Wild in the Moment

“Yeah, totally yeah,” Teague whispered.

Something warmed inside Daisy even more than all that hot, combustible sex. It was just…she hadn't planned on liking a man, really liking one, for at least another millennium. In fact, she liked him so much at that instant that she had to hesitate. “You don't think you're going to regret this? That we're moving too fast?”

“Of course we're going to regret this. Of course we're moving too fast.” He was still aiming for another kiss, and his voice was thicker than honey. “You know damn well it never works out to have sex too soon. It takes over everything.”

“I know. And I know better.” She found herself staring at his mouth.

“So do I. Believe me, this is your call. Totally. You want to send up a stop sign, we quit, all's fair.”

“What on earth made you think I was going to put up a stop sign?”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to another stellar month of smart, sensual reads. Our bestselling series DYNASTIES: THE DANFORTHS comes to a compelling conclusion with Leanne Banks's
Shocking the Senator
as honest Abe Danforth finally gets his story. Be sure to look for the start of our next family dynasty story when Eileen Wilks launches DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS next month and brings you all the romance and intrigue you could ever desire…all set in the fabulous Napa Valley.

Award-winning author Jennifer Greene is back this month to conclude THE SCENT OF LAVENDER series with the astounding
Wild in the Moment
. And just as the year brings some things to a close, new excitement blossoms as Alexandra Sellers gives us the next installment of her SONS OF THE DESERT series with
The Ice Maiden's Sheikh
. The always-enjoyable Emilie Rose will wow you with her tale of
Forbidden Passion
—let's just say the book starts with a sexy tryst on a staircase. We'll let you imagine the rest. Brenda Jackson is also back this month with her unforgettable hero Storm Westmoreland, in
Riding the Storm
. (A title that should make you go hmmm.) And rounding things out is up-and-coming author Michelle Celmer's second book,
The Seduction Request.

I would love to hear what you think about Silhouette Desire, so please feel free to drop me a line c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279. Let me know what miniseries you are enjoying, your favorite authors and things you would like to see in the future.

With thanks,

Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor
Silhouette Desire

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

W
hen Daisy Campbell hit the first patch of black ice, she was tempted to let loose a glass-shattering scream.

She didn't, of course. If she'd learned one thing in the past eleven years, it was to shut up and be careful instead of impulsive—but deep down, she sure
wanted
to scream.

January in Vermont was no new story for her. The wild winds and blizzard snows and bleak-naked trees and mirror-slick roads were as familiar as a tedious TV rerun. It was for reasons like this that she'd left White Hills, Vermont, and never planned to come back.

However, now, in the middle of a life-threatening spin, really didn't seem an ideal time to digress.

The cheap compact she'd rented at the airport was a mighty contrast to the red Ferrari she'd driven on the Riviera, but when push came to shove, a car was a car. The compact spun a complete 360, skidded into the on
coming traffic lane, and then careened toward the crest of the hill. Below was an unpleasant drop. Very unpleasant. In fact, unpleasant enough to likely kill her if she couldn't get the tires to bite—damn soon. Damn, damn,
damn
soon.

But the tires
did
bite. For a few hairy moments, the compact faced oncoming traffic, but Daisy battled for traction and eventually turned the son of a seadog around. Since no other vehicles were in sight—thanks to the blizzard—she wasn't hit or harmed. Nothing was endangered at all, beyond her pulse thumping at sonic-boom levels, but that was no special event. Her ex-husband had regularly raised her blood pressure beyond stroke level easier and faster than any old Vermont blizzard.

It could be that she was getting a tiny bit tired, though.

The past two months on the Riviera had been a nightmare rather than a vacation. The past two days of solid traveling and negotiating airports had been nonstop grueling. And the past two hours, she'd been driving in escalating ghastly conditions.

The car clock claimed it was three in the afternoon, but it might as well have been midnight. Black-cheeked clouds kept rolling in low. The wipers could barely keep up with the slashing, bashing snow. Drifts were forming fast, making big, fat white pillows on fence posts and roofs—but where the wind swept the roads clean, the surface was slick ice.

Exhausted or not, she simply couldn't relax. Not yet.

Ten minutes from home—even though Daisy hadn't considered the Campbell homestead to be her real home for more than a decade—her body seemed to sense the ordeal was almost over. She couldn't see Firefly Hol
low, where every teenager in the county traditionally made out on Saturday night, but she knew it was there. She couldn't see Old Man Swisher's pond, either, but growing up, she'd spent so many hours in the neighbor's swimming hole that she knew where it was from the curve in the road. A huge, lioness of a yawn escaped her lungs. Less than a half mile, she'd be home free and safe.

Only, right then, a hundred yards from the driveway, the compact found another diamond slide of ice. It was like trying to control a bullet. She did all the things she was supposed to do, but the little rental car went with the spin, then dove, nose first, into a ditch.

The back tires were still spinning when Daisy let out a long, furious blood-curdling scream.

There were times for impulse control—and times when a woman was justifiably fed-up, ticked-off, had-it, and every other multiple-guess choice there could possibly be.

She turned off the damn car, grabbed her damn purse and overnight bag, and then wrenched open the damn door. Her elegant Italian boots promptly sank into two-foot-deep snow. Naturally she fell. Abandoning all pride, she clawed and crawled her way up from the damn ditch to the damn road.

In that brief period of time, her toes and nose froze solid. Her red cashmere coat and fuzzy hat were designer French; her bags and gloves were Swiss. She'd have traded all of it—including her Manolo Blahnik boots—for a practical L.L. Bean jacket. The kind she grew up in. The kind she swore she'd never wear again as long as she lived.

Eyes squinting against the battering, blustering snow, she trudged toward home. She was exasperated beyond
belief, she told herself. Not scared. Daisy Campbell-Rochard-now-Campbell-again simply didn't
do
scared. There was a world of difference between being gutless and being careful. She knew exactly how serious a Vermont blizzard could be. There were snowstorms…and then there were snowstorms—the kind that shut down the community for days. The kind where, if you fell in a drift, no one would likely find you for a good week. The kind where, if you had a brain, you wouldn't be outside at all, much less if you weren't dressed for serious weather.

But then—in spite of the shrieking wind and the fistfuls of snow—she recognized the rail fence. Then the toboggan hill. Then the big old maple tree.

And finally, there it was. Home. The base structure was as old as the first Campbell who came over from Scotland—right after the
Mayflower,
her dad always claimed. Rooms had been added on, but the house was still basically the same sturdy, serious house with white trim and a shake roof. For a moment, fierce, wonderful memories flooded her of coming home other times—smoke puffing from the chimney, lights warming every window, Colin and Margaux flying out the front door to greet their oldest daughter, Violet and Camille laughing and gossiping.

Just that quickly, though, Daisy's heart sank. It didn't
seem
like home when there were no lights, no sign of life. The place looked cold and hauntingly lonely. No one had plowed the road in weeks.

She told herself it was totally stupid to feel at such a loss. Obviously, there couldn't be a welcoming committee when no one knew she was coming home—and she'd known ahead of time that the house was empty.

In fact, when it came down to it, Daisy took a ton of
credit for everyone being so happy and busy these days. Her mom and dad were retired and basking in the Arizona sunshine, thanks to her researching their ideal retirement home.

Camille, the baby of the family, had stopped home for a few months last summer, needing to recover from a god-awful personal tragedy—but Daisy had stepped in there, too, got the family together and organized some subtle matchmaking. Camille and her groom—and his kids and critters and dad—were hanging out in Australia for the next six months.

Violet, their middle sister, had holed up in the farm house for a longer stretch—at least two or three years after getting divorced from the Creep of the Universe. She'd been scaring off men, and likely still would be—if Daisy hadn't stepped in and sent home a man who was brave enough to take her on. Now Vi was married, too, and not as big as a blimp yet, but due in a couple more months. She was living with her new husband somewhere in upstate New York.

Daisy was outstanding at fixing everyone else's lives, if she said so herself. It just never seemed that easy to fix her own—although, to give herself credit, she did learn from her mistakes. If the Adonis of the Universe crossed her path, she wouldn't go out with him for a million dollars.

Five million, even.

But where men were an easy problem to solve—by giving them up, permanently—her current predicament was a little more challenging. Right now she desperately needed to get out of the violent wind and blistering cold before it got any darker, any colder, the snow any deeper. Too fast, scary fast, she was losing feeling in her hands, her feet, her chin. Her fuzzy hat had flown
off somewhere, and her hair was wildly whipping around her face.

She battled to get to the back door and then fumbled for the house key in her purse. Her fingers just couldn't seem to function well enough to unsnap the purse, hold the key, aim the key in the lock, turn it.

Finally her fumbling paid off and the door pushed open. Relief surged through her. It was all she needed, all she wanted—home, a place to hole up and hide out for a while. Inside, that awful screaming wind was immediately silenced. The temperature was still freezing, of course, but all she had to do was flick on the furnace, get some hot tea going, get warmed up. Everything was going to be okay.

She dropped her bag and purse, yanked off her snow-crusted gloves, and took her chattering teeth and shaking hands over to the thermostat. She flicked the dial, expecting to hear the gentle woomph of the furnace starting up.

But there was no woomph. No sound at all.

Frowning, she reached for the light switch, thinking that she'd misread the dial in the gloom.

