Expecting A Scandal

“It’s Vaughn.” He thrust out a hand, the silver Breitling watch glinting in the late-afternoon sun. “And I hope we didn’t get off on the wrong foot earlier.”

The words caught her off guard, even as she took his hand briefly. The contact hummed up her arm and tickled its way along her shoulder.

“Abigail,” she said automatically, even though he clearly knew who she was. She hesitated, feeling awkward as she pulled her hand back. “And I’m surprised to see you. Unless—”

A surge of hopefulness made her tense. He wouldn’t have come all the way out to her studio to deliver bad news, would he?

“You won the job.” He relayed the information with a curt nod, as if he was reading the results of a CAT scan to a patient. The words were so spare and utilitarian, but the impact was tremendous. “I thought I’d deliver the news personally—”

Abigail didn’t hear the rest of what he said, a wave of relief rolling over her so fast she nearly stumbled backward from it. She clasped her hands together and squeezed the good news tight as a giddy yelp of laughter leaped out.

“Thank you!” She did a little dance in place, sandals slapping out a joyous rhythm. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

She would keep her house and the studio she loved. The commission was enough to smooth the way for her baby’s first year without having to worry about money every month. And, perhaps best of all, she would have a beautiful piece to dedicate to her sister’s memory. The tree sculpture would be for Alannah. A tree of life and hope.

On her doorstep, Vaughn stared at her feet, tracking the happy hop like he’d never seen anything like it before. “I thought it was the least I could do given my demeanor earlier—”

She waved away the concern. None of it mattered now.

“Would you like to come in?” She saw the folder beneath his arm. Guessed there might be a check inside that paperwork. How surprising that the ornery surgeon had ended up being the bearer of the best news she’d had in a long, long time.

The briefest of hesitations.

Maybe the rich doc wasn’t used to spending his time in an artsy bungalow downtown. With her folk music still blaring inside and her watercolors taped in all the windows, her work space was definitely on the eclectic side. Or maybe he just didn’t like art period. Today, she was too relieved to care.

“Sure.” Another clipped nod as his expensive leather loafers climbed the wooden steps. “Thank you.”

Abigail backed into her studio and turned down the volume on her music, eyeing him as he moved deeper into her space. She’d never had a man here in the two years since she’d relocated to Royal from Austin. He had a way of filling up the room, even though her studio was airy and open. Vaughn’s presence, while quiet, loomed large.

He took it all in, his gaze missing nothing as he followed her to the drawing table, where sketches lined the walls around it. She gestured to one of the chairs there, an armless seat she’d made herself of reclaimed wood.

“Have a seat. Can I get you some water? Sweet tea?” she asked as she headed into the kitchenette in the back corner of the studio. She would have gladly cracked open champagne if she wasn’t five months pregnant. Not that she kept champagne on hand. But this new commission changed everything for her.

And even though she hadn’t appreciated the doctor’s contentious approach at the time, he was here, offering her the job that would keep her afloat—financially, creatively and maybe emotionally, too—at the most critical juncture of her life. She couldn’t help but feel a softening in her attitude toward him.

“No. Thank you.” He sat forward in the seat, all business. Withdrawing the folder from under his arm, he laid it on the table. “I brought the contract for you to sign, along with the initial payment.”

He slid the papers out of the folder, carefully positioning them between her morning watercolor of a nuthatch on a tree branch, and an afternoon charcoal sketch of...him?

Oh. No. Horrified she hadn’t tossed the paper in the basket, she rushed back toward the table, hoping to move it before he noticed.

Had he already noticed?

“I. Um. That is—” She was by his side in a split second. Standing too close to him. Hovering over him. Sounding completely inarticulate.

“It’s all very straightforward.” He glanced up at her. Frowned. “Is anything wrong?”

She couldn’t tell from his expression if he’d noticed the half-drawn image of himself. Leaning forward, she slid her scattered papers together in a hurry, knocking the check on the floor and bumping his thigh with her knee. Awareness of him made her senses swim.

She’d been careful to leave her artist’s smock over her dress, so she didn’t think he’d noticed her baby bump. Not many people in Royal knew about it, after all, and she guessed the flash of male interest she’d seen in his eyes would disappear once he learned of her impending motherhood. Was it so wrong to want to savor that attraction just a little longer?

“Ah. No.” She shook her head, imagining she appeared about as innocent as a toddler with a hand in the cookie jar. “Just sorry about the mess.”

Her cheeks burned. All of her was feeling rather warm, actually, and it wasn’t just because of the awkward embarrassment. Her skin tingled beneath the hem of her skirt where she’d brushed up against his leg.

Backing up a step, she tried to act casual even though her heart thudded too fast. He picked up the dropped check and returned it to the table.

“Your studio puts my office to shame.” He studied her with green-gold eyes that tracked her every movement.

“I was straightening up when you arrived.” She hurried over to her desk and shoved the papers in the top drawer before returning to the table. Taking the seat beside him, she tried to collect herself.

Hit the mental reset button.

To cool down and get her thoughts back on track, she turned the contract toward her and started reading.

* * *

The meeting with Abigail Stewart had gone from interesting to downright fascinating. The tension between them had shifted since the stressful morning meeting. He credited that to several things. Being further removed from the surgery that had threatened to give him flashbacks definitely helped him to relax more around her. Add to that the fact that Abigail was obviously thrilled she’d won the art gig, which put her in a happy frame of mind.

Best of all, he’d spied a half-finished sketch on her table of a man who bore a striking resemblance to him.

He would have written it off as a coincidence since he couldn’t be certain, of course. But then he’d seen the way her eyes locked on the drawing and her rush to remove it. There’d been a flare of unmistakable embarrassment. Awareness. Hell, the electricity between them had spiked to a shocking degree in those moments when she’d been close to him. The attraction had been a revelation considering how resolutely—and easily—he’d ignored dating since his deployment.

The heat Abigail stirred wasn’t going to be ignored.

Vaughn watched her read over the contract he’d brought, and lingered on her lovely features as she pursed her lips or tilted her head. For a moment, she traced a line of text with her finger, as if to slow her pace or concentrate. Dark curls pooled on the table beside the paper, the silky waves calling to his fingers to touch them. Test how they would feel against his skin.

She’d changed since he’d seen her at the hospital earlier. She wore an artist’s smock over a loose summer dress. The pale green cotton printed with daisies peeked out of the smock at the hem, the kind of simple summer staple that was probably comfortable for working. Yet on Abigail, the outfit was as seductive as anything he’d ever seen a woman wear. The low-cut neckline visible above the square-necked apron revealed ample curves, and a gold medallion knocked against the table as she bent to read the papers he’d given her. Beneath the table, she crossed her long legs, and her sandaled foot brushed his calf for an instant as she moved, sending his imagination into overdrive...

And damn. He shouldn’t allow his thoughts to roam in that direction until he knew more about her. What if she was married? Had a significant other? He didn’t see another car in her driveway, and her ring finger was bare, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was available.

Surely the drawing she’d made of him meant something, though.

“There.” Abigail signed her name with a flourish. “All set.” She pushed the paperwork toward him, straightening in her seat. “Would you like me to show you around the studio before you go?”

He couldn’t decide if that was a genuine invitation or a politely worded hint for him to be on his way. He used to be better at reading social nuances. These days, just keeping his own emotions in check took focus. And although he was anxious to get home and decompress from this day, he had to admit he enjoyed this time with Abigail.

“I’d like that.” Leaving her advance payment on the table along with the security badge and a few other documents, he slid the signed agreement into his folder. He’d give it to Belinda tomorrow to make copies. “It’s not at all what I expected,” he told her honestly, hoping to learn more about Abigail if he spent a little time with her.

“No?” She glanced at him over her shoulder as she led him past a shelf full of paint cans and chemicals, her dark eyes challenging. “Did you envision me sitting around my garret with a bunch of wine-swilling pseudointellectuals while we debated the novels of Kafka?”

He laughed out loud, surprised at the sound. “Not quite. But I definitely didn’t envision this many axes.” He stopped near a bunch of sinister-looking hatchets and hand tools leaning against the wall alongside ladders in varying sizes.

She paused beside him, her embarrassment from earlier in their meeting long gone. She smiled with something like fondness as she looked over the tools of her trade. The whole place smelled like hickory and apple wood, a welcoming scent that reminded him of fall bonfires.

“Wood carving can be strenuous labor, but I love it.” She straightened a few small blades on a shelf nearby. “I still work in other media, but I’ve been obsessed with wood for the last few years.”

“The tree sculpture you proposed for the children’s ward will be made from wood?” He hadn’t read the specs of her work very carefully, and besides, she had a great deal of artistic license in the project, so it wasn’t as though the hospital was dictating precise details for the project she crafted for the installation.

“Yes. I have a perfect length of bay laurel in mind. It’s been drying for years, and I’ve always known that I wanted it for a tree of some sort.”

“Years? How long have you lived in Royal?” He didn’t remember hearing about her work until after he returned from his deployment.

“It’s been a little over two years.” She stepped carefully around a short sculpture of a bird with an ox’s head, moving deeper into the stacks of raw wood.

“Do you mean to tell me you that you brought some of this with you when you moved?” His gaze wandered over all the huge logs of varying sizes.

“I brought almost all of it since I had access to a lot of wood remnants where I lived in Austin. I haven’t found a good source here yet.” She moved aside some of the limbs with relative ease, making him realize that she had the larger hunks secured with ropes hanging from the rafters so they wouldn’t fall. She spotted the bay laurel she had in mind for the hospital sculpture and showed him some of the features.

“You should come out to my place sometime,” he said when she finished, even before he’d worked out if she was single or not. “That is, if you want to check out the trees.”

“I don’t take any fresh wood. Only fallen pieces.” She stepped carefully from her place among the knotty branches and gnarled slabs in every shade and fiber. “Do you think you have any downed trees on your property?”

“That’s not the sort of thing I typically look for when I go riding. But I’ve got over two hundred acres, so there’s bound to be something if you’d like to take a look sometime.”

“Really? You wouldn’t mind?” She brightened, the same happy expression lighting her eyes that he’d seen when he first told her about the commission.

He liked seeing her smile. Hearing the way her pleasure warmed the tone of her voice. He found himself wanting to get a whole lot closer to her and all that warmth.

“I’m not on call at the hospital this weekend. Come by anytime.” He withdrew his phone to message her with his contact information, dragging her phone number from his electronic copy of the commission contract. “I just sent you the address.”

“Thank you. I find inspiration just being out in nature, so I’d be grateful for the chance to see any of the woodlands.” She showed him a few more features of her studio, ending with the sunny corner where she liked to paint.

His eye roamed over the paintings she’d taped up around the windows and walls. There were dozens.

“You paint, you draw, you carve,” he observed. “You don’t ever feel like you’re spreading yourself too thin?”

As soon as he asked, he wondered if the question was too pointed. If he sounded critical again, the way he had in the meeting earlier. But the query was honest, and some of his bluntness was simply a part of his personality, long before the PTSD had hit him hard.

She shrugged, not seeming to take offense. “You repair everything from gallbladders to head trauma. I like to think I take that same kind of holistic approach to my expertise, too. It’s all art, so it’s all in my body of work.”

“There are so many paintings.” He ran a finger over one image of a woman’s back. Or at least, he thought it looked the curve of a feminine spine. The colors were muted and the image was a close-up, so he couldn’t be sure. Yet there was a sensuality to the flare of hips, and the subtle shape of an hourglass.

“I paint them quickly in the morning sometimes for a warm-up, just to get ideas flowing.” She glanced up at some of the paintings above her head, a rainbow of color on the wall behind her.

“How about the drawings?” he asked, thinking back to the sketch she’d done of him. “What makes you decide to use charcoals instead of paints?”

Her hesitation made him think that she understood exactly what he sought to discover. What had made her sketch him?

She took her time answering, threading a finger under a loose curl to skim it away from her face. A prism hanging in a nearby window reflected flashes of light on her skin. “I’m inclined to draw when I’m unsettled. I often use the charcoals to vent emotions—nervousness, anger...grief.”

Her voice hitched a bit, alerting him that he may have touched a nerve. Regretting that, he sought to reroute the conversation, not wanting to lose the tenuous connection he really wanted to strengthen with this woman. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an in-depth talk with anyone outside of the workplace.

“It’s good you’ve got a productive outlet for that.” He wondered which of those negative emotions had driven her to sketch him. No doubt he’d upset her earlier in the day. “Too many surgeons I know detach so thoroughly that they become—” Jackasses? That seemed a harsh way to define some of his colleagues. “Dedicated loners.”

“You wouldn’t be able to perform your job without some ability to detach.” Her hand alighted on his forearm in a gesture of comfort.

The contact was a social politeness. An expression of empathy.

But damn if it didn’t light up all his circuits like the Fourth of July. For the space of two heartbeats, her touch remained. He looked down at the place where she’d touched him, her fingers already sliding away. He missed the warmth immediately. Craved more of her caresses.

“Detaching isn’t a problem for me,” he admitted, unwilling to confess how deeply he wrestled with the fallout from that skill. “Sometimes that makes me far too abrupt, as you witnessed firsthand in today’s committee meeting.”

He watched her face, locking on her expression before he continued. “Were you venting negative emotions about that when you drew the picture of me?”

Perhaps she’d been expecting the question, or maybe she’d simply been more prepared to revisit the topic after her initial embarrassment about the sketch. She lifted a brow, her gaze wary, but she didn’t flush with discomfort this time.

“You noticed that and didn’t say anything?” She shook her head with a rueful laugh and leaned up against a built-in counter with cabinets below and shelves overhead. Paintbrushes in every size imaginable hung on a rack over the shelves. “I guess you are good at detaching. If I saw someone had made a picture of me, I would have been quick to ask a hundred questions about it.”

His gaze traveled her body, where her position drew all the more attention to her curves.

“I was curious.” He shoved his hands in his pockets to combat the urge to touch her. “I just didn’t think it was the right moment to ask.”

“Truthfully, yes, I felt frustrated about the meeting when I returned to the studio. I didn’t have any preconceived idea of what I would draw. I just sat down to blurt out anything that came to mind.” She met his eyes directly. Openly. “I was surprised when I saw you take shape on the paper.”

He wanted to think he’d ended up there because they had a connection. An undeniable spark.

Because the longer he lingered in Abigail’s sunny studio, the more he felt his normal boundaries crumbling. And while he wanted that—craved following up on the attraction simmering between them—he wasn’t sure how he would handle anything beyond simple lust. The realization made him edgy.

She filled the silence that followed with a sudden question. “Would you like me to finish the drawing?”

His throat went dry. The question had gotten complicated in the space of a moment as he started to recognize that Abigail wasn’t going to be the kind of woman who would be open to a purely physical relationship.

“I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work.” He couldn’t think of a more eloquent retreat with Abigail moving toward him. Touching him again.

“Not at all.” She took his hand briefly to lead him toward a chair near her painting spot, her touch fanning the flame inside him, making him think about so much more. “Have a seat and I’ll finish up. You can see what it’s like to watch an artist at work.”

In the space of five minutes, Vaughn realized he’d somehow used up all his emotional reserves today. All of his ability to detach. Because that simple touch from Abigail sent all the wrong messages to his brain. He hadn’t given himself the outlet of a sexual relationship since he’d returned from Afghanistan. And now, the consequences of that had him on sensory overload, when he’d already battled the aftermath of a hellish surgery this morning.

A perfect storm of too many emotions without enough time to process them. He should have taken the time to go home and pick up Ruby before he came here. Having his dog beside him would have helped.

But he was already sitting in the seat Abigail had shown him when she returned with a heavy pencil in one hand and her half-made sketch in the other. She set both on a low table nearby, then moved closer to him, her gaze all over him. Studying him.

