Praise for Janice Lynn:

‘Fun, witty and sexy… A heartfelt, sensual and compelling read.’

—GoodReads on NYC Angels: Heiress’s Baby Scandal

‘A sweet and beautiful romance that will steal your heart.’

—HarlequinJunkie on NYC Angels: Heiress’s Baby Scandal

“I don’t like you,” she mumbled under her breath, so low he could barely make out what she’d said.

“I noticed,” he whispered back, in resigned acknowledgement of her feelings toward him.

“Even if you are scorching hot and wear sex appeal like a second skin.”

Sloan’s entire body went stiff. Her breathing was still even and her body hadn’t moved away from where she’d spooned with his. Was she awake?

“You think I’m sexy?” he asked, curious as to whether she’d respond and, if so, what she’d say.

“You are so hot you melt my insides just looking at you—but don’t think I’ll ever tell you that,” she answered, her body still relaxed against his. “I won’t, because I don’t like you.”

Asleep. She was talking to him in her sleep. No way would she have just said that and not gone all tense if she were awake.

Sloan grinned. It no longer mattered that Cara didn’t like him, because apparently she was as physically aware of him as he was of her. Somehow, at that moment, that seemed a lot more important in the grand scheme of life than merely being liked.

“Goodnight, Cara,” he whispered against her hair, brushing his lips against its silkiness in a soft kiss. “We’re going to have this conversation when you’re awake, because looking at you melts my insides, too, and I do like you. I like you way too much.”

Dear Reader,

It’s funny how real life bleeds over into the imaginary worlds we authors create. Cara and Sloan’s story is definitely an example of that. A while back my mentor and dear friend died—the best doctor and one of the greatest men I’ve ever known—and in this story Cara is dealing with the loss of her father—a man much like my dear friend. Only Cara’s father’s death has set into play a whirlwind of changes that put Cara’s life and heart into a tailspin.

Sloan might be my favourite hero I’ve ever written… might be. He’s the kind of man I want for my own daughters some day. A good man with strong morals, a lover of life, and a man who wants to give back to others—a man who loves with all his heart. He’s half in love with Cara before he’s even met her in person, and can’t quite figure out why she, his mentor’s daughter, can’t stand him.

I had so much fun watching the relationship unfold between these two, as each learns what it means to love someone and to love each other.

As always, I love to hear from my readers. You can reach me at Janice@janicelynn.net or find out what I’ve been up to via Facebook.

Happy reading!

Janice

JANICE LYNN has a Masters in Nursing from Vanderbilt University, and works as a nurse practitioner in a family practice. She lives in the southern United States with her husband, their four children, their Jack Russell—appropriately named Trouble—and a lot of unnamed dust bunnies that have moved in since she started her writing career.

To find out more about Janice and her writing visit janicelynn.com.

New York Doc to Blushing Bride
Janice Lynn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Dedication

To Abby, my daughter, an amazing young woman whom I hope reaches for the stars without ever forgetting her inner dreamer. Love you, Baby Girl!

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for Janice Lynn

Excerpt

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

AT FIRST GLANCE, the slim redhead sitting on the funeral chapel’s front pew epitomized poise and grace. But as she politely accepted the sympathy being expressed her fingers clenched and unclenched around the crumpled tissue in her hand. Dr. Sloan Trenton would like to hold her hand, let her cling to him to help her get through the next few days, to share the pain they both felt.

No matter how much he felt he knew Dr. Cara Conner, she saw him as a stranger.

Only she wasn’t a stranger to him.

From the time Sloan had joined the Bloomberg, Alabama family medicine practice the year before, Preston had enthusiastically talked about his amazing daughter who worked in a downtown Manhattan emergency room. That must be why Sloan had thought of her so much since he had officially met her only yesterday.

He’d stopped by Preston’s house to offer his sympathies. His heart had raced like crazy when he’d rung her doorbell, knowing he was finally going to meet her. Despite his exhaustion, his grief over Preston’s heart attack, he hadn’t been able to stay away. He’d had to go to her, to offer his condolences. He felt as if his own heart had been ripped to shreds at the death of a man who’d treated him as a son. Something Sloan had never had anyone do, blood kin or otherwise.

Probably that was why he felt such a connection to Cara.

Regardless of the reason, he’d been shocked at Preston’s daughter’s reaction.

