It's in His Touch (5 page)

Before her scalding glare could melt him like hot wax over an open fire, he turned, said good-bye to the Wells family, and jogged across the street.

C
hapter
F
our

The pantry door nearly rattled off its hinges when Angelique slammed it shut. She set Sarge’s bowl and dog food on the counter and closed her eyes, still simmering over
Dr.
Holloway’s arrogance. Honestly, she was more irritated with herself for sticking around to chat it up with Coop and his wife like she was one of the townsfolk. She doubted they would be so friendly if they knew her real purpose in Red River. Now she was committed to a community volleyball league?

Sarge cocked his head to one side and whined, wanting his dinner. Getting involved with the local folks was a bad, bad idea. Bad.

She fed Sarge, walked him, and showered. After applying the lotion she’d picked up at the pharmacy with a cotton ball, she pulled on a soft pair of black leggings and a steel-gray cashmere sweater, then settled in at the oak kitchen table to pore over the Red River Resort Development file, as it was labeled on a color-coded tab across the top.

Running a thumb across the tab, she wondered if the Cheerleader had typed it. Helpful as always. So helpful, in fact, Angelique hadn’t seen the deceit behind the Cheerleader’s perky smile, her strokes of admiration, her willingness to do personal errands for Angelique and Gabriel, her enthusiastic volunteering to work overtime to help Gabriel when Angelique had to take so much time off from the firm.

By the time she’d studied every document in the file, three hours had passed. She took off her reading glasses and rubbed both eyes. The owners of the resort development firm had bought the local bank as a separate investment. Red River Community Bank didn’t fall under the umbrella of the development company, so it was perfectly legal. They’d done their homework, hiring consulting firms to conduct studies and provide irrefutable reports that would sway any judge in their favor. This resort project was good for the community.

On paper.

There was just one tiny fly in the resort’s progressive ointment. One little loophole that could bring the entire project to a halt unless the opposition’s incompetent attorney overlooked it, which he obviously had.

The thing that pricked at her conscience the most was watching her old friend, Cooper Wells, and his wife walk away hand in hand and stop to hug the pastry shop owner who’d been cleaning his front window. While she’d sat in the waiting room, the fiftyish seamstress from three doors down popped in with a homemade cake for Nadine’s birthday, and they chatted about their kids’ dance recitals and little league teams. She’d listened to a group of silver-haired widows sing Doc Holloway’s praises and pay homage to his volunteer work all around northern New Mexico. Then she’d watched the very same Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some hustle across the street, only to stop and hold the door for a group of tourists who all wore Texas Longhorns shirts as they exited a quaint little souvenir shop. Jeez, he’d practically done every good deed except save a puppy.

Hell’s bells.

She slammed the file shut. Actually, he
had
saved a puppy. Hers. She gave Sarge, who was curled at her feet, a disgusted look. “This is all your fault. You realize that, right?” Sergeant Schnitzel took a contended deep breath without opening his eyes.

She pushed the chair back, careful not to wake her four-legged baby, and went to the kitchen. Her bare feet shuffled against the cool tile floor, and she uncorked a bottle of pinot noir from a local winery. Digging around in the cupboard, she found a wine glass and filled it.

The rich bouquet soothed her weariness, and she breathed it in before taking the first sip. A robust flavor drenched her taste buds and warmed her insides as it slid down her throat.

The firm had rented a nice cabin for her. Decorated in a rustic motif, it was warm, inviting, and quite charming. Luxurious cocoa leather furniture with brass studs adorning the edges filled the den. A vaulted ceiling soared overhead with strategic windows inset for natural lighting to filter in. An artistic log staircase hugged the right side of the den and ascended to a large master suite in the loft. Not cold and modern like the décor Gabriel had insisted on for the new house they were building before his indiscretion.

Another sip and the tension between her shoulder blades eased a bit.

She should probably make an appointment with Coop for that, but she’d already committed to more personal contact with the locals than was prudent. Maybe she could find a way to get out of the volleyball match. She sighed, grabbed her reading glasses and file, and wandered onto the back porch.

Easing into one of the Adirondack chairs, she pulled her legs up until they were crisscrossed and tossed the file onto a small side table that stood between the two chairs. With her glasses perched atop her head, she savored the hearty wine. The sun sank behind the jagged mountain peaks, hues of purple, pink, and orange jettisoned across the sky, and the chilly autumn air nipped at her toes.

It was beautiful up here. Peaceful and soothing to the soul. So much so that she wasn’t feeling very eager to disrupt the tranquility of Red River. A good legal fight usually got her juices flowing, the smell of victory bolstering her professional ego. The little town of Red River was outgunned. A fact that would typically have her zeroing in for the kill. Short. Sweet. Easy. No need to prolong the agony of her adversary.

Not this time. This case was her first since returning to work after all the surgeries and recuperation. Maybe the big C had taken away her zeal to go the distance against any opponent. Stolen her competitive edge or soured the taste of adding another notch to her belt of wins. Sucked everything but actual life out of her. Even though she’d never admit it to another living soul, she hadn’t been the same since her diagnosis.

Pulling on her wine again, she sighed.
Cancer.
She hated that word. It had cost her so much. Just about everything she thought was important. Was it possible that it had given her back some humanity? Allowed her to see past the thrill of the attack, the gratification of winning, and focus on the living, breathing people affected by her legal expertise?

She’d never gotten personally involved with a client. Didn’t care if they were innocent, guilty, or somewhere in between, because it didn’t matter. Determining innocence or guilt, fairness or injustice, wasn’t her job. Representing her clients, winning cases, that’s what she got paid to do. And she did it well, because losing wasn’t built into her DNA.

But when she thought of Red River’s kind seamstress who wore a permed bob twenty years out of date, and the rotund pastry shop owner who had hollered a loud hello to pedestrians with a distinct German accent, and Cooper Wells, DC—even if he
had
made her go out with Simon the chess team captain in eleventh grade—and . . . and . . . Gah! And Dr. Tall, Dark, and Hot-some, who made the local elderly women feel like they were beauty pageant contestants, well, it just didn’t feel like a victory at all. It felt like shit.

She polished off most of the wine and sulked at the powdered mountain peaks.

A hacking sound broke the spell, and her head swiveled toward it just as Blake rounded the side of the house, swinging a machete with his gloved hands. He stopped and took her in.

“Hi,” she finally said, curling the wine glass against her chest.

His chin hitched up a fraction. “Hi.”

The wine fogging her senses, she drank in his masculinity. A pair of faded Levi’s with a frayed hole in one knee fit him to perfection. He was earthy and powerful in a red flannel shirt, unbuttoned with a white T-shirt underneath, and suede-leather hiking boots. So the opposite of Gabriel’s polished appearance, which usually entailed wearing Armani on at least one part of his body at all times.

Blake just stared right back at her, and she wanted to know what he was thinking. About her. Wait. No, no. She probably didn’t want to know, because they probably weren’t nice thoughts.

“All the poison oak out front is gone. I bagged it and put it in the trash at my place. There’s just a little left back here.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “I didn’t hear you out front. I was working on the case.”

His expression dimmed a shade.

Hell’s bells.
Why’d she have to bring it up? She glanced down at her glass. The wine. Definitely the wine.

“How’s the medication working, Ms. Barbetta?”

Right. Formality. Got it.

“It’s easing the discomfort. Thanks.” Fidgeting with her glass, she downed the rest. “Um, would you like a glass of wine? It’s the least I can do.”

“I haven’t eaten yet, so I better not drink on an empty stomach.” He gave the machete an absentminded swing, grazing the grass with its tip.

“Okay, well.” Were her words slurring? “I haven’t eaten either.” Probably why her words were slurring. “I was just about to throw together some shrimp linguini.” She was? Yes, of course she was. She’d bought all the groceries she’d need for at least two weeks, she just hadn’t actually planned out when to cook it all. “It won’t take long, and I’m not a bad cook. Not as good as my Italian mom or grandmother, mind you, but I know my way around a kitchen.” She bit her lip, the only way she could stop the incessant rambling. And jeez, it hurt. “Um, would you like to join me?” Seriously? Had she just invited a man who disliked her to the bone inside for dinner? A man she was going to have to squash like a bug in court.

Oy vey.

Something flickered across his face, then disappeared.

“You know what, it’s okay.” She stood and raised one palm toward him. “Bad idea. Sorry—”

“Yes.” He stood still as a marble statue, the faint rise and fall of his solid chest his only movement. Except his ridiculously blue eyes. Those babies skimmed down her legs before returning to meet her gaze.

“Um, what?”

“Yes, I accept your dinner invitation. Unless you’re already changing your mind.” One corner of his mouth turned up into that same sexy almost-smile that’d made her quiver in unmentionable places while sitting on his exam table. “Or unless you’ve already torn down the kitchen to make room for a hotel.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

A full smile spread across his face, and her knees weakened a little.

“Just kidding. Actually, I’m starving, and I don’t do much cooking myself. A home-cooked meal would be nice for a change.” He looked around the backyard. “I have a little more work out here, though.”

“Okay, well.” She was already kicking herself. That freaking delicious pinot noir. “I’ll get started on dinner while you finish up.” Turning to go inside, she stopped and looked back at him. “It’s shrimp, you know. Are you sure you don’t mind having bottom dwellers for dinner?”

Something new flared in his eyes. Like a satisfied hunter who watched his unsuspecting game walk into a baited trap.

“I’d love to taste bottom dweller for dinner.”

Her breath hitched, and a prickle raced across her skin.

“We can go back to being enemies tomorrow,” he said. “I promise.”

Forty-five minutes later, a delicious aroma caressed Blake’s nose and made his mouth water. He discarded his work gloves and machete on the chair next to the back door. Beside the chair, a thick file folder lay on the table with neatly typed lettering across the tab. He leaned over to read the words. Red River Resort Development.

Huh.

With the sunlight almost gone, he peered through the window. Settings for two trimmed the table to the left, while his hostess stirred the sweet-smelling concoction over the kitchen stove to the right. He reached for the folder, then hesitated.

Damn his conscience. Why’d he always have to be the nice guy? Didn’t nice guys finish last? He’d likely be practicing out of an RV parked down by the river when she was done here, and he felt guilty about breaching a tiny little line of ethics that was right in front of him practically begging to be breached.

He grabbed the file and knocked.

“Come in.” Angelique’s voice lilted through the door.

He turned the knob and entered. Breathed in the hearty scent of sautéed something and almost melted. Whoever said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach was smart. Definitely a woman. A very savvy woman. He looked around the kitchen at the various dishes in progress. Probably an Italian woman.