Wild in the Field (9 page)

“Waiting for you.”

“Obviously. I meant why.”

“Because I believed what you said. That you're fine. And I had the impression you were sick and tired of people treating you as if you were going to break.”

“I am,” she admitted. “Tired to bits of people tiptoeing around me, treating me like fluff.”

“Well, you can take it to the bank, Cam. I won't be one of those treating you like fluff. I think you can take anything I can dish out.”

“You're damn right I can,” she assured him.

“Good,” he murmured, and reached for her.

She never saw the kiss coming. Never had a clue that was where he was leading. She felt a long, slow
woooosh
inside her when his mouth came down on hers, in a kiss that started hard and deep and just kept coming.

His tongue was inside her mouth before she'd scrabbled a spare ounce of oxygen. The screen door clapped behind them; his palm slapped down the porch light switch—and that was the last instant his hands were anywhere but on her.

The cottage was devil-black for an instant…but not really. Moonlight silvered through the naked windows. The light was perfect for kisses so naked they cut right past courtesies and politeness and pretenses.

Camille scrambled to make sense of a world that had become a storm of sensation, electric thunder, instant lightning. His tongue was making love with her tongue. His mouth, wet and hot, was molding hers. His hands, palms splayed, slid down her sides, inch by inch in a claim of ownership. She heard what his hands were saying as if they could talk:
I own you. Maybe not
tomorrow, maybe not next year, but right now, babe, that body of yours is all mine.

Her first sip of champagne had never made her this high, this dizzy. She simply didn't do this.

She did nice sex.

She and Robert had always had nice sex. They'd shared cute little private jokes. They'd been comfortable, careful with each other. They'd learned all the things new lovers learn.

This wasn't comfortable. This was scary and wild. This was turning on a faucet full force. “Pete—”

“I've got protection.”

“That's not what I was going to say.”

“If you want to say no, then say it. Anything else, we can talk about later.”

She opened her mouth, planning to say no. Planning to insist he slow down until she found her mind again—the one he was turning into shambles from the inside out. But instead of saying no, for a completely unknown reason, she lifted up on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck.

If she'd been looking for trouble, she found it—faster than a sting, hotter than a fire. In flashes she saw the moonlight on his harsh face, his soft eyes. He peeled her shirt over her head. She peeled his shirt over his. Maybe for a tornado they could have stopped. Maybe.

He swore, twice, just trying to get her into the bedroom. Packing boxes still hadn't been put away. Some obstacle connected with his shin, another with his foot. Moonlight didn't extend to the shadows and door-ways…but his kisses did. His touch did.

Pete seemed to know all the private places she'd been hiding in the dark.

Somewhere near the foot of the bed, he peeled the bra straps down her arms, then trailed the straps with his mouth, laving, biting, then baring her breasts for his view. He looked and kept looking, even as he was slowly zipping down her jeans and pushing them off her. There was naked and then there was
naked
. She'd been naked with Robert, but somehow she'd never felt this completely…exposed.

She kept telling herself that she was afraid, not ready, that she wanted to stop. But his hands were in her hair, and those kisses kept coming. She wasn't protesting. She was claiming all the kisses he offered, taking everything he gave, demanding more, inviting more. When he lowered her to the bed, the old mattress springs creaked and groaned, not used to the weight of two wildly impatient lovers. The sheets felt moon-chilled, where her skin was unbearably hot. Fevered.

She hadn't felt anything but anger in so long. She couldn't explain what was happening. Morality didn't seem to matter. This couldn't be love…but it did seem to be about trusting Pete. Or his forcing her to trust him, because he gave and gave and gave. Liquid kisses. Golden kisses. Intimate kisses that tracked from her ankle to the inside of her thigh to the heart of her.

Need spiraled through her body, exploded through her senses, a fierce, urgent hunger that had nothing to do with lust—and yet everything to do with it. Desire coiled in her tighter than a spring, ready to let loose when he suddenly laughed, a low sound of masculine delight…and then he blew a raspberry in her navel to make her laugh, too. Laughter and sex, who'd have thought they went together? But when he nuzzled her breasts, her breath started coming in short, harsh
gasps. As sweet as the laughter had been, suddenly she was in a desperate hurry for him, inside her,
now
.