She hadn’t been out-and-out rude, but she hadn’t been receptive to his visit, either, had failed to even invite him into the house and had failed to hide her dislike. He’d stood on Preston’s front porch, a house the man had given him a key to, and he’d felt like an awkward inconvenience in Cara’s world, like an outsider in a place where he’d, up to that point, finally felt at home.

Maybe it was just grief making her so prickly toward him. After all, she’d just lost her father. Still, his gut instinct warned her reaction ran much deeper than grief over Preston’s death.

Sloan swallowed the lump that formed in his throat every time the reality that his mentor and best friend was gone hit him. He moved closer to the brushed steel casket he’d stood vigil by all evening.

Dr. Preston J. Conner had been the best man and doctor Sloan had ever known. He’d been the doctor Sloan aspired to be like. No matter how much he tried, he’d never be half the physician Preston had been.

Just fifteen feet away, Cara stood, wobbling slightly in her black stilettos and slim skirt. Sloan moved forward, determined to catch her if she didn’t straighten. Without glancing his way, she headed out of the room, unaware that he couldn’t drag his gaze away from her more than a few seconds at a time.

He excused himself from the bank president and a local preacher who had been carrying on a conversation around him and he followed Cara.

Leaving the large old Victorian-style house that had served as one of Bloomberg’s two funeral parlors for more than a hundred years, she slipped around to the side garden.

If Sloan followed her, was that outright stalkerish or just the action of a man who was worried about a woman who had just experienced great loss?

He had to at least make sure she was all right.

Hadn’t Preston’s last words been for him to take care of Cara?

Sloan headed around the side of the building. She was sitting on a bench, looking up at the sky. A pale sliver of moonlight illuminated her just well enough that he could tell she was speaking, but he was too far away to make out what she said or even the sound of her whispered words.

His ribs broke loose and lassoed themselves around his heart, clamping down so tightly that he could barely breathe.

Never had he seen anything more beautiful than the ethereal image she made in the moonlight. Never had he felt such a fascination with a woman.

A commotion behind him had him spinning to see the source, but not before he saw Cara’s head jerk toward the noise also, catching him watching her. Great. Now she’d add stalker to whatever other crimes he’d possibly committed.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on that. The cause of the noise now had his full attention.

Mrs. Goines, a blue-haired little elderly lady, had fallen while going down the three steps leading out of the funeral parlor. Why she hadn’t taken the handicap ramp Sloan could only put down to her stubbornness that she wasn’t handicapped or disabled. She had lost her footing and down she’d gone.

He got to the frail little woman almost as quickly as the woman who’d been right behind her—her daughter, if Sloan remembered correctly.

“Mom? Are you okay?” she asked, confirming Sloan’s memory of who she was. She leaned over her mother, who moaned in pain.

“I can’t move.” Ignoring her daughter, Mrs. Goines’s gaze connected to Sloan’s and she groaned in obvious agony. “I can’t get up.”

Assessing the position in which she’d fallen and how she’d landed, Sloan winced. She’d landed on her right hip, leg and arm. Her hip and her shoulder had taken the brunt of her weight. He’d seen her in clinic several times since he’d come to Bloomberg. He knew her health history. She was on a biphosphanate medication to strengthen her thin bones, having struggled with osteoporosis for more than a decade. Her weakened bones hadn’t been able to withstand the impact of her fall.

“Don’t try to move, Mrs. Goines,” he ordered in a low, confident tone. “I’m going to check you, but I will need to send you to the hospital for X-rays.”

“Is everything okay?” Cara asked, joining them and hunching down next to Sloan. At his dash at the noise, she’d apparently come to investigate. Taking the elderly woman’s hand, her expression softened with a compassion that caused Sloan’s breath to catch in his throat.

“Mrs. Goines,” she chided with a click of her tongue and the twinkle in her eyes that had captured his imagination in Preston’s office photos, “were you sliding down the railings again? You know my dad warned you about that.”

The woman’s pain-filled eyes eased just a tiny bit with Cara’s distracting words. “Remember that, do you, girlie?”

“I remember a lot of things about growing up in this town. Like that you used to sneak me extra peaches when I’d go through school lunch line,” Cara told her in a gentle voice. “Can you tell me where you are?”

The woman frowned. “If you don’t know, then it should be you being checked by a doctor, not me. It’s your father’s funeral we’re at, girlie.”

“You’re right,” Cara agreed, not explaining that she was checking the woman’s neurological status with her question. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”

“If only,” Mrs. Goines moaned. “I wouldn’t be hurting nearly so much.”

“Possibly not, but I’m still glad you didn’t hit your head.” Cara looked into her eyes, studying her pupils in the glow of the porch and lit walkway. “Can you tell me where you hurt most?”

Completely ignoring Sloan now, Mrs. Goines continued to moan in pain while answering Cara’s questions.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sloan had to fight a smile at the transformation that had taken place. Gone was the lost, grieving daughter from moments before. In her place was a confident doctor who stepped in and took charge. Truly, she was her father’s child.

She moved efficiently and thoroughly, quickly coming to the same conclusion Sloan had while watching her examine the older woman. “She needs X-rays. I’m not sure we will be able to move her. You’ll need to call for an ambulance.”

He nodded his agreement and motioned to what he held next to his ear. He’d already punched in the emergency dispatcher’s number. “I need an ambulance sent to Greenwood’s Funeral Parlor,” he told the woman who answered the call. “I’ve a ninety-two-year-old white female who’s fallen and can’t get up. Probable fractured right hip. Possibly her right humerus, as well.”

Cara, Sloan and the crowd that had gathered to see what the commotion was all about stayed with the in-pain Mrs. Goines until the ambulance pulled to a screeching halt in front of the funeral home.

Bud Arnold and his partner Tommy Woodall came up to where Mrs. Goines still lay on the concrete steps at an awkward angle. With her level of pain, moving her had risked further injury so they’d just made her as comfortable as possible where she lay.

“Hey, Dr. Trenton,” the paramedics greeted him, then turned to the moaning woman.

“Mrs. Goines, please tell me you didn’t try sliding down the handrail,” Bud said immediately when he realized who the patient was.

Obviously, there was a story behind Mrs. Goines and handrails. Sloan would get her to tell him about it soon. Maybe when he rounded on her in the morning because no doubt she’d be admitted through the emergency room tonight and he’d check on her prior to Preston’s funeral service.

“Hey, Bud,” Cara greeted him, causing the man’s eyes to bug out with recognition.

“Well, I’ll be. If it isn’t Cara Conner. Good to see you, pretty girl.” Then he recalled why she was in town and his happy greeting turned to solemn remorse. “Sorry to hear about your dad. He was a good, good man. Best doctor I ever knew.”

“Thanks, Bud. He was a good man and doctor.” She took a deep breath. “Now, let’s take care of this good woman lying here in pain. She’s going to have to be put on the stretcher. Right hip is broken. I can’t be certain if her right shoulder is broken or just shoved out of socket from the impact of her fall. Her right clavicle is fractured, too.”

Cara pushed aside the loose material of Mrs. Goines’s dress neckline. Sure enough, there was a large bump that had fortunately not broken through the skin but which did indicate that the woman’s collarbone had snapped from the impact against the concrete steps.

“I do believe you’re right, Doc,” Bud agreed. “Let’s get this feisty little lady to the emergency room.”

The two paramedics lowered the stretcher as far as it would go and positioned Mrs. Goines to where they could slide her onto the bedding.

Cara and Sloan both positioned themselves where they wouldn’t interfere with Bud and Tommy’s work but where they could help stabilize Mrs. Goines’s body as much as possible during the transfer.

“On the count of three, we’re going to lift you onto the stretcher,” Bud told their patient.

Although Mrs. Goines cried out in pain, the transfer went smoothly.

Sloan turned to Cara and smiled. “You should move back to Bloomberg. We make a good team, you and I.”

Her gaze narrowed as if he’d said something vulgar. “You and I are not a team,” she said, low enough that only he could hear. “And I will never move back to Bloomberg.”

She stood, bent and said something to Mrs. Goines, who was now strapped onto the stretcher to prevent her from falling off while they rolled her to where the ambulance waited. Then she nodded toward Bud and Tommy and disappeared inside the funeral home.

Slowly, Sloan rose to his feet, scratched his head and wondered what he’d ever done to upset Preston’s daughter so completely and totally.

And why he’d never wanted a woman to like him more.

People Cara had known her entire life shook her hand, hugged her and pressed sloppy kisses to her cheek. People told her how wonderful her father had been, what a difference he’d made in their lives, stories of how he’d gone above and beyond the call of duty time and again during his thirty-plus years of practicing medicine in Bloomberg—as if Cara didn’t know firsthand what he’d sacrificed for his patients.