Seeing inside him somehow.

“Do you mind if I position you just a little?” she asked, already setting aside the folder he’d been carrying.

He wasn’t sure if he’d agreed or not. His forehead broke out in a sweat. Warning heat blasted up his back. He wanted her.

“Here.” Abigail set her hands on his shoulders and gently shifted them toward her.

She stood close, her knee brushing his thigh as she moved him, her breasts at eye level. She smelled like cinnamon and oranges, a spicy, tangy fragrance that would be burned into his memory forever. Sunlight kissed her face as she lifted his chin with one palm, her eyes taking a critical assessment of his features while he battled lust and a whole knot of other things he couldn’t come close to naming. Hunger for her gnawed at him. Hot. Persistent.

“I’ve got to go.” He clamped a hand on her wrist. Too hard at first. But then, realizing his responses were all out of whack, he gentled his hand. Released her. “I’m sorry, Abigail. I forgot that I said I would—” He rose from the chair. Sidestepped her. “Upload my notes on a critical-care patient after some—” His brain worked to come up with something vaguely believable before he did something stupid. Like kiss her until they were both breathless. Senseless. “Technical difficulties at the hospital.”

His voice rasped drily as he grappled for control.

“Of course.” She nodded even though she appeared as perplexed as he felt. “I’m sure I’ll see you at the hospital when I start work on site.”

“Right.” He didn’t reiterate his offer for her to come by his ranch. He needed to get his head on straight first. “I’m sure you will.”

Backing out of the door, he lifted a hand in a quick wave.

“Thank you for coming by. I couldn’t be more excited about the project,” she called after him.

But Vaughn didn’t answer. He was down the steps and seated in his truck in no time, slamming the door behind him while he turned over the engine and blasted the air-conditioning on his overheated body.

He didn’t know what the hell he’d been thinking, pursuing this sudden attraction he was clearly not ready to handle. Maybe some other day, when he wasn’t already depleted from a surgery that had brought back too many memories. But for right now, he needed to put some distance between him and a woman who stirred a surplus of emotions. No matter how much he thought he had mastered detachment, Abigail Stewart made him realize he’d only succeeded in getting damn good at lying to himself.

Three

A few days later, Abigail wondered if it had been presumptuous of her to accept Vaughn’s offer to search for pieces of fallen wood on his ranch outside of town. Driving out of downtown toward the address Vaughn had given her, she knew it was too late to turn back now. She did really want the chance to walk through the trees and find inspiration, along with some different kinds of boughs for the oversize statue she was creating for Royal Memorial. That much was true.

But there was no denying her interest in the lone wolf doctor who so fascinated her.

When she’d texted her request for when she’d like to come to his property, the response had been almost immediate, making her wonder if he was just that prompt. Or if he’d been thinking about her, too. She was intrigued to see him again even though she knew she needed to tell him about her pregnancy.

Now, turning down the road that passed the Ace in the Hole Ranch, where she used to work for the man she’d believed to be Will Sanders, she couldn’t stop the flood of memories. The main house was massive, with a deep front porch and multiple rooflines, plus an open breezeway connecting to a guest cottage. The crisp, white-painted home and dark shutters were immaculate, the trimmed hedges in perfect alignment. In the years she’d lived in Royal, she’d never seen the rolling lawn allowed to grow a millimeter too long. At night, it was really something to behold, with the many windows lit from within, and landscape lighting that illuminated the prettiest features.

Working at the Ace in the Hole had been rewarding if only to step onto that gorgeous property every day for a few weeks last winter. Her actual duties had been straightforward enough—organizing files and transferring them to more secure storage for Will.

Or, more accurately, the man who’d been impersonating Will Sanders, his former friend, Richard Lowell. Not many people in Royal knew that Will Sanders had returned to town to crash his own funeral. The FBI was now involved in the quiet investigation since they hoped that they might lure Rich Lowell back. Abigail knew about it because she’d received a letter from an attorney asking her to attend the funeral, since she was named as one of Will’s heirs. She’d nearly fainted when Will walked into the service himself.