She'd been torn apart for so many months. Alone for so many months. She didn't know how to put her life back together. Wasn't sure if she had a life that could be mended anymore.

But right then, it was as if Pete were taking her to some other place…a place where nothing existed but this urgent excitement. This rush of sensation. His wild mouth, his wicked eyes. His misbehaving hands, coaxing her to do things she didn't do, to think things she didn't think, to behave like a woman different than Camille. She was his lover. His abandoned, earthy lover at that moment, no one else, nothing else.

He pulled her beneath him, rising up, giving her a breath's space—but she saw the glaze of desire in his eyes, saw the sheen of control in his face. She met his first thrust with her legs tight around him, then raised them higher and tighter yet, as if she could take him in as deep as her soul. He whispered something about how sweet she was, how wet, how tight, just for him, but he was already building a rhythm, pumping a beat, taking her on a long, fast ride.

She felt her spine arching, felt her pulse rushing and gathering speed, heard the call from her throat with his name on it. What she'd been so sure was lust wasn't lust at all, but somehow magic. She felt protected in the circle of his arms, in his heat, in his warmth. He was stronger than she was and until those moments, that instant, she hadn't known how strong she'd been. Or how badly she'd needed to let go, for a few minutes, to just be…weak. To be herself. To not hold up those steel emotional walls for just a little while.

And then release came to her like a sweet rush of
rain, cleansing, healing, freeing. One burst of pleasure followed another, until she lay in his arms, breathless, whipped. He scooped her up and just held her. She heard his thundering heartbeat under her ear, felt his hand stroking down her shoulder and spine.

Gradually she became aware that clouds had chased across the moon. The room was darker, a night chill sneaking in. She'd felt the helpless smile on her lips, yet now felt that smile dying as her eyes opened.

There was no sudden sting of reality. The feeling of being cradled against his brawny chest was wonderful, the sensation of being sexually and emotionally sated was a call of life and hope that she hadn't felt in months…if ever in her life. Yet when she suddenly lifted her head, she saw Pete's eyes in the darkness, watching, waiting, as if he'd been half-tense in anticipation of her coming awake again.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don't steal my lines. And I can't talk quite yet. I don't know what just happened, but it feels like something on a par with hang gliding off Mt. Everest.”

A small smile. “Did we wear you out?”

“We? You did it all. And damn, you're so small. Where you've been hiding all that power and passion, stranger?” Still his hand stroked, stroked, as if he were gentling a kitten who was braced to flee. “I knew we'd be good. It had to be good, Cam. But I never thought it'd be like this.”

“Neither did I.” But his warmth, his words of praise and tenderness, aroused an uneasy thread in her pulse. “I haven't felt alive in months. I didn't know I could feel…anything. Much less anything like this.”

“There's no way you could have healed fast. You had a terrible hurt.”

Another uneasy thread bucked in her pulse. She touched his jaw, pushed back an unruly shock of hair from his brow. Whatever this had been about, she didn't regret it. Couldn't. He'd made her feel alive the way she never had, never thought she could.

But everything wasn't about her. Pete had two sons—two vulnerable boys whose mom had left them, who didn't trust women. He couldn't just take any woman in his life. And Camille couldn't imagine a woman less suited to be a healthy, trustworthy role model for his kids—or even be good for him. She barely knew what she was doing one day to the next.

“What are we going to call this, MacDougal?” she asked softly.

“How about if we don't call it anything? I don't need labels.”

She swallowed. “I don't like labels either. But I don't want to hurt you.”

“I'm a big boy.”

“I noticed that.”

He tapped the tip of her nose. “
That
wasn't what I meant.”

“Oh. Well. What I meant was…I don't know where we go from here.”

“We go wherever you want. Whatever feels natural.”

A pile of horse hockey if ever she'd heard one. Camille knew about vulnerability. Sometimes she felt so fragile she knew she could shatter if the wind blew from the wrong direction. And Pete looked tough and strong and mighty, because he was. But he hadn't been a few minutes ago, in her arms. He'd needed her, no different than she'd needed him.

“I'm okay with doing what feels natural,” she said
softly, “as long as neither of us build up unreasonable expectations.”

He stilled. His eyes met hers, unbending even in the darkness. “What are you worried about, Cam? Spill it out.”

