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.
Or trust. Not looking at him, she maneuvered herself back onto the couch. She felt light-headed; obviously she wasn’t thinking clearly yet. But she could still remember the rules she’d set for herself when emerging from the trauma of divorce, betrayal and the dreadful notoriety that followed. The sweet, shy, doormat-Carrie was gone, replaced by an assertive, aggressive, in-your-face-woman no one would ever walk on again. She had a baby to think of now. A baby needed a strong mother.
She sat back, adjusted the blanket, crossed her legs, smoothed her hair. You can deal with this, she told herself.
Sam waited patiently. He figured these little deliberations were necessary to restore her composure. Maybe he should help. Anything to keep her from throwing another fit! “Do you really know karate?” he asked, cocking his head.
“Certainly I do,” she said crisply. “Now, if you don’t mind my asking...” Cool green eyes bored into his. “Why am I undressed?”
Sam’s heartbeat quickened as he sought to contend with both her blunt question, and unblinking regard. “You’re undressed because you were soaked and half-frozen,” he answered indignantly—did she think he’d taken advantage of her? His tone made her draw deeper into the couch. “Damn,” he muttered. “Look, there’s nothing to be alarmed about, I’m Sam Holt,” he stated with ingrained self confidence.
Her unblinking gaze remained fixed on his face.
“Your clothes were soaked,” he repeated with a flick of exasperation, “so I took them off.”
“Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Because you’re Sam Holt.”
Her sarcasm stung like a wasp! “Now hold it right there! Listen, lady, you’ll have to forgive me for not taking time to ask permission, but I’ve been just a damn bit busy tonight! You were semiconscious, burning with fever, out of your head half the time—for God’s sake, you mistook me for an angel, for Mel Gibson...” He snatched a breath. “I had the weird idea that getting your temperature down took priority over such niceties as asking permission to keep you from catching pneumonia!”
Her chin rose higher. “Well, you don’t have to shout.”
“I’m not shouting, I’m explaining!” Sam reined in his temper. “I removed your pants and shirt because they were soaked. That’s all there was too it. Afterwards I was going to redress you, but it seemed a further invasion of your privacy, so I just wrapped the blanket around you. I assure you I took no liberties, I was simply a concerned gentleman doing his best to save your life.”
“Oh come on, save my life? While I appreciate your gentlemanly concern, I’d hardly call a relapse from the flu life-threatening!” Her head suddenly lowered, as if she’d used up her bravado. “But