Wild in the Moonlight (2 page)

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.”

O
nce Violet disappeared from sight—presumably to find the nearest bathroom—Cameron leaned against the kitchen counter and clawed a hand through his hair. Talk about a royal mess. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

Nothing usually rattled him. Normally people got a higher education to earn a better living. Cameron had pursued a Ph.D so he could enjoy a footloose, vagabond lifestyle. He was used to jet lag. Used to time changes and strange beds. He had no trouble getting along with people of all different backgrounds and cultures.

But this blonde was doing something to his pulse.

“Be careful with my sister,” Daisy had warned him—which, at the time, had struck him as a curious thing to say. His only interest in Violet Cameron was business. Still, whether he'd wanted to hear it or not, Daisy had filled in enough blanks for him to understand why she was so protective of her younger sister. Violet had apparently been married to a real, selfish creep. “Something happened in that marriage that I still don't know about. Something really bad in the last year. I still can't get her to talk about it,” Daisy had told him. “But the point is, Violet was always extra smart, in school and life and everything else. It's just since the divorce that she's been…different. Fragile and nervous about men.”

Since that conversation had at the time been none of his business—and none of his interest—Cameron had pretty much forgotten it. Still, he'd definitely imagined a shy, quiet, understated kind of woman. A true violet in personality as well as name.

Now he wondered if Vermont might secretly be an alternative universe. Granted, he'd only been in the state for a couple of hours—and on the Campbell property even less than that—but Daisy's description didn't match anything he'd noticed in reality so far. Violet was as shy as neon lights, as nervous as a lioness, and as far as IQ…well, maybe she was smart, even ultrasmart, but who could tell beneath all those layers of ditsiness?

He heard a door open and instinctively braced.
Seconds later Violet walked back in the kitchen. When she spotted him leaning against the counter, she seemed to instinctively brace, too.

Considering that Cameron had always gotten on well with women, it was a mighty blow to his ego to make one sick on sight. At the vast age of thirty-seven, though, he never expected to respond to a woman with a tumbly stomach of his own.

The old Vermont farmhouse seemed sturdy and serious. At first glance, he'd thought the base structure had to be at least two centuries old. The brick surface had tidy white trim and a shake roof; the plank floors were polished to a high shine. He'd been drawn to the place on sight; it looked practical and functional and solid, nothing frivolous.

Only, then there was her.

Standing with the light behind her, she could have been a fey creature from a fairy story. The first thing any breathing male was going to notice, of course, was her hair. It was blond, paler than sunlight, and even braided with a skinny silk scarf, it bounced halfway down her back…which meant it had to reach her fanny when it was undone. Her face was a valentine with warm, wide, hazel eyes, sun-kissