Wild in the Moonlight
Author
Jennifer Greene
Reads
19.0K
Chapters
11
One
Just as Violet Campbell limped inside the back door into the kitchen, she heard the front doorbell ring.
She simply ignored it. It wasn’t as if she had a choice. Wincing from pain, tears falling from her eyes, she hopped over to the sink. After spending hours in the brilliant Vermont sun, her kitchen seemed gloomier than a tomb. It wasn’t, of course. Her pupils simply hadn’t adjusted to the inside light—either that, or the terrible severity of pain from the sting of a particularly ferocious bee was affecting her vision.
Someone rang her doorbell a second time.
Impatiently she yelled out, “Look! I can’t come to the door because I’m dying, so just chill out for a few minutes!”
Everyone in White Hills knew her, so if they wanted something from her, they were hardly going to wait for formal permission. Heaven knew why she bothered keeping the doorbell operational, anyway. People barged in at all hours without a qualm.
Gingerly she lifted herself onto the red tile counter, kicked off her sandal and carefully, carefully put her right foot in the sink. Her skirt got in the way. Ever since opening the Herb Haven, she’d had fun wearing vintage clothes—her oldest sister claimed she looked as if she shopped from a gypsy catalog. Today, though, she had to bunch up the swingy long skirt to even see her poor foot. An empty coffee cup was knocked over. A spoon fell to the floor. One of the cats—Nuisance? Devil?—assumed she was in the kitchen to provide a lap and some petting.
She petted the cat, but then got serious. Darn it, she needed to get her foot clean. Immediately.
Until that was done, she couldn’t tackle the bee sting. She was positive that the stinger had to still be in there. Nothing else explained the intense, sharp, unrelenting hurt. Well, there was one other explanation. Friends and family had no idea she was a complete coward, but Violet had discovered three years before that there was one terrific advantage to being divorced and living alone. She could be a crybaby and a wimp anytime she wanted to be.
And right now, for damn sure, she wanted to be. As far as Violet was concerned, a bee sting justified a sissy fit any day of the week. She dunked her foot under the faucet and switched on the tap. The rush of lukewarm water nearly made her pass out.
Possibly that was taking cowardice too far, but cripes. The whole situation was so unfair—and so ironic. Everything around her seemed to be heartlessly, exuberantly reproducing. Plants. Cats. Socks in her dryer. Even the dust bunnies under the bed seemed to lasciviously multiply the instant the lights turned off at night.
Everybody seemed to be having sex and babies but her—and that sure as sunlight included the bees. Lately she could hardly wander anywhere on the farm without running into a fresh hive. Possibly having twenty acres of lavender coming into bloom might—might—have encouraged a few extra bees to hang out. But it’s not as if she went close to the lavender. And her normal bees were nice bees. They liked her. She liked them.
Not this fella. Didn’t male bees die after stinging someone? She hoped he did. She hoped his death was violent and painful and lingering.
The front doorbell rang yet again.
“For Pete’s sake, could you lay off the doorbell? I can’t come to the door, so either come in or go away!”
Bravely gritting her teeth, she squirted antibacterial soap on the injured foot, then screeched when it touched the stinger spot, which was already turning bruisey red and throbbing like a migraine. She forced the foot under the tap water again.
The glass cabinet behind her head contained the box of first-aid supplies, but when she tried to stretch behind her, the movement sent more sharp shooting pains up her leg. The cat had been joined by another cat on the other side of the sink. Both knew perfectly well they weren’t allowed on the kitchen counters. Both still sat, as if they were the supervisory audience over an audition she was failing. Her skirt hem kept getting wetter. Her forehead and nape were sticky-damp from the heat—if not from shock. And she noticed the nail polish on her middle toenail had a chip. She hated it when her nail polish chipped.
“Allo?”
The sudden voice made her head jerk up like a rabbit smelling a jaguar in her territory. This just wasn’t a kitchen where jaguars prowled. After the divorce, she’d moved home primarily because it was available—her mom and dad had just retired to Florida, leaving the old Vermont homestead clean, ready for family gatherings at any time, but vacant.
She’d made it hers. Not that her mom hadn’t had wonderful decorating taste, but she’d fiercely needed to create a private, safe nest after Simpson took off with his extraordinarily fecund bimbo. Now, at a glance, she reassured herself that the world was still normal, still safe, still hers. The old cabinets held a prize collection of red Depression glass. A potbellied stove sat on the old brick hearth; she’d angled an antique-rose love seat on one side, a cane rocker on the other—both of which made seats for more cats. Red-and-white chintz curtains framed the wide windows overlooking the monster maple in the backyard. Potted plants argued for space from every light source. A crocheted heart draped the round oak table.
Everything was normal. Everything was fine…except that she heard the hurried, heavy clump of boots in her hall, coming toward the kitchen, at the same time she heard the jaguar’s voice doing that “Allo, allo” thing again.
She didn’t particularly mind if there was a stranger in her house. No one was a stranger in White Hills for long, and potential serial killers probably wouldn’t call out a greeting before barging in. Still, she didn’t know anyone who said “allo” instead of “hi” or “hello.” It wasn’t the odd accent that rustled her nerves but something else. There was something…spicy…about that voice. Something just a little too sexy and exotic for a somnolent June afternoon in a sleepy Vermont town. Something that made her knees feel buttery.
On the other hand, Violet knew perfectly well that she was a teensy bit prone to being overdramatic, so it wasn’t as if she felt inclined to trust her instincts. Reality was she was more likely stuck with a visitor—and right now she just had no patience with any more complications.
Without even looking up, she snapped out, “My God, you nearly scared me half to death. Whoever the hell you are, could you reach in the cupboard behind my head? Second shelf. I need tweezers. First-aid cream. And that skinny tube of ammonium stuff for stings. And the plastic bottle of purple stuff that you wash out wounds with, you know, what’s it called? Or maybe hydrogen peroxide. Oh, cripes, just give me the whole darn box—”
The stranger interrupted her list of instructions with that quiet, dangerous voice of his. “First—where exactly are you hurt?”
Like she had time for questions. “I’m not just hurt. I’m in agonizing pain. And I always tell myself that I should stockpile pain pills and narcotics, only damn, I never take any. I don’t suppose you carry any morphine on you?”
“Um, no.”
“I suppose you think it’s crazy, my talking this way to a stranger. But if you’re going to rob me, just do it. Feel free. I don’t even care. But get me the first-aid box first, okay?”
Silence. Not just on his part, but on hers. It was one thing to believe she was totally okay with a stranger in her kitchen, and another to have said stranger suddenly show up between her legs—before they’d even been introduced yet.
She gulped.
Close up, the guy could have sent any woman’s estrogen levels soaring. He seemed to cross the room so fast, and suddenly his blond head was bent over her foot in the sink. He was built long and sleek, with a daunting shoulder span and arm muscles that looked carved out of hickory. His feet alone looked bigger than boats. His hair was dark blond, disheveled, longish, as if he’d been outside in the hot breeze for hours. She couldn’t see much of his face except for his profile—which amounted to one hell of a nose and skin with a deep tan. The khaki shirt and boots and canvas pants were practical, not fancy, and though he was lean, he looked strong enough to knock down walls for a living.
When he finally glanced at her face, she caught the snap and fire of light-blue eyes, and a narrow mouth that seemed determined not to laugh. “All that yelling,” he said finally, patiently, “was about this sting?”
“Hey. It’s not just a sting. You didn’t see the bee. It was huge. Bigger than a horse. Practically bigger than an elephant. And it—”
“Are you allergic to bee stings?”
“No. Good grief, no. I’m not allergic to anything. I’m totally healthy. But I’m telling you, this was a big bee. And I think the stinger’s still in there.”
“Yeah, I can see it is.” Again he lifted his head. Again she felt those amused blue eyes pounce on her face, and caught a better look at him. That shag of blond hair framed a long-boned face that looked carved by a French sculptor.
If she wasn’t dying from misery, she might have let a shiver sneak up her spine. One look—and no matter how soggy her mind was from the pain—she was absolutely positive this guy wouldn’t normally be running around White Hills, Vermont…or any other back-country town.
“For the record,” she said, “you’re lost.”
“You think?” He shifted behind her, opened the cabinet and promptly hefted down her first-aid box. Well, actually, it was a shoe box. Filled to overflowing with herbal, natural, artificial and any other kind of first-aid supplies she’d accumulated over the past three years—and probably a few her mom had had around for the thirty years before that. He located the tweezers first.
The way the stranger held the tweezers made her nervous. Either that or something else did. Either way, she was really starting to get seriously nervous, not just pretend—and darn it, she hadn’t been doing all that well before the exotic stranger barged in.
“You’re lost,” she repeated. “I’m Violet Campbell. I own the Herb Haven—the building and greenhouses on the other side of the yard. This is my house. If you’ll tell me who you’re trying to find, I’ll be glad to—eeeikes!”
He lifted the tweezers to show her the stinger. “It looks like the stinger of a little sweat bee.”
Violet pinched the skin between her brows. Another delightful advantage to being divorced, apart from removing the scoundrel from her life, was not having to put up with men’s sick sense of humor. “Who are you looking for?” she repeated.
“You.”
He lifted the brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide and started unscrewing the top. She suspected he was going to pour it on the wound. She also suspected that she was going to shriek when he did—and maybe even cry. But the way he said “you” in that sexy, exotic accent put so much cotton in her throat that the shriek barely came out a baby’s gasp.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? The stinger’s out. The spot’s clean. Now you might want to take an antihistamine or put some ice on the spot for a few minutes—”
“You couldn’t possibly want me,” she interrupted. And then pinched the skin between her brows a second time. On any normal day she liked people. She liked interruptions. She even liked a hefty dose of chaos in her life. But there were men she felt comfortable with and men she didn’t.
This one was definitely a “didn’t.” He made her feel naked, which was pretty darn silly considering she was dressed in the ultramodest clothes of another era—except she suddenly realized her skirt was hiked up past her thighs. The point, though, was that she most certainly wasn’t wearing male-attracting clothes. Her women customers got a kick out of her sense of style, but men almost always backed away fast.
That was how she wanted it. She liked guys, had always liked guys, but she’d been burned enough for a while. Maybe for a whole lifetime. Normally men noticed her clothes and immediately seemed to conclude that she was a little kooky and keep their distance, so God knew what was wrong with this stranger. He’d surely noticed the oddball long skirt and vintage blouse, but he was still looking her over as if she were meringue and he had a sweet tooth.
Momentarily, though, he went back to playing doctor, scrounging in her first-aid box until he found the ammonium wand for bites and stings. She winced even before he’d touched the spot. As if they were in the middle of a civilized conversation, he said, “You were expecting me.”
“Trust me. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I’m staying here for a few weeks. With you.”
The wince was wasted. When he touched the wound with the ammonium wand, she sucked in every last dram of saliva her throat had left and released a screech. A totally unsatisfying screech. The ammonium hissed and stung like—damn it. Like another bee sting. Only worse. Still, she’d somehow easily managed to keep track of the conversation this time. “Obviously, you’re not staying here. I don’t even know you. Although I’m beginning to think you’re a complete maniac—”
Actually, she wasn’t particularly afraid of maniacs. She took credit for being one herself often enough. But she’d lost the last of her usually voluble sense of humor with that bite of ammonia. Good-looking or not—sexy or not—she was really in no mood for an emotional tussle with a stranger.
The man swooped everything back in the first-aid box, then turned around and aimed for the freezer, obviously to find some ice. “My name is Cameron Lachlan.”
“Great name. I’m happy for you.”
He grinned, but he also kept moving. When she motioned to a lower cupboard, he bounced down on his heels and came up with small baggie for the ice. “We definitely have some kind of strange screwup going on here. You do have a sister named Daisy Cameron, don’t you?”
It wasn’t often she got that thud-thud-thud thing in her stomach, but her palm pressed hard on her tummy now. “Yes, for sure. In fact, I have two sisters—”
“But it’s Daisy who lives in France.”
“Yes, for several years now—”
“The point being,” he said patiently, “that your sister has been playing go-between for us for months. Or that’s what I’ve understood. Because she was living right there, and because she knows my work and me personally, so you wouldn’t have to be dealing with a stranger. You were supposed to be expecting me. You were supposed to have a place for me to stay for several weeks. You were supposed to know that I was arriving either today or tomorrow—”
“Oh my God. You’re Cameron Lachlan?”
He scratched his chin. “I could have sworn I already mentioned that.”
It came on so fast. The light-headedness. The stomach thudding. The way her kitchen suddenly blurred into a pale-green haze.
Granted, she was a coward and a wuss—but normally she had a cast-iron stomach. Now, though, when she pushed off the counter and tried to stand on both feet, her bee sting stabbed like hot fire and her stomach suddenly pitched. “Try not to take this personally, okay?” she said. “It’s not that I’m not glad to see you. It’s just that you’ll have to excuse me a minute while I throw up.”