She knew. Oh, how she knew.

Everyone milled around, talking to each other, saying what a shame it was the town had lost such a prominent and beloved member. All their words, their faces churned in Cara’s grieving mind, a whirlwind of emotional daggers that sliced at her very being.

Her gaze went to the one stranger in their midst. A stranger only to her, it seemed as he was the other person receiving condolences from everyone in the funeral parlor.

Acid gurgled in her stomach, threatening to gnaw a hole right through her knotted belly.

Why was he getting handshakes, hugs and sloppy kisses from people like little old arthritic Mary Jo Jones and Catherine Lester? Why did everyone treat him as if he’d suffered just as great a loss as she had?

Preston had been her father, her family. Not his.

Sloan Trenton was an outsider. Someone her father had recruited to join his practice about a year ago when he’d apparently given up on her joining any time in the near future. Then again, maybe not an outsider. How many times had her father said Sloan was like the son he’d never had? How impressed he was by the talented doctor he’d added to his practice? Every time they’d talked, he’d been “Sloan this” and “Sloan that.”

So perhaps the bitterness she felt didn’t really stem from Sloan being treated as if his grief was as great as her own. Perhaps her bitterness had started long ago while listening to her father go on and on about the man, about how Sloan loved Bloomberg and its people almost as much as Preston himself did, about how Sloan tirelessly gave of himself to the town, that watching Sloan was like a flashback to himself thirty years before, except that he’d been married. Of course, her father had joked, Bloomberg’s most eligible bachelor wasn’t still single because of a lack of trying on many a female’s part.

Sloan. Sloan. Sloan. Gag. Gag. Gag.

Dr. Sloan Trenton could do no wrong in her father’s eyes and, deep down, Cara resented that. Although he’d loved her, she had never achieved that complete admiration because she’d had too much of her mother’s love of the big city in her blood, too much of her mother’s resentment of how much Bloomberg stole from their lives, and her father couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand.

She’d had enough of her father in her to love medicine, but she hadn’t been willing to have her life light snuffed out by the demanding town that had taken its toll on her family. Give her the anonymity of the big-city emergency room any day of the week.

She huffed out an exasperated breath.

The tall, lean object of her animosity couldn’t have heard her sigh, not over the chatter in the crowded funeral home and the distance that separated them, but Sloan turned as if she had called out his name. Filled with concern, his coppery brown gaze connected to hers and held, despite the men still talking to him as if he was focused solely on them.

She narrowed her eyes in dislike, not caring what he thought of her, not caring about anything except the gaping crater in her broken heart. She focused all her negative energy toward him, as if he were somehow to blame for her loss, as if he could have prevented her father from dying. Logically, she knew he couldn’t have.

Sloan’s handsome features drew tight. He looked almost as exhausted as she felt. But she didn’t like him, didn’t want him there. Everything about him disturbed her.

Had from the moment she’d opened the door to find him standing on her front porch yesterday during the midst of her major boo-hoo fest. She’d have hated anyone to see her that way, but she especially hated that her father’s beloved prodigy had witnessed her meltdown.

Currently, one of his coal-dark brows arched in acknowledgement of her enmity, no doubt questioning her dislike. Why not? Obviously, he was well loved within the community. Her father had sure loved him. The townspeople loved him. With his inky black hair, those amazing eyes, handsome face and a body that, despite her doom-and-gloom mental state, she had to admit belonged on a television hunk rather than a small-town doctor, women loved him. Why would he expect anything less than adoration from her?

“Oh, Cara, your dad is going to be so missed at the hospital,” Julie Lewis, Cara’s closest friend during grade school, sympathized, plopping down next to her on the long wooden front pew and wrapping her in a tight hug.

Cara leaned her head on her longtime friend’s shoulder, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact with Sloan. Julie’s light, flowery perfume filled Cara’s nostrils with memories of when they’d first started wearing makeup and perfume. Her friend still wore the same honeysuckle scent as she’d worn throughout high school.

“I can’t imagine not hearing his booming voice in the hospital hallways,” Julie continued, shaking her head in slow denial, her long brunette curls tickling the side of Cara’s face.

Cara remembered reading something online about Julie working in the hospital lab as a phlebotomist.

“This town has truly lost one of its greatest.”