No light turned on. She tried the light over the sink. No light there, either. She flew for the telephone then, but obviously she should have guessed there'd be no functional phone with no one living in the house right now, and she hadn't been home from France long enough to get a cell phone. For a moment she stared blankly around the kitchen, thinking it had been blue and white the last time she'd been home. Now everything was red—red tiles, chintz curtains and rocker cushions. Violet must have done it. The Live Well, Love Much, Laugh Often sign, the girl stuff and country-corny doodads all looked like Violet, too. Daisy
didn't care if it wasn't her decorating taste. The drumbeat in her pulse just kept reassuringly thumping
home home home.

Only she couldn't stay here. If there was no power, no furnace, there was no way to get warm. No way to cook. She couldn't go out in subzero temperatures in the middle of this storm and chop wood. Frantically she jimmied the thermostat dial again, pushing it back and forth, praying for the sound of the furnace. But there was nothing.

Okay,
she told herself,
okay,
thinking that if she could just calm down and not panic, she could think up a plan.

No plan emerged. She needed heat. Serious heat. The blizzard could go on for days. She needed heat, food and shelter
now,
before she was any colder, any more exhausted, before the day turned any darker.

For just a second the traitorous thought seeped in her mind that once, just
once
in her life, she'd like a hero. Someone to take care of her for a change. Someone she could depend on. But that thought was so silly that she readily abandoned it.

Daisy had never had a problem attracting men—but they were always the wrong men. The ones she took care of. The ones who were never there when the chips went down. She knew better than to expect anything else, so there was no point in whining—or panicking.

She mentally kicked herself in the fanny and moved. Quickly. All her stuff was being shipped from Europe, but she had the small overnight case. The back hall closet still had some of Dad's old coats, her mom's old boots. There were always spare gloves and hats under the back hall bench. Most of it was older than the hills and worn, but who cared?

She simply had to be covered enough, protected
enough, to get to a neighbor. This was White Hills. No matter what reputation she'd had years ago, there wasn't a soul who wouldn't help a Campbell—or who she wouldn't help, for that matter. The MacDougals were gone, because Camille had married into them. But across the sideroad to the west was the Cunningham Farm. The Cunninghams were old, seventies at least by now. But she knew they'd take her in, and undoubtedly try to feed her. Mr. Cunningham would know something about furnaces. Or he'd have ideas.

She plunked down in the rocker and leaned over to tug off her wonderful—and now ruined—boots. They didn't want to come off. They were frozen to her feet, stiff enough to make tears sting her eyes to get them loose. Beneath, her feet and toes were red as bricks, and stung.

Not good, not good, not good.

Fear was sneaking up, biting at the edges, threatening to overwhelm her if she let it. She wanted to let it. She put on thick old wool socks, her dad's old farm boots, a barn jacket right over her beautiful red cashmere coat. A little warmth started to penetrate, but she wanted to go back in that god-awful screaming wind like she wanted a bullet. It wasn't safe out there, and she knew it.

Still, she swathed her face and neck in a long wool scarf, pulled on double mittens, grabbed her stuff.
Don't think,
she told herself, just
do it.
When she opened the door, the wind and snow slapped her like a bully, trying to scare her again, but she forced herself back down the drive. She'd be okay if she didn't lose her head. It might have been years, but she knew exactly where the Cunningham house was.

God knew how long it took to walk a quarter mile
down the road—an hour? Longer? But finally she saw lights. The lights not only reassured her that the Cunninghams were home, but that they had power, so they must have a generator. A generator meant heat, light, food. Tears of relief stung her eyes as she trudged the last few feet to the back door and thumped with her dad's big mitten.

No one answered.

They were
there.
A pickup was parked in the driveway, buried in snow. Lights lit up the whole downstairs. Come on, come on, Daisy thought desperately. I don't really need a big hero. Just a little one. Just once, just once, just the least little break, and I swear I'll be tough again tomorrow.

She thumped again. Louder. Harder.

Still, no one answered.

Impatiently she turned the knob, and was relieved to find the door unlocked. “Mrs. Cunningham? Mr. Cunningham?” One step inside and she immediately felt the gush of warm, wonderful heat. Nothing and no one could have forced her back out in the cold again. Swiftly she latched the door behind her, still calling out, “Yoo-hoo! It's just me, Daisy Campbell. You know, Margaux and Colin's daughter from across the road. Are you there?”

She heard something. A groan. A man's groan. The sound was so unnerving and unexpected that she responded instinctively by running toward it. Someone sounded hurt. Badly hurt.

She'd been in the Cunninghams' house before, but that was years ago. They had no children of their own, but she'd been there trick-or-treating, selling magazines for school projects, bringing a bushel of apples from her dad's orchard, that kind of thing. She'd never seen
the upstairs, but she knew the front hall led to a living room off to the right, then a dining area, then the big, old fashioned kitchen.