She was worried about needing him too much. About hurting someone who'd been impossibly good to her. About failing a man who deserved someone who would never fail him. So she said, “I won't lie to you, MacDougal. I loved Robert. I still love Robert. I don't have the power to make those feelings go away.”

“No one's asking you to,” he said sharply, but then he pulled her in his arms for a second time. The first kiss insured she was cut off from saying anything more. And then he made love to her, insuring she didn't have the energy for anything but him—and them.

She woke once in the night, on the tip of a nightmare, but she found herself soothed and smoothed in Pete's arms, and the bad dream just seemed to disappear.

The next time she opened her eyes, it was daybreak. And he was gone.

F
or three days in a row, the family had complained that Pete was as much fun to be around as a crabby porcupine. So this morning, the instant he heard sounds of life stirring upstairs, he sucked down a mug of coffee and pasted on a stupid, happy smile. By the time vigorous fighting had broken out between the twins, he had the eggs whipped to a frenzy. By the time he heard the sound of his father's cane on the stairs, he popped down the toast.

His dad showed up in the doorway first, shooting him a wary glance. “Gonna be a hot one, they say,” Ian claimed as he ambled into the kitchen. “Pretty rare to have eighty degrees in May.”

“Uh-huh.” When Pete heard the grumpiness in his tone, he deliberately repeated, “Uh-huh,” with more boisterous enthusiasm.

His father squinted at him in surprise, then poured a
mug and settled across the counter. When Pete offered no further conversation, Ian ventured, “You get some sleep last night? Seems like I heard you pacing around for three nights in a row, figured you weren't feeling well.”

“Couldn't be better,” Pete said heartily. “How're doing this morning, Dad?”

That shocked Ian into complete silence. Pete never asked about Ian's state of health—not because he didn't love his father—but because Ian generally answered in minute detail about every ache and pain. Ian liked being coddled, where Pete didn't believe it was good for him. This morning, though, his father didn't answer his health question, only watched Pete serve him eggs and toast and juice.

“You're waiting on me,” Ian said, in the same disbelieving tone he'd use to announce Elvis hunkering down at their kitchen table.

“Just thought we should all start the day with a good breakfast.”

“I'm not complaining,” Ian said hastily, and taking advantage of his son being pleasant, tried a new line of conversation. “I couldn't help but notice the special deliveries you got yesterday. Looked like some thick envelopes. New work?”

“Yeah.” And normally, the arrival of new work would have revved his personal jets. He did all kinds of translating projects, but the scientific translating work he did for Langley was his favorite, always fascinating and different, always something new to spin his mind around. Right now, though, there was only one thing he wanted the skill to translate—and that wasn't scientific developments, but Camille. No amount of replaying what she said seemed to help him
analyze what she really meant—or what she really wanted.

The boys clattered downstairs. Eggs got shoveled onto plates. Ian punched on CNBC. Sun poured in the east windows.

When Pete looked out, though, he didn't see the sunlit grass or the dewy glisten in his apple orchards. He saw her. His mind's view whispered back three nights. He saw Cam's face by moonlight, the magic in her eyes, her silky white naked skin. The way she'd come alive for him. Apart for him. Gone wild for him, with him.

For damn sure, he hadn't been hurt that she'd ended the night with honesty. Her confession that she was still in love with her dead husband came as absolutely no surprise. She'd never given him a reason to expect anything else. A man would have to be an idiot to not realize the tragedy was still haunting her. Camille was nothing like Debbie. When Cam loved, she
loved
. Obviously, she'd never be having such a hard time getting over Robert's death if she hadn't loved him so damn much.

A glass of juice spilled. Ian babbled on about an eye doctor appointment. The boys only had a couple weeks of school left, and they had plans. “I'm not going to bug you about a horse again, Dad. I'm just saying….”

“It's okay,” he said.

“You mean, it's okay that I can get a horse this summer?”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the counter, looking out. He'd never made love with her because he expected any kind of return. The chemistry was explosive, so yeah, there was plenty of selfishness on his part. He wasn't trying to claim that he'd made
love for her sake. But that really wasn't the whole picture. He hated seeing her shut herself off from life. He also didn't want her getting her feet wet with some guy who'd hurt her—something he knew he'd never do. He wanted to be the one who helped her heal. What was wrong with that?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Making love hadn't hurt her. Hadn't hurt him. Her admitting she was still hung up on Robert was an honest, honorable thing to tell him.