“Truly,” Cara agreed, soaking in the remembered warmth of her childhood friend. She’d grown up with this woman and yet these days Julie was a virtual stranger. Other than the occasional message or post on social media, she’d pretty much lost touch with her Bloomberg friends years ago during medical school. She’d been so crazy busy, making sure she distanced herself from everything Bloomberg, making sure she’d aced everything she’d done so as not to disappoint her father.

Only she’d been the biggest disappointment of all when she’d opted not to return to Bloomberg to practice.

He’d just not understood her love of the big city and the excitement that flowed through her veins at working in emergency medicine in the Big Apple. Then again, he’d never understood her mother’s broken heart at leaving the big city, either. Cara only did from having spent many hours reading her mother’s diaries. She’d clung to those handwritten pages of her mother pouring her heart out as a link to a woman she mostly remembered from photos.

“Poor Sloan.” Her friend’s attention turned to the man standing near her father’s casket. He’d been there all evening. “He’s taken this so hard.”

Cara’s lips pursed. Of course he had. Because he was the son her father had never had. Ugh. She really didn’t like the bitterness flowing through her. Anyone who knew her would say she was a positive person, a regular little Miss Sunshine most of the time. But her disposition toward Sloan could only be described as thunderous.

“He idolized Preston.”

“No doubt,” Cara agreed, in as neutral a voice as she could muster. No one need know of her dislike of Sloan. She wouldn’t be here but a few days, then she’d leave Bloomberg forever. Let Sloan give himself to the townspeople to the sacrifice of all else in his life. Cara could give all those matchmakers a hundred and one reasons why they should keep looking elsewhere. A man as devoted to this town as her father had been was admirable but didn’t bode well for his wife and kids.

“Rex said Sloan wouldn’t leave Preston, that he rode in the ambulance to the hospital, worked alongside the paramedics, stayed in the hospital with him long after he’d been pronounced.” Her gaze softened as she looked at the handsome but tired-appearing man being hugged by yet another little old lady. “Poor, poor Sloan,” Julie sympathized.

Guilt hit Cara. The man had been there for her father, had tried to resuscitate him, had apparently gotten a heartbeat restarted with CPR, but his damaged heart hadn’t been able to sustain a rhythm.

No doubt the stress of the past few days was taking its toll and that’s why she felt such irritation toward a man who was obviously a paragon of the community and whom her father had loved. Shame on her.

She didn’t usually dislike someone so thoroughly and intensely. Actually, she didn’t usually dislike someone, period. That was an honor Sloan Trenton held all on his own.

“He coaches Rex Junior’s little-league team, you know.”

No, Cara hadn’t known.

“And is an assistant pack leader with the Tiger Cubs.”

Gee, did he also wear a red cape and tights with a big S on the chest? Not that he wouldn’t look good in tights. She might not like him but she wasn’t blind to the man’s physical attributes. Which perhaps made her dislike him all the more. Why couldn’t he at least have been ordinary rather than having those amazing coppery eyes and a smile that would leave most Hollywood beaus green with envy?

CHAPTER TWO

“THAT’S WONDERFUL,” CARA said to her friend, instead of expressing her immediate thought. Just a few days then she’d never have to think of Super Sloan Trenton or this town again. She’d make her mother proud.

“Yes, he is.” Julie elbowed her, causing Cara to scoot a little on the pew. “Some lucky, smart woman is going to have herself a treasure when she lands that man.”

Cara’s eyes widened. Surely her friend wasn’t hinting… not at her father’s funeral visitation… not when she knew Cara would never get serious with a mini-me of her father? But when she met her friend’s gaze, Julie nodded and grinned from ear to ear.

“He’s a good man, Cara.” Julie eyed him as if he were Mr. Perfection. “A woman could do a lot worse than coming home to Sloan every night. Just look at him. I love my Rex, but men don’t come any hotter than that one.”

Any moment Cara expected Julie to fan her face. Then she did.

Cara resisted an eye roll. Barely.

“As hard as it is to believe, his insides are even better than that yummy exterior. The man has a heart of gold.”

“I have a boyfriend, you know.” Not to mention that Julie had a husband and child and shouldn’t be calling another man yummy and looking at him as if he were chocolate-dipped, right?

“That fancy trauma surgeon you’ve been dating since your residency? I’ve seen the pictures of you two and your travels online.” Julie gave a low whistle. “He’s a looker all right, but something is missing there. He’s a little plastic, don’t you think?”

Plastic? Not hardly.

“John is a wonderful man.” Nothing was missing between her and John. She planned to marry him. Their relationship was wonderful. Wasn’t that what she’d told her father repeatedly? What she told herself repeatedly?

“Wonderful is okay.” Julie wasn’t going to be swayed. “But Sloan is the total package. I’m pretty sure your father handpicked him for you to come home to.”

Julie thought… Was that why her father…? No, she’d been with John years before her father had recruited Sloan. He’d liked John. He’d told her he did.

Had the words come from someone other than her father, she might have thought they’d been said only for her benefit. Preston hadn’t been known for holding back his true thoughts. He’d have told her if he hadn’t approved of the brilliant trauma surgeon she’d taken a liking to when she’d been in residency.

Her father hadn’t picked Sloan for her because she’d already picked the man she’d be sharing her future with. She’d told Preston as much, that when John asked her to marry him, she planned to say yes.

That had been last month when her father had flown to New York for a medical conference and spent a few days with her. Of course, John hadn’t asked her yet and had been acting a little weird lately, but that was probably only due to how busy his hospital schedule had been the past few months.

“Besides, where is this boyfriend? He should be here with you,” Julie pointed out in a tone unflattering to John. Her lips pursed with disapproval. “A man should be with his woman at her father’s funeral. No excuses.”

“He’s a trauma surgeon. He can’t just walk away from his job at the drop of a hat. Not unless it was an emergency. There was nothing John could do to help.” Or so he’d bluntly told her when she’d mentioned him coming with her. Logically, even if his crassness had hurt, he’d been right. She hadn’t pushed for him to drop everything to come with her. But she’d wanted him to do just that, even though, goodness knew, the emergency room would be crazy enough with her unexpectedly gone, much less her and one of the trauma surgeons.

But they would have gotten by… No, she wasn’t going to let those thoughts in. John would be here if there had been anything he could do. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to spend time in Bloomberg when he didn’t absolutely have to. He loved city life even more than she did.

“Yeah,” Julie tsked. “Nothing he could do, except hold your hand, comfort you and keep you from being alone during your father’s funeral.”

Well, there was that.

Cara didn’t want to be having this conversation. Not right now. Not ever. Because as much as she told herself she understood, she also acknowledged that she would have gone with John had their roles been reversed. That he hadn’t even considered it hurt more than a smidge.

Ready to end their conversation, Cara managed a tight smile toward her friend and was grateful to see another familiar face waiting to give her sympathy. “Um, okay, I’ll keep that in mind, Julie. Thanks for your condolences. Good to see you.”

“You do that, and, yes, Cara, it’s so good to see you home, but I hate that it’s under these circumstances.” Her friend squeezed her tightly, filling Cara’s nostrils yet again with honeysuckle and another wave of memories. “Your dad will be missed by everyone in Bloomberg. For that matter, so are you.”

She chose to ignore Julie’s mention of her being missed. Yes, her father would be missed by Bloomberg, but even more so by his daughter. She may not live in Bloomberg, but she did talk to her father several times a week. Usually their conversations had consisted of what new restaurant or show she had gone to that week or she’d recount some odd case that had come into the emergency room. On her father’s end, he’d talked about Bloomberg and Sloan.

She’d gotten to where she’d dreaded their next Sloan the Wonder Boy session. Now, she’d listen to her father read the phone book just to hear his voice.

A fresh wave of moisture stung Cara’s eyes and she squeezed them shut. She would make it through the next couple of days and then truly leave Bloomberg, better known to her as Gloomberg, the name she’d given the town during high school.

Eventually, the funeral-home crowd began to thin.

Thank God. Sloan felt exhausted. As if being at Preston’s visitation wasn’t trying enough, Mrs. Goines’s fall and Cara’s words had zapped what little adrenaline he’d still been operating on.

As the last visitor, who’d just finished talking with Cara, gave their condolences to Sloan, the funeral director came to him to clarify the next day’s arrangements.

“I’ll check with Cara to see what she prefers,” he told Irving Greenwood, the pudgy, balding third-generation funeral-home director. The Greenwood’s Funeral Parlor had been serving Bloomberg for more than a hundred years. Lots of Bloomberg’s businesses could boast such a rich heritage. That deep sense of family and belonging was what had drawn Sloan to Bloomberg.

That and Dr. Preston Conner.

