Wild in the Field

Not needing him.

And that was exactly what he wanted, Pete told himself fiercely. He’d never counted on more.

Never.

This was all there was. These moments, with her thick wet hair, tangling around his fingers, her soft luscious mouth feeding off his. Her naked body slipped and slid against his, her breasts so sweet to the touch, sweeter yet to the taste. Her slim legs were made to wrap around him, her hips made to tighten and take him in. When he first plunged inside her, she let out a soft, hoarse cry that echoed on the spring wind, carried into the canopy of leaves, rustled with longing and need.

“Oh, Pete,” she said, as he drove deep and hard…and then did his damnedest to drive deeper and harder.

He wanted to love her better than her husband ever had. He wanted her to remember a man who’d loved her beyond all reason, all sense, on a sunlit morning in the meadow by the pool, brazen with love, inspired by how much he wanted to give her, to show her, to be for her.

He understood she was going to always remember the man who died for her. But he wanted her to know irrevocably that there was a man who wanted to live for loving her, too.

Because her back had to be scratched up from the grasses and rough ground, he swung her on top of him, and gave her the power and the reins. There was a moment, in all that fierce coupling, all those sweaty limbs and teeth and hot wet kisses, when she lifted her head with a glorious smile for him. And just shook her head to the sun and let out a wild, joyful, sweet laugh.

But then she swooped right back down to him with a wicked glint in her eyes, and that was the end of the smiling. She took him ferociously, riding him as if she were determined to show this stallion what-for…for damn sure she was going to show this man what a woman could do when she was in the mood.

Needs sharpened, cried between them. Her need was his, no different than his need belonged to her. Hands clasped, lips glued, hips pumped to the same erotic rhythm. She crashed first, one spasm of pleasure cascading into another until she cried out, high and spent. Then it was his turn.

His eyelids closed in release, just needing to breathe for a minute. His arms folded tenderly, tightly around her. He didn’t want to let her go. Ever. Didn’t know how he could. Ever.

But of course, that was passion and love talking.

Not reality.

Pete really knew this was their last time-and knew that he had to face that. There was no other choice.

So he took this moment…and held on for as long as he could.

Ten

It was over a week later that Camille awakened at daybreak with her heart pounding and her palms damp. Swiftly she climbed out of bed and headed into the kitchen.

The night before she’d left doors and windows open. For the second week in June, it was unreasonably, unfairly hot and humid.

As she fussed around the kitchen, she thought it was edgy weather. Stormy weather. Something-had-to- happen weather…and then almost jumped out of her skin when a gust of wind scraped a twig against the screened door.

She admitted to being nervous. Not because of the looming storm, but because of Pete.

With a mug of coffee in one hand, she started two pounds of ground round sizzling in a frying pan. She forked it around, breaking up the clumps. Her heart felt squeezed-tight and achy, as if it were beating under pressure. Building pressure. She simply couldn’t shake the panicked nerves.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen Pete every single day in the past week. She had. But the boys were out of school now, and they’d been with him on every occasion. All three had pitched in to help her finish pruning and grooming the lavender. Pete hadn’t spoken about that wild morning at his pond. Neither had she, because there hadn’t been a chance-she kept telling herself.

Down deep, she knew perfectly well that if you sat on a train track and refused to budge, sooner or later there was going to be a train wreck.

Irritably she pushed her bangs off her forehead and reached for a spatula. “It’s done, but it has to cool for a couple minutes,” she said aloud, but when she turned around, no one was in sight, much less listening to her.

Granted, it was still the crack of dawn, but she still expected the smell of hamburger would at least waken Miss Priss. She scooped a huge portion into Killer’s bowl, a smaller version into the cat’s.

Like any sane person, she’d tried buying cat food, but Miss Hoity-toity Priss had turned up her nose at every brand she’d brought home, no matter how expensive. And obviously she couldn’t feed the derelict, no-account cat ground round and then try to give Killer ordinary dog food, so she was stuck cooking for both of them. If anyone found out she was cooking hamburger for the animals, she’d have to kill them, but really, what else was she supposed to do? Not care? Neglect them after all they’d been through?

“Breakfast,” she called out. No one answered. No bodies showed up in the doorway. The cottage was as quiet as a manless house. Peaceful. Still.

Lonely. She tromped around barefoot, searching in the usual sleeping spots. It wasn’t as if there were a thousand places to hide in the cottage. She found both of them, snoozing side by side on her bed. Again.

“You know you’re not supposed to be there,” Camille said irritably, and sank down between them. Although Miss Priss couldn’t be bothered to open her eyes, she immediately started purring. Damn cat purred every time she was stroked. She still looked like a pumpkin run over by a tar truck, but now she looked like a big, fluffy, well-brushed run-over pumpkin.

When Camille tried to stop petting her, those gold eyes opened and a small wet nose nuzzled into her palm again. Killer, finally realizing someone was getting attention-and it wasn’t him-rolled over and moaned. He expected his stomach rubbed, and he’d just moan and whine until he got his way.

So Camille rubbed and stroked, trying not to think about Pete, trying to just concentrate on the cat’s soft fur and the dog’s thumping happy tail…but then she caught a glimpse of herself in the old, wavy mirror over the bureau.

The damn cat looked as if she should be prancing in a cat show. The dog looked just as well tended. The only appalling reflection in the mirror was hers. Her chopped off hair had grown exuberantly for two months into a downright thatch; she’d slept in an old threadbare T-shirt; her nails hadn’t seen an emery board in weeks. She looked distinctly like a woman who didn’t give a damn about her appearance.

And of course, she hadn’t, weeks ago.

Pete’s words from that wild morning kept coming back to haunt her. Show me. Show me how much you don’t feel.

And for all these months, she’d honestly believed that she was dead emotionally. That she couldn’t feel again. That she’d somehow be disloyal if she felt something strong for anyone besides Robert. And all those worrisome beliefs had become painfully bigger since Pete, because she did feel things with him. Things she’d never felt with Robert. Things she’d never dreamed a woman could feel-that she could feel.

But now she took one last look at the mirror and jerked off the bed, away from that image. Killer and Miss Priss perked up, looking at her with alarm now.

“Breakfast is already in the kitchen, all cooled down. Killer, you know how to push open the screen door, and Miss Priss, you know where the litter box is. Quit giving me those guilty looks. Everything isn’t about you two. I have to be gone a few hours, that’s all.”

She pulled on clothes, grabbed a purse, and then hightailed it out to the car. Unfortunately, because she’d charged off so fast and impulsively, she reached town before businesses opened. Maybe that was just as well, because it gave her a few minutes to plot and plan.

At nine on the button, though, lights punched on and locks clicked open. By then Camille was primed. She hit a styling salon first, unsure if they’d take her without an appointment, but both stylists took one look and dragged her in. New Englanders, being practical by nature, tended to take people as they were. They regarded her as someone in desperate need of a massive overhaul.

Two hours later she left that shop, and started for the clothing stores and boutiques with her credit card in