Wild in the Moonlight (8 page)

“Well, lately, they're fighting all the time with their mom. Most of it seems to be pretty standard teenage girl, mother stuff. Rules. Roles. But sometimes she's had it, and then I think…”

“You think what?”

“That if I lived in a more settled way, I could have them with me for a while. Most parents don't seem to like the teenage years, but for some strange reason, it doesn't bother me that they're being difficult and impossible. If anything, I feel like now I could be a better parent to them.” Okay. He'd stripped naked some of his heart to tell her that. And left him hanging besides, so it was her turn now, he figured. “What about your ex?”

Her hand dropped away from his. She lay back, facing the stars. “Well…his name is Ed. Simpson, I always called him. Back in college, I took one look and just knew he was my first and only true love. He was a warm, family kind of guy, good sense of humor. Fun. I quit my last year of school to help him finish faster—he got his social work degree. He was always one to reach out to help someone else.”

“Sounds like a saint,” Cam said, and was briefly tempted to spit and paw the earth—but naturally he was too mature.

“Not exactly,” she said wryly. “He's married to someone else now. In fact, they had their first child five months after the wedding. And he called me this morning to tell me about their newborn son.”

“I don't understand why he'd call you.” It wasn't hard for Cam to deduce that the creep had cheated on her, judging from the age of the first kid.

“Who would? I wouldn't take him back for a for
tune, am over him in every way a woman can get over a man. For some reason he seems to still think I'm his friend. That we're still good friends.”

“So, are you?”

“No.”

“Then why on earth do you let him keep calling?”

“Because.” She lifted a hand to the moonlight. “Oh, cripes, I don't know why. In the beginning, I acted friendly out of pride because I never wanted to let on how much he'd hurt me. And then I just didn't seem to know how to cut him off. I know they've really been struggling to afford their growing family.”

“Struggling? I thought your ex was wealthy.”

She frowned. “Why'd you think that?”

“Because…I thought you said or implied you'd gotten a pretty good settlement from the divorce. When you were talking about how you could afford to put up the greenhouses, not have to care if you lost money on the lavender, all that.”

“Oh. Well, I
did
get a good lump of money from the divorce—but not because Simpson gave me anything for free. We had a house together. He wanted to stay in the house to raise his kids, and I didn't need or want to stay there, so he owed me my share. Actually, I'd earned more than him back then. But the point was—”

It wasn't that hard to finish her sentence that time. “You wanted to spend any money you got from the
marriage. It felt like ugly money somehow. As if it could sabotage your luck if you used it in a relationship with someone else.”

“Yeah. And I know that thinking was superstitious.”

“It is. But I remember feeling that way after my divorce, too. Then it wasn't about money. I gave her all the money I could, wanted her to have it. She had the girls. But the ‘stuff'—furniture, paintings, the
things
we'd split up that were part of the marriage—at the time, it didn't matter how valuable they were or how much I liked them or even needed them. I wanted all ties severed.”

“So you understand. Why'd you get divorced, Cam?”

“I told you. Because I couldn't settle in one place. I was too restless. Not responsible enough. Not mature enough to make any kind of husband, either,” he said honestly. “And you?”

Her bare big toe had sneaked over and found his bare big toe. Now they were playing footsie, he realized. Both of them, like kids who couldn't stop touching each other. No matter what they were sure of and what they weren't.

There had to be something narcotic in the Vermont air. Something dangerous.

Maybe it was even in her big toe.

“Me, what?” She seemed to be referring to some
question he'd asked, as if she'd lost track of the conversation.

Hell, so had he. “Why'd you get divorced? Because he cheated? Because you fell out of love? What?”

She didn't answer for a long time, and then finally she made a sound—like a wry little chuckle, only not so much humor in it. “We have a problem, Lachlan.”

“What's that?”

“The problem is that I want to answer your question. I have this horrible feeling that you could turn out to be someone I could seriously trust. How weird is that?”

“Weird? You're not used to trusting people?”

She propped up on an elbow then. Moonlight draped the round of her shoulder, the edge of one plump, firm breast, the sweet soft curve of her hip and high. “Don't waste your time sounding surprised, Cam. You're no more used to trusting people than I am. You're a loner. Just like me.”

He didn't know what to say, except that she didn't strike him as a natural loner in any conceivable way. She was an earth mother, a giving lover, a warm, nurturing woman right down to her toes. He said honestly, “I can well understand your needing time to get over a hurtful relationship, but in the long run it's impossible to imagine you living alone. Or not wanting to be in a marriage.”

“I won't be climbing into another serious relationship,” she said firmly.

He didn't believe her. But he said, “That's a relief, because I don't want to hurt you. And for darn sure, I won't lie to you. You know my work here's only temporary, that I'll be leaving soon. That's the way it has to be.”

Again she smiled, at a moment when no other woman would have smiled at him. “And I'll be staying here. Because that's the way it has to be—for me. So we're both safe, right?”

“Safe?”

“Safe,” she repeated. “You don't want to shake up my world. I don't want to shake up yours.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“We do need to watch it, though,” she said carefully. “I'm totally for casual sex. Especially with a man who's only going to be here for a short time, and who positively doesn't want anything serious from me. But we'll both get cranky if we start to seriously trust each other, so let's try not to, okay?”

She got up then. He didn't instantly understand that the conversation—and their lovemaking—was all done. In principle, they should have left an hour earlier at least. The night temperatures were dropping fast now, and the mosquitoes had come out to feast—still, he was shaking his head as he quickly gathered their gear together.

The woman he seemed to be falling for, very hard,
very fast, very irresponsibly, was walking toward his car completely naked in the moonlight. She didn't seem to find anything odd about that. She didn't seem to find anything odd about wanting to sleep with a man who wouldn't stick around for her, either.

But it bugged him.

It was never a good idea, to wake up the next morning without both people having agreed on what they needed from such an encounter. Only Violet's version of clearing the air had sure muddied his. Maybe most men would be happy to hear she was up for a short, passionate affair.

Maybe, even as early as last week, he'd have been ecstatic to hear a woman talk that way.

Only hearing Vi talk about casual sex and not wanting to trust him made him feel as edgy as if he'd sat on a porcupine. She deserved more than that. She should be demanding more from a man than that.

And damn it. He wanted to
be
more than that to her. Realizing how hard his heart was suddenly pounding, Cameron took a long, low, calming breath.

It had to be the moonlight. He just wasn't a man to think, or spell, a word as petrifying as commitment. Tomorrow—daylight—he'd get a grip on this whole thing. He just knew he would.

W
hen Violet walked outside, the morning fog was magical. Pink dawn hues swirled in the mist. Drenched flowers and grass made the whole world sing with scent and color. It was her favorite kind of morning.

Today, though, she clumped toward her Herb Haven in mud boots and a scowl. She'd had hiccups twice already. Her stomach seemed to be doing a nonstop agitated jitterbug.

The Haven's parking lot already had four cars, even though it was barely seven. Customers were waiting for her. She gave an early class on Wednesday morning before the store opened, a class she nor
mally loved to bits. But this morning her mind was entirely on the night before.

She'd never had casual sex before. It wasn't her fault. She'd always meant to fool around tons, but she'd fallen in love with Simpson young and there'd never been a chance. Now she was perfectly thrilled to throw her morals out the window, only it was all so awkward. She'd gone into her bedroom first last night, but she assumed Cameron would join her. Instead he'd gone into the spare room. And stayed there.

When you had mind-blowing fabulous sex with a lover, didn't you get to spend the night with him? What the hell were the rules to this deal, anyway? Cripes, it would resolve so many problems—and so much heartache—if she could just privately love someone and not have to worry about his caring about her long term.

Only, so far, this wasn't working at all. The sex part had been terrifyingly stunning. Only, she hadn't slept all night, first waiting for Cameron to come into her bed, and then worrying why he'd slept in the other room. And then there was that other tricky little problem.

She was crazy about the guy. More crazy than she could ever remember feeling before—even about Simpson. Cam was warm and funny and accepting and interesting and honest and everything she loved
in a guy—not counting that naked-to-naked had been better than anything she'd ever dreamed of.

The
love
word had been on her mind even before they'd done the Deed. Making love had just made that worse.

She
knew
better than to let that
love
word enter the picture.

Glumly she opened the door to the Herb Haven. Lights were already on. Four women sat on the wooden table in the back, all talking at once and sipping her best coffee brew. They all knew where the key and coffeepot were; they knew the whole routine. Betsy and Harriet were farmers' wives; Roberta was a freshly divorced teacher; Dinah was a college student home for the summer with energy to burn. The women had nothing in common besides a history in White Hills—and wanting to make natural cosmetics at home.

“We're making cold cream today, right? Cold cream, aftershave and an herb bath.” Violet heeled off her mud boots, plastered on a cheerful smile and charged in. Work would get her mind off Cam. It had to. “Did you ladies hear that Dora Ritter is pregnant? And everyone says it's Tom Johnson's, and his wife is pregnant at the same time.”

