Wild in the Field

“You didn’t know the lavender was going to need it. And neither, apparently, did your sister. She’s not a couch potato either, but as far as I know she never steps into a field if she can help it. Which brings us to our main problem-”

“There is no our, MacDougal.” When he sipped his coffee and said nothing, she prodded him, “So? So? What is this big problem supposed to be?”

Pete raised a hand. This was a serious question, no teasing. “I have to know what she’s trying to do. Your sister. I mean, I read up on lavender, so I’d get an idea why anyone’d grow the darn stuff. But it’s not as if Violet planted a little flower garden here. Apparently she bred and crossbred all kinds of varieties. In France, now, lavender’s a major crop in the perfume industry-but it’s about the oil, not about the flower. Unless your sister planned to grow enough flowers for all the florists in the entire northern hemisphere, I have to assume she was hoping to harvest the oil. Only I don’t see any harvesting equipment to extract the oil. I don’t even know if she’s looked into potential markets. There’s only so much money you can pour into this if-”

“I hear you. I’ll sit on my sister and find this stuff out.” Camille had seemed to be listening, but suddenly she blurted out, “When’d she leave you, Pete?”

“Huh?”

“Your ex-wife. When did she leave you and the boys? I figured it couldn’t have been long ago, because the hurt seems pretty fresh. The boys really talk up how much they don’t miss her. How much they don’t love her. How much they don’t care.”

Pete chugged down the coffee, but only so he could set the mug down. He hadn’t come here to talk about this. “Yeah, well, it’s been a couple years. Almost three. It’s my dad who feeds them that kind of anti-women talk, making out like it’s fun to live like bachelors, not need women, all that. You know my dad.”

“I used to.”

“So you know he adored my mom. Nothing anti-women about him. I don’t understand why he keeps pushing the attitude on the boys. It seems as if he thinks we’ll all be hurt less if we just pretend we don’t need women in our lives.”

“They really do seem like good kids, Pete.”

“They are. But it’s always there, you know? Hiding in the closet. That their mom left them. That she loved them so little that she could just take off and not look back. Reality is, she took off on me, not them. But that’s not how kids see it.” Pete frowned. He wasn’t sure why he was spilling all this stuff. He couldn’t remember talking this much about Debbie or the divorce. To anyone.

And Camille was suddenly frowning right back at him. “It’s none of my business.”

“Actually-it isn’t.”

She was on her feet faster than a flash. “It’s not as if I care. I only started this whole conversation to tell you that I didn’t want your help, or your boys’ help, or anyone else’s help.”

He stood up, too, thinking the damn woman was more mercurial than a summer wind. For a minute there, she’d not only listened about the scope of the lavender problems-which she sure as hell had no way to know about, coming in cold to the farm after all this time. But she’d also asked about his sons and the divorce situation as if she actually cared. Without thinking, he murmured, “I keep getting glimpses of the Camille I remembered. The Camille you used to be.”

Wrong thing to say. Scarlet streaked her cheeks faster than fire. “Well, I’m not that person. That girl’s gone forever and never coming back, so if you were thinking-”

“I wasn’t thinking anything, so don’t be tearing any more bloody strips off me.” His voice dropped low. Lower than a bass tenor and quieter than midnight. “Cam, I understand anger. If I’d been through what you have, I’d be tearing the bark off trees. I’m sorry you’ve been through such hell. But I’m not part of anything that hurt you. I’m just an old friend who happens to have the means and time to help you with the lavender. And I’ve got two sons who are teenagers, which means they’re selfish as hell, and that means it’ll do them good-for their sakes-to put in some hours doing something for someone besides themselves. Now, that’s all that’s going out there, so quit giving me a murdle- grups.”

Her father used to use that Scottish term-murdle-grups. It meant bellyache. And Pete thought using it might make her smile. But apparently she’d scared herself, having a conversation with him as if she cared. She didn’t want to care. Not about him. Which she seemed obligated to make crystal clear.

Her chin went up a notch. “I’m not keeping the dog.”

“No?”

Her chin shot up another defiant inch. “I’ve been tending him. I admit that. But I’ve only been taking care of him because I didn’t want him put away. The very instant he’s better, I’m finding him a home and getting rid of him.”

“You do that. That’ll show me how mean you are,” he goaded her.

“I am mean.”

Aw, hell. It was such a stupid conversation that he couldn’t think of a single reason to continue it. So he grabbed her and kissed her instead.

What else could he possibly have done? She was just standing there, fists on her hips, looking like a waif against Goliath. She wasn’t going to quit challenging him unless he did something.

This time, though, she knew his kiss.

She knew the taste of him.

She knew the risk of him.

And for damn sure, Pete knew how much trouble she was. Or he thought he did.

Before he’d severed the first kiss, he was already coming back for another, his fingers disappearing into her thick, damp hair, his body picking up her body heat-even through the huge shirt she was wearing. Her impossibly soft skin was another aphrodisiac pull-and he didn’t need any more pulls. She was already yanking every emotional chain he had.

He’d managed without since Deb left. No question that he was more primed than a lit stick of dynamite, but in all this time, it was easier doing without than volunteering for any more wear-and-tear on his heart.

He knew, instinctively, that Camille would risk more wear-and-tear than maybe his heart could handle.

But she kissed like the loneliest soul he knew. She kissed as if he were her first. As if she was shaky-scared and still couldn’t turn away. As if she was starved to touch and be touched, to hold and be held. As if she’d die if he let her go.

One kiss seeped into another, whispered into another, danced into another. A counter jammed into his back as he pulled her closer in, dipping down for another slower, deeper kiss. His fingers trailed down, kneading her shoulders, then molding down her back. Her breasts tightened, snugged against him so he could feel her bare nipples, smell the perfume of her skin, feel the frantic beat of her heart.

He found her soft, silken lips again. Heard the murmur of a groan deep inside her throat when he took her tongue. Her responsiveness caused his pulse to jack-hammer. He lifted her tighter, higher, closer to him, nestling her between his thighs.

She kissed back like a summer storm, all heat and lightning and surprise. Hell. How could such a small package have been hiding so much explosive passion?

He thought: it wasn’t that she wanted him. It was that she’d been alone so long. He thought: it couldn’t be that he mattered to her, because half the time she was furious with him. In his head he understood-really understood- that this wasn’t likely about him. She’d just been so lost since her husband died that being kissed and desired opened a door that had been rusted shut with grief and pain.

But just then, just for that minute, he sucked in those hot, wet kisses of hers. Inhaled the lush feeling her busy hands invoked. Smelled her skin, inhaled the earthy sweet sounds of longing she made. At least until she nipped his neck.

And then his eyes bolted open and he lifted his head with a little shock-and humor. “You bit me,” he murmured.

“What can I say? I missed lunch.”

“But you. You. Actually bit me.”

“You’re telling me a woman’s never taken a nip of you before, MacDougal? What, have you been with all sissies?”