“Depending on his fishing schedule, of course.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Well, I’m hearing you, chere. But it’d be a wee bit tricky for me to fly all the way back to France, just to wait out Bartholomew’s fishing schedule. And although I understand your strain of lavender runs late, I absolutely have to be here for the first of the harvest.”
“Well, yes, that’s all true, but I’m just confused what I can possibly do with you until I’ve got a place for you to stay.”
Maybe jet lag was getting to him. Maybe at the vast age of thirty-seven, he was no longer the easy-care, rootless vagabond he used to be. Maybe missed sleep and strange mattresses had finally caught up with him…but it seemed pretty damn obvious that Violet couldn’t really be this flutter-brained. Something must be bothering her about his being here. He just had no idea what. Considering her older sister had okayed him, she couldn’t be afraid of him, could she?
Nah. Cameron easily dismissed that theory almost before it surfaced. It wasn’t as if all women liked him. They didn’t. But he got along with most, and those women who related to him sexually generally were afraid that he’d have taken a fast powder by morning-no one was afraid of him in any other sense, that he could imagine.
So he slowly put down his lemonade glass and hunched forward, deliberately making closer eye contact. Not to elicit any sexual response, but to encourage an eye-to-eye honest connection. “Violet,” he said slowly and calmly.
“What?”
“Quit with the nonsense.”
“What nonsense?”
“Sleeping arrangements are not a problem. I wouldn’t mind sleeping outside on the ground. Actually, I like sleeping under the stars. Hell, I’ve roughed it on four continents. And if we get into some stormy weather, I’ll find a hotel in town and commute. My finding a place to throw a pillow is no big deal. So is there some reason that you don’t want me here that you haven’t said?”
“Good heavens. Of course not-”
Again, he said slowly and carefully, “You are aware that my work with your lavender is potentially worth thousands of dollars to you? Potentially hundreds of thousands?”
She squeezed her eyes closed briefly-and when she opened them again, he read panic in their deep, dark, beautiful, hazel depths. “Oh God,” she said, “I’m afraid I’m going to be sick again.”
Three
“No, you’re not going to be sick again,” Cameron said emphatically.
Violet met his eyes. “You’re right. I’m not,” she said slowly, and took a long deep breath.
She had to get a grip. A serious grip. She wasn’t really nauseous, she was just shook up. Her foot throbbed like the devil-that was for real. She’d been running all day in the heat even before the bee sting-that was for real, too. And normally men didn’t provoke her into behaving like a scatterbrained nutcase-but there were exceptions.
Virile, highly concentrated packages of testosterone with wicked eyes and long, lanky strides were a justifiable exception.
Violet tried another deep, calming breath. Most blondes hated blonde jokes, but she’d always liked them. She knew perfectly well how she came across to most men. A guy who thought he was dealing with a ditsy, witless blonde generally ran for the hills at the speed of light, or at the very least, considered her hands-off-and that suited Violet just fine.
It was just sometimes hard to maintain the ditsy, witless persona. For one thing, sometimes she actually felt ditless and witsy. Or witless and ditsy. Or…oh, hell.
That man had eyes bluer than a lake. She did much, much better with old, ugly men. And she did really great with children. Not that those attributes were particularly helping her now.
But that grip she’d needed was finally coming to her. Those long, meditative breaths always helped. “I have an idea,” she said to Cameron. “You’ve traveled a long way. You have to be hungry and tired-and I’m the middle of an Armageddon type of afternoon. Could you just…chill…for an hour or so? Feel free to walk around…or just put your feet up on my couch or on the front porch. I need to walk over to my Herb Haven, tell my employee what’s happening, finish up the problems I was in the middle of, get closed up for the day.”
“Is there anything I could help you with?”
“No. Honestly. I just need an hour to get my life back in order…and after that I’ve got more than enough in the fridge for dinner. I can’t guarantee it’s something you’ll want to eat, but we could definitely talk in peace then-”
“That sounds great. But if there’s running I could do for you, say. I know you can’t want to be on that foot.”
“I won’t be for long.”
It worked like a charm. She just couldn’t concentrate with all those life details hanging over her head-and with an impossibly unsettling man underfoot. An hour and a half later, though, she was humming under her breath, back in her kitchen, her one foot propped on a stool and a cleaver in her hand big enough to inspire jealousy in a serial killer.
Not that any foolish serial killer would dare lay a hand on one of her prized possessions.
She angled her head-just far enough to peer around the doorway to check on her visitor again. There was no telling exactly when Cameron had decided to sit down, but clearly it was his undoing. He’d completely crashed. He wasn’t snoring, but his tousled blond head was buried in the rose pillow on the couch, and one of his stockinged feet was hanging over the side. That man was sure
Amazing how easy it was for her to relax when he was sleeping.
She went back to her chopping and sauteing and mixing. Cooking was a favorite pastime-and a secret, since she certainly didn’t want anyone getting the appalling idea that she was either domestic or practical. Tonight she couldn’t exercise much creativity, because she already had leftovers that needed using up, starting with some asparagus soup-and somehow finding an excuse to eat the last of the grape sorbet.
Early evening, the temperature was still too sweltering to eat anything heavy, but it was no trouble to put together bruschetta and some spicy grilled shrimp for the serious part of the meal. The shrimp took some fussing. First seeding and slicing the hot chilies. Then slicing the two tall stalks of lemongrass. Then she had to grate the fresh ginger, crush the garlic, chop the cilantro and mix it with warmed honey and olive oil.
He’d probably hate it, she thought. Men tended to hate anything gourmet or fancy, but as far as Violet was concerned, that was yet another of the thrilling benefits to being divorced. She could cook fancy and wild all she liked-and garlic-up any dish to the nth degree-and who’d ever care?
She’d have belted out a rock-and-roll song, off-key and at the top of her lungs, if it wouldn’t risk waking her visitor. She’d deal with him. But right now she was just seeping in some relaxation, and satisfaction. She’d kicked some real butt in the last hour, finished up the week’s bookkeeping, made up four arrangements for birthday orders and fetched a van full of pots and containers from town. Even without the bee sting, it was a lot to do for a woman who was supposed to be a flutter-brained blonde, but then, when no one was watching she had no reason to be on her guard.
Her sisters thought she was afraid of getting hurt again because of Simpson. The truth was that her ex- husband had turned out to be a twerp, but she never held that against the other half of the species. She wasn’t trying to avoid men. She was trying to help men avoid her-and for three years she’d been doing a great job at it, if she said so herself.
She was still humming when the telephone rang-naturally!-just when she was trying to coat the shrimp with the gooey mixture. She cocked the receiver between her ear and shoulder. “Darlene! Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to call you back…and yes, you told me he was a Leo. Okay. Try a fritatta with flowers. Flowers, like the marigolds I sold you the other day, remember? I’m telling you, those marigolds are the best aphrodisiac…and you wear that peach gauze blouse tonight…uh-huh…uh-huh…”
