed the door open.

Angelique sat up straight when the doorknob jiggled, and a crack appeared in the door. Yes! It was finally her turn. But the door only opened about an inch when it stopped, and muffled voices sounded from the hallway.

She bit at her nail, waiting for the doctor to come in.

Judging from the average age of the patients who had been in the waiting room, the doctor was probably ancient himself. A simple office with country quilts adorning the walls instead of modern décor gave the office an elderly feel. Warm. Inviting. Cozy. And old. Had to be old, because who else would practice year-round in a one-horse town like this? Maybe she should’ve driven into Taos, but it was just a rash. A darned irritating rash that lit her skin on fire and made her look like a leper, but still. How hard could it be to treat? Even an old-timer who was probably ready for retirement could handle an ailment like that.

Sitting on the papered treatment table in a hideous Pepto-Bismol-pink gown, she swung her crossed ankles and tried to keep her mind off the incessant itching.

She hated pink. Hated it. With a passion.

Old Dr. Holloway could write her a script for an ointment, and she could slip back to the cabin with the townspeople of Mayberry, USA, none the wiser.

More voices from the hall. The door creaked open another half inch. Sounded like the doctor giving orders to a nurse, but the voice wasn’t old. It was young and masculine and . . . She strained forward to get a better look through the crack. The scratchy sound of Velcro prickled through the room as the fastening gave way at the back of her neck. The gown slipped forward and she grabbed at it, pinning it to her chest right above her nipples, just as the door swung fully open and a wide-eyed Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some stared at her, his gaze sinking to her barely covered breasts.

Her lungs locked, and both arms covered her chest. Plenty of doctors had seen them, but
him
? No way. She forced herself to breathe, clutching the gown to her front.

Wearing a pair of khakis and a black mock-turtleneck, he had a stethoscope draped around his neck and a file in his hand. Confusion knitted the space between his magnificent blue eyes. Glancing down at the fake name on the file, he looked back at her. His surprise was gone, and a blistering glare scorched her already searing skin.

She suppressed a groan. So much for Al’s Plumbing and Septic Removal.

“You.”
She made it sound like an accusation. Drawing first blood was always a good tactic in the courtroom. Throw the first punch, knock them off balance. Only it was hard to keep the upper hand when she was the one clutching an ugly medical gown to a splotchy reconstructed chest with no bra underneath. She pulled the gown over her shoulders, the movement setting off a firestorm of sensations over most of her body, none of them pleasant.

At her grimace, a wry smile turned the corners of his mouth up a fraction, and her gaze hovered there, taking in his chiseled jaw, planed cheekbones, and incredible good looks for a second . . . or two . . . or five . . .

“Yes, me.” The not-so-old Dr. Blake Holloway entered, closed the door behind him, and leaned against the cabinets that lined one wall. Tossing the file on the counter, he crossed one ankle across the other and folded both arms over his broad chest. “Hello,
Ms. Marone.
Oh, wait. That’s not actually you, is it?”

“Look, I just need to get some medicine for this rash—”

“Poison oak,” he corrected authoritatively, which rankled all the more. “Told you it was all over the place.”

She glared at him, which caused his smile to broaden until straight white teeth glinted at her. Really? She’d half expected an empty space there, with the country bumpkin routine he’d poured on so thick while returning her dog . . . and her panties. She looked away, even more heat rising up her neck. Was it hot in here?

“Whatever,” she finally managed, and scratched at her cheek. “Can you give me something,
Doctor
?”

“Sure,
Angie
. Let’s have a look first, though.” He pushed off the counter.

She eyed him suspiciously. His fitted shirt hinted at sculpted biceps and shoulders, and a steady pulse beat at the base of his corded neck. When he turned to the sink to wash his hands, she stole a look at his backside. Khakis slung low on narrow hips, they molded to muscular thighs and a really, really nice ass.

He grabbed a paper towel to wipe his hands and turned abruptly, leaving her staring at his crotch.

She inhaled, slow and labored with a dash of dread.

Please, please,
please
. He
didn’t
just catch her staring at his ass and now his . . . Slowly, her gaze slid up his torso, over the gradient slopes of well-defined pecs with a perfectly formed hollow in between and finally to his squared jaw and sapphire eyes. One brow slightly raised, the corner of his mouth quirked upward into an almost-smile.

Hell’s bells.

Retrieving two purple latex gloves from a dispenser, he pulled them on with a snap. When he advanced on her, she stiffened.

“Okay, enough. Disagreements aside, I’m a doctor. Believe it or not, I’m a fairly good one. Only two of my patients have died this week.”

Her head swiveled toward him, but a mischievous twinkle danced in his baby-blues, and she almost relaxed. Almost.

“Very funny, Dr. Kevorkian.”

“I double as a comedian at Cotton Eyed Joe’s across the street.” Gentle fingers grasped her chin and tilted her head to the side. “You should catch my act before the place is torn down.”

He examined her neck and cheek, his breath whispering across her skin.

She shivered.

“Are you serious this time?” she asked, trying to steady her breathing. Having Mr. . . . correction . . .
Dr.
Tall, Dark, and Hot-some invade her personal body space, even with good reason, was as unnerving as getting a pap smear. She kept a splayed hand over her chest.

“About Cotton Eyed Joe’s getting torn down? Absolutely. You know that as well as anyone. What you don’t know is that Cotton Eyed Joe’s is the social core of this town. If you take it away, you’ll break the local spirit. The heart of the people who live here.”

“No, I mean . . .” Her teeth ground together because she hadn’t been talking about Cotton Eye . . . whatever. And he darned well knew it.

He tugged at the hand that was anchored to her chest, but she didn’t allow him to move it. He sighed in a way that said she was trying his patience.

Good.

“I need to see your hands and forearms.” His voice was the model of professionalism.

Hesitating, she held her hands out for him to examine. Even through latex gloves, his touch was consoling. Nurturing. He moved to her feet and lifted them. Again, his gentle touch soothed her. Made her trust him, like everything would be okay no matter the problem. Pulling out the table extension so her legs rested straight in front of her, he leaned in and examined her calf, running caring yet disciplined fingers down to her ankle where the rash stopped.

Her skin pebbled under his touch. When he turned her leg out and examined the inside of her knee, an electrical current jolted up her leg, down the other, and pooled between her thighs, a part of her anatomy she liked to call the Land of the Dead.