He was happy she had.

Very happy.

A yellow school bus suddenly braked at the end of the driveway. The back door slammed once, then twice, as the boys pelted outside.

“I think Simon broke the remote control. Didn't want to tell you, but from the looks of the situation, I believe it found its way into the bathtub.”

“Sure,” Pete said.

Ian brought the breakfast dishes to the sink. That was the closest he ever came to doing dishes directly. “I can't believe you agreed to buy that boy a horse. Ask me, it's proof you've completely lost your mind. But if you're up for a horse, I might as well buy Simon and Sean a truck of their own. That okay with you?”

“Sure.”

“Maybe I'll take them on a trip to Alaska next week, too.”

“Okay.”

“Are you going to be in the office this morning or out in the orchards or what? Where are you going to be?”

Pete shook himself awake, stirred from the window. “I'll be working in the back office for at least an hour.
But then I'm going to pick up a few truckloads of mulch and round up a crew.”

“Ah. For Camille's lavender.” His dad almost choked on a guffaw, the sound so unexpected that Pete pivoted around and looked at him in surprise.

“What's so funny?”

“I just think it's pretty amazing. I could tell you the sun turned blue, and you'd never hear the conversation, but if I mention anything related to Camille, you're all ears.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Just because I've gotten old doesn't mean I've lost all memory of what a young buck feels like. Tuesday was the first time you were gone all night since the divorce. I was pretty sure you weren't playing dominoes.”

Pete opened his mouth to deny his dad's assumption—off the cuff, he didn't have a clear-cut lie on mind, only the intention to come through with a good one. Only his dad—the one who'd been trying to make the family believe he needed help to walk across a room—skedaddled from sight. In fact, he trundled in the other room so fast that Pete had no chance to think up any kind of good lie. For his dad.

Or for himself.

 

Camille saw the cars parked outside the Herb Haven, but she still trounced inside. For three days, she'd let herself stew and fester instead of confronting her sister. Naturally, she wouldn't say anything directly in front of customers, but it was time to corner Violet and have it out.

She spotted Violet right away and motioned to let her know she was there, then just wandered up and
down aisles, staying out of the way. Her sister was waiting on a guy. Camille could hear the man talking—he was apparently looking for a present for his wife. A girl present. Something that cost around fifty bucks and smelled good and that his wife would like—those factors seemed to sum up his entire descriptive criteria.

“Don't you worry about a thing, Jacob. I'll fix you up.” Violet was wearing another one of her big, sappy hats—heaven knew why. She was also wearing lace-up shoes with heels, a vintage lace blouse, and earrings that hung to her shoulders.

Camille wouldn't have worn the outfit in a coffin, but for a brief moment she felt like something a cat dragged in from the rain. It wasn't that long ago that she'd loved her sassy business suits and spent a shameless fortune on shoes and jewelry. She'd always tended toward tailored pieces, sterling collars and single bangles, none of the froufrou and beads that Vi loved, but she'd never been unkempt or uncaring about her appearance, the way she was now. She caught a glimpse of her wind-burned cheeks and wildly tossed hair in a mirror and unconsciously touched her face, thinking of Pete—before swiftly turning away.

Violet seemed to know this Jacob. Camille thought she might know him herself—his voice and name sounded familiar, as if they might have gone to school together. Distracted, she watched her sister in action. Violet kept fussing over the guy until his face turned beet red, bemusing Camille. Vi was so completely different around certain people. She was smart. Maybe she was a little eccentric in a couple of minor ways, but she'd always had a big IQ. Around certain males, though, Vi seemed to talk in blond and behave in ways
that deliberately scared men from having a normal conversation.

By the time Jacob left, Camille was so puzzled by her sister's behavior that she almost forgot she was foot-tapping upset with her. Unfortunately, the shop was busy. After Jacob left, a plump grandma bought chamomile tea and evening primrose oil. Then a pair of women walked in. Finally, the store was quiet for a few minutes.

“Hey,” Vi started to say.