Bracing himself for whatever Cara threw at him, Sloan’s heart picked up pace. Every breath he took sounded loud, forced as he crossed the room to where she sat, hands in her lap, eyes cast downward. She looked lost, alone, elegantly fragile.

Her emotions were everywhere. Understandably so. After all, she’d lost her father unexpectedly. No wonder she was upset. Although he seemed to be the only target of her negative emotions.

“Hey.” Sloan gently called her attention to where he stood in front of her. He wasn’t sure if she’d been lost in her own thoughts or if she’d purposely been ignoring him. “Mr. Greenwood asked how you wanted the flowers and such handled. I told him I would discuss the matter with you and let him know.”

Complexion pale, she blinked up at him as if she’d forgotten he existed, as if their encounter with Mrs. Goines had never happened. “I don’t understand. What about the flowers?”

He motioned to the room that could currently have doubled as a florist shop. “They’re all yours. Do you want everything not left at the graveside delivered to Preston’s house tomorrow afternoon?”

She glanced around at the room that overflowed with flowers, ceramic statues, blankets, bibles and other sympathy mementos. Her expression became confused. “Please, no. What would I do with them?”

Good question. What did a person do with flower arrangements and such following a funeral? Sloan had no idea. He’d never known his parents, had grown up in foster-homes and had certainly never experienced a funeral from this perspective. “I could help you go through everything. There might be a few items you want to keep. We could take the live flowers to the nursing home or hospital, distribute them amongst the patients and staff there, and hopefully add a smile to their day.” He smiled, hoping Cara would do the same, even if only a small curving of her lips.

She didn’t.

Obviously considering what he’d suggested, she toyed with her bottom lip. “There’s nothing I want to keep. It could just all be delivered there to begin with and we wouldn’t have to go through anything. Give them to Dad’s nursing-home patients, the nurses or whomever you think best. All I ask is that a running list of items and who gave them be kept so I can send appropriate thank-you notes.”

Her expression pinched and she rubbed her temple. “Or does the funeral home do that? I’ve no idea.” Fatigue etched on her lovely face, she ran her gaze over the abundance of tokens sent in Preston’s memory. “I’d asked that everyone make a donation to the local heart association rather than send flowers. That would have been much easier to deal with, really.”

Sloan would have liked to have sat down next to her in the pew. He felt ridiculous towering above her. Despite her momentary politeness, she wouldn’t welcome him sitting next to her. He didn’t need a genius IQ to figure that one out. Still, he attempted an empathetic smile.

“I’m sure lots of donations have been made, too. The town’s people want to show their love and appreciation for all that your father has done for them over the years. No one has given so much of himself for the benefit of others as your father did for Bloomberg.”

She nodded absently, glanced around the room, now empty except for them and the coffin. Her face paled to a pasty white and her knuckles threatened to burst through the thin layer of skin covering them. A sob almost broke free from her pale lips. She managed to stop it, but not before Sloan realized what she’d done. His heart squeezed in a painful vise-like grip.

“Are you okay?” That was a stupid question. Of course she wasn’t okay. She’d bury her father in less than twenty-four hours.

But rather than blast him for his ridiculous question, as he’d expected and braced himself for, she just shook her head. “No. I need to get out of here. Please. Just get me out of here.”

He wasn’t sure what she intended him to do, and there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to ease the strain on her face. When she didn’t move, he reached for her hand. “Let me help you.”

Still looking drained and a bit panicky, she put her hand in his.

Several things registered all at once. Her hand sent chills through his entire body, probably from their sheer frigidness, although he couldn’t be sure because there was something electric in the feel of her skin against his, too. Second, she shook. Again, this could be from how cold her hands were but he suspected it had more to do with the situation. Another was how fragile she felt in his grasp. Preston’s daughter was a strong, independent woman, a bit of a daredevil and a phenomenal athlete. At the moment, she wasn’t any of those things. She was a little girl who’d just lost her father and she looked overwhelmed.

Without a word, Sloan led her to his Jeep, helped her into the passenger seat. She had a rental car at the funeral home, but she didn’t need to be driving. Not with the way she was shaking, with how utterly exhausted she appeared. He hadn’t slept much the past few days either, between covering his and Preston’s patients and his own grief. But at the moment he was the stronger of Cara and himself.