“No!” Betsy said in delighted horror, and the women were off. Aprons were donned. Bowls and pots and measuring devices gathered from the cupboards, and then the core ingredients brought out.
Lanolin. Beeswax. Almond oil. Naturally Violet started making herb water first, and each of the women had chosen their favorite: lavender, rose, mint and lemon balm.

Smells pervaded the back room. Violet kept both the gossip and the work flowing, but no matter how fast she ran, her mind kept sneaking back to Cameron. She kept thinking, I want that man. I want to sleep with him. Love him. Laugh with him. And why shouldn't I? What's so wrong if two consenting adults both simply want to have a good time together?

“Violet, how long does this mess have to cook?” Betsy asked her.

Violet peered over the edge of the double boiler. “You're not trying to cook it. You just want the lanolin and beeswax to melt together. After that you add the almond oil.”

“Gotcha.”

“And at that point you call me, and I'll show you how we whisk in the herb water. You wanted the lemon balm, right?”

“Yeah, that was me. Harriet wanted the mint.”

“Okay,” she said, and thought: I can change. She didn't have to be a wife and mother. She could be an immoral, carefree lover who lived for today.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized how long she'd allowed the problem of her narrow fallopian tubes to get her down. So she'd
been devastated to know she'd never likely conceive. So she'd been further crushed when Simpson had taken such a fast powder for another woman—a fertile woman—when Violet proved to be less than perfect.

I could do wicked, she figured. Obviously she'd have to work at it. She'd have to know the rules. She'd have to find someone she wanted to be wicked with—such as Cameron. In fact, specifically Cameron, since she'd never found anyone else she wanted to be wicked for…or with.

Turning into an amoral, immoral tramp would solve so many of her problems. Men were like perfume. Some had staying power. Some didn't. Counting on a guy to stick around just because he claimed to love you was the height of lunacy. It was far better to pick a guy from the get-go where you didn't have to feel bad about not being perfect.

“Hey, Violet. Come see how this is coming!”

Firmly, she turned her attention back to her class. Betsy, at the table's far end, was exuberantly slathering on her newly made almond cold cream. She'd come dressed today in a baseball cap, Jack Daniel's tee, and her favorite sequined tennis shoes. And then there was Harriet, who'd been married fifty-two years and could have starred in the infamous portrait of the two farmers carrying the pitchfork. Harriet had so many lines from the sun that the first three layers of cold cream seeped into the crevices and were
never seen again. Roberta had been showing up for the classes ever since her divorce, wearing five pounds of mascara, a bra that pushed her boobs up to her throat, and fire-engine-red nail polish. And then there was Dinah.

“Hokay,” Dinah drawled, “I think this aftershave lotion is finished. It was fun to make and all, but now I don't know what to do with it. Or how.”

Harriet, ever wise, piped in, “Trust the one virgin in the group to make something for a man.”

“Hey, who said I was a virgin?”

“The point, dear, is that we obviously need someone to test the aftershave on before you try giving it away as a present. Anyone have hairy legs? I mean, someone who's willing to admit it?”

Betsy, who always played Harriet's straight man, promptly burst out laughing. And because Betsy's laughter could make anyone laugh, within seconds the whole room was cracking up, holding stomachs and gasping guffaws and sputtering coffee—made worse as bare legs were lifted in the air as proof of their recent shaving—or lack thereof.

Silence fell as suddenly as a light switch. God knows how the rest of them realized there was a man in the room, but Violet sensed Cameron's sudden appearance from the instinctive change in her own heartbeat.

She whirled around to see him standing in the doorway, a steamy mug in one hand and a sheaf of
papers in the other, looking wrinkled and sleepy and sexy. Wild. Wantable.

His eyes found hers as if there was no one else in the room. Last night suddenly danced between them—that surge of wanting, of urgency, of belonging, like she'd never felt for any man or anyone else. She'd never given herself that easily, that intimately.

And suddenly she wasn't so sure she could manage being as wicked and immoral as she wanted to be. Suddenly she sensed she could risk more with Cameron than she'd ever risked before—if she wasn't very, very careful.

The other women pounced on Cameron for entirely different reasons. “My God. He's the ideal test case,” Dinah said.

Cameron tore his eyes off her and seemed to swiftly take in the others in the room. He may not have heard the gist of their earlier conversation, but he seemed to pick up fast that he was in trouble. He said, “No!” as if hoping that would cover everything.