“You traitor. You sicced Pete on me. How could you?”

“Huh?”

“Three nights ago. When I said I was staying home. You threatened me that if I didn't get off the farm, you were going to do something. But I thought you meant that you were going to do something ugly—like call Mom.”

“Why would I call Mom and worry her?”

“Well, that's why I thought you wouldn't! But then I thought you'd call Daisy.”

Violet slid behind the counter, where she'd obviously been creating dried herb and flower arrangements until the flood of customers. The counter was mounded with heaps of leaves and fronds and smelly stuff. “Actually, I did call Daisy.”

Camille's jaw dropped. “You tattletaled on me to Daisy?”

“Uh-huh. Reach behind you on that top shelf for the spools of ribbons, okay? I need the gold and red and, hmm, maybe the pale orchid. And yes, I tattletaled to Daisy. We must have talked about twenty minutes, brainstorming ways to push you into going out in public again.”

“I would have gone into town when I was ready!”

“Maybe,” Violet conceded. “But the point is, this way worked. You went to town. I knew Pete could get you to do it. And I also thought it was probably a good idea for him besides—hand me the emerald ribbon, too, okay? And here. Cut it in foot-long strips….”

“I'm not here to cut your damned ribbon.” Camille grabbed the scissors. “What'd you mean about it being good for Pete?”

“You know.” Stems and leaves and sticks flew every which way. “Pete hasn't been the same since the divorce. You know how he was in high school—Mr. Bad Boy. Always full of the devil, full of fun. He was never mean—not that kind of devil—but he loved to play, loved to party, had a little wild streak. He could charm a teacher out of giving a test. Skip school and not get in trouble—”

“Could you cut to the chase? I was in school with you guys, remember?”

“Well, he met Debbie in college. In the beginning they seemed real tuned. She was real gregarious, a life-of-the-party type. And I guess they were fine when they were first married. At least that's how I heard it. But then they had the twins, and a year after that his mom died.” Violet shook her head. “Big life things, you know? Only it's as if Pete grew up and she never did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you got my ribbons cut?”

Sheesh. It was like blackmail. Having to listen to all this extra chat and work, too. But she had to hand over the cut ribbons before Violet was willing to continue.

“Those babies…from the day the boys were born, Pete was just crazy for them. Everybody noticed. He was the one walking the floor at night, taking them to
the pediatrician for their shots, taking them for walks, the whole shebang. As far as I know, Debbie wanted a baby, at least in theory, but maybe she didn't realize how tied down she was going to be. And having twins made it worse.”

“How come I never heard any of this before?” Camille said impatiently.

“Everyone knew.”

“I didn't.”

Violet took the mess of weeds and ribbon and some paper, and somehow, when she stuck it all in a vase, it looked like a zillion dollar florist arrangement…talking the whole time. “Cam, you were in college, and then you got that great marketing job, and then you were with Robert. You weren't thinking about the stuff going on back home. Neither was I—when I was with Simpson. Anyway. It wasn't just that Pete settled down after the boys were born. He also came back to White Hills because his dad needed help after his mother died. Debbie went nuts. Whining all the time about country life, nothing to do. Initially I'm not sure if Pete ever intended to stay here. It was more temporary, to help his dad.”

“But—?” Prodding Violet to get to the bottom line was like waiting for Congress to balance the budget.

“But he liked the land. And the boys just loved it here. And then he got into that other work—I don't know what he does exactly, except that it's something he can do at home. And that was the point, that he could make a good living and yet still be available for his kids—because by that time, Debbie sure wasn't much of a mother.”

They both glanced up when the door opened, but it was just Killer pushing his nose in, looking for Ca
mille. Three cats promptly leaped to tall shelves. Violet said quietly, “I think Pete really knew she was playing around quite a while before she took off.”

Camille ignored Killer, ignored the cats, ignored the ribbons. She blurted out, “I just can't believe any woman would play around on Pete.”

“Neither can I.” Violet finished another breathtakingly artistic arrangement. Of course, she left enough of a mess to fill a trash truck, but neither woman was paying attention by then, anyway. “It's not as if Pete and I ever clicked. We didn't. But I still always thought he was a hunk. Not just because he's good-looking, you know? But because some guys just come across as…”