“Sorry I don’t have the top on.” He rarely kept the top on the Jeep because he liked the freedom of the air whipping about him. “It’ll be a bit windy.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, barely loud enough for him to make out her words. “My mind just wanted to get out of there, but my body didn’t seem to know how to leave. Or maybe it was my heart that didn’t want to go.”

“A normal stress reaction.”

“I’m not stressed,” she automatically argued, her shoulders stiff.

“Okay, you’re not stressed,” he agreed, not willing to debate with her since they both knew the truth. He started the Jeep and pulled out of the funeral parlor parking lot, heading down the highway toward the quiet neighborhood where Preston’s house was located.

About halfway to Maple Street he glanced toward where she sat, staring blankly out the open doorway. The wind tugged at her hair, pulling strands free from where she had it pinned back. Utter fatigue was etched on her face. He reached across the seat, put his hand over hers. That skin-to-skin electricity zapped him again.

Her head jerked toward him. Had she felt it, too?

Regardless, she looked ready to demand he take her back to Greenwood’s, that she’d only temporarily lost her mind in asking for his help. But whatever had sparked to life within her deflated just as quickly. Without a word, she went back to staring out the open doorway. Within seconds her body relaxed and her head slumped against the headrest.

Hand still tucked beneath his, she’d gone to sleep.

He parked the car in front of Preston’s gray-and-white Victorian-style home, jumped out and went to Cara’s side of the car.

Should he wake her or just carry her inside?

No doubt she’d not slept much, if at all, the night before. If he woke her, would she be able to go back to sleep or would she lie grieving through the long night hours?

Memories of her tearstained face from the day before decided it for him.

Digging his key ring out of his pocket, he unlocked the front door, went back to the Jeep and carefully scooped Cara into his arms.

She was as light as a feather.

And smelled of heaven.

Or as close to heaven as Sloan had ever smelled. Like the soft, sweet fragrance of cherry candy mixed with an amazing, almost addictive freshness that made him want to inhale deeply. Then there were those electric zings. His entire body sparked with excitement.

He held a woman who had fascinated him for months, long before he’d met her. As he’d dated and tried to make a life for himself in Bloomberg, he’d found himself comparing every woman to the woman Preston often spoke of, never satisfied, always feeling as if he was waiting for something more.

Waiting for her to come home perhaps?

Which made no sense.

He blamed Preston. Preston compared every woman Sloan dated to Cara so, of course, Sloan had done the same. The man’s dying words had been a request for Sloan to promise to take care of Cara.

A promise Sloan had given and meant.

But, much as he didn’t understand his interest in Cara, he couldn’t blame everything on Preston. Cara herself had captured his imagination with the various photos of her hanging on Preston’s office wall.

Sloan did his best to tamp down the awareness of her that his body couldn’t seem to prevent because he was positive that his all-too-male response wasn’t what his friend had meant regarding taking care of his daughter. Besides, she was exhausted, grieving for her father. He had no right to be thinking of her as a desirable woman, to be aware of her feminine attributes. He should only be seeing her as the grieving daughter of a man he’d loved.

He kept telling himself that as he carried her into her room, managed to get the covers pulled back, and gently placed her in her bed.

The glow from the hallway light illuminated her lovely face, free from anguish for the first time since he’d met her, with the exception of when she’d been caring for Mrs. Goines. Then her natural nurturing instinct had taken over. He ached to see the twinkle in her eyes that shone in Preston’s photos, to hear laughter spill from her full lips, to have her look at him with something other than disdain.

Unable to resist, he brushed a strand of hair away from her face, stroking his finger over the silky smoothness of her skin.

Based upon her reaction to meeting him, he doubted he’d ever experience any of the things he’d like to experience about Cara, which was a real shame because she fascinated him. Probably because of his love of Preston. Probably.

If only he could convince himself of that.

He turned to leave but her hand grabbed his.

“Don’t go.”

Sloan stood perfectly still. Was she even awake or just reaching out in her sleep? He turned, met her sleepy gaze. “Cara?”

“I don’t want to be alone in this lonely house. Not tonight.” Her voice was small, almost childlike in its plea. “Please, don’t go.”

Sloan knew staying shouldn’t be an option. Not in Bloomberg. His Jeep was parked outside. Everyone knew his Jeep. Bloomberg was a small town. Nothing would happen. Not when she was so distraught, but, still, the right thing for him to do would be to leave, to not give gossips anything to gnaw upon.

But walking away from her might take a much stronger man than he’d ever claimed to be.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.