“Now, there's nothing to worry about, dear. Come on. We just want to put a little bit of lotion on your cheek. It won't hurt. It's made of witch hazel and apple vinegar and lavender and sage—”

“Oh, my God.
No.
”

“It's supposed to make your skin feel really soft,” Dinah assured him. “That's the whole point. To make it easier to shave—”

“Violet.” His gaze swiveled back toward her. Desperately. “I just need to talk to you. About some business—”

Harriet said, “There now. Just sit down. You can do all the business you want with Violet and we can test our little aftershave recipe on you at the same time. You're not from Vermont, are you, but women here have been known to keep secrets for three and four centuries. No one will ever know you've been here, trust us. Don't be scared—”

He backed out of the doorway and took off like a bat out of hell.

She couldn't even try to catch up with him for several hours. She had to finish up the class and clean up, after which her two girls arrived to formally open the store for business. It was past ten before she could catch a five-minute stretch when the phone wasn't ringing or some customer asking for her.

Then, though, she had a hard time finding him. She looked in the house, in the yard, in the greenhouses. His car was still parked by the barns, so he hadn't left the property, but she was mystified where he might have walked. Finally she located him at her great-grandmother's cottage.

Decades ago the cottage had been built to give Gram independence in a way that would keep her close to family. No one had lived there after Gram died until Camille had come home in the spring. The place had been fixed up then—except for the roof.
That was the infamous roof she'd hired to have fixed so Cameron would have a place to stay. The roofer was supposed to show up this morning, but just like most mornings in a week, he'd neither showed nor called.

It was Cameron on top of the roof with a hammer in his hand, a box of shingles next to him. He'd yanked off his shirt, undoubtedly because of the sun beating down with baking intensity. His skin looked oiled and bronzed. All six cats were up there with him—either trying to help, or just wanting to be around the sexiest guy in three counties.

She felt the same way, but she stood below with her hands on her hips. “So. You've decided to take up a new career as a roofer?”

He turned around on a heel and rubbed a wrist on his damp forehead. “More likely a new career as escape artist. Those women aren't still around, are they?”

“No.” Maybe last night was between them like an elephant in their emotional living room, but she still had to grin. “You're safe.”

Apparently he wanted more proof. “And you don't have any of that smelly aftershave concoction anywhere around, do you?”

“Why, Lachlan. The girls
did
scare you. Imagine, a big strong guy like you—”

“I'm not
scared,
” he said testily. “I just happened to come across this half-finished roof because of your
cats.
They
were scared. Ran out of the place faster than I did and led me to the nearest high place.”

“You expect me to believe that half-baked story?”

“Look. I'm sure they were nice women. In fact, if I ever get attacked in the middle of the night by a gang of cutthroats, I'd really like them on my side. Especially the one—” he motioned vaguely “—you know. The one who'd rearranged the shape of her—”

“Breasts.”

“Yeah. So that they looked like two oranges poking out right under her chin. And the one with the hairy legs—you know, the one who looked as if she had more wrinkles than a Shar Pei? Look, it's just a lot safer up here—”

“You're killing me.” Damn man. They'd gotten into serious, deep waters last night. Mighty deep waters. Yet somehow he was making her comfortable, making her laugh.

He squinted down at her, his voice quieting. “Well, chére, it damn near killed me to sleep down the hall from you last night.”

Her pulse suddenly seemed to careen down a long, sleek hill. Who'd have guessed he would confront her hurt, confused feelings straight up? She took a breath. “Then why did you?”

“Because of the lavender. Because until we get some legal details discussed and agreed on, I'm rep
resenting Jeunnesse. That doesn't have to be a complication. But I don't want you worrying for even a minute that it could be.” He lifted a sheaf of papers from his side. “Have you got fifteen minutes to look at these?”

“Cam, I
hate
legal mumbo-jumbo,” she groused, but her pulse careened back up that long, sleek hill. So he hadn't slept in the other room because he hadn't wanted to be with her. And he was sure as hell still looking at her as if she were sugar and he was more than happy to take on the role of hummingbird.

“It won't hurt, I promise. And no one will find us out here, so without interruptions, we can get it done fast.”

“I really don't have a bunch of time. I can't leave the girls alone for very long. They're both really young—”

He heard all her protests, but he still had them sitting together on the porch steps of the cottage and the papers whipped out faster than lightning. He might be determined to talk, but Violet couldn't seem to concentrate on his silly papers. His knee was grazing hers. She wasn't sure if the touch was accidental, or if he was deliberately keeping in physical contact. But knees had never struck her as an intimate, erogenous zone before. Still didn't. His knee was bony, his legs long and lanky and tanned, leading to sandals. Long feet. Very long. Really long big toes.

“…patent?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Patent, Violet. We're talking about your applying for a patent for the new breeds of lavender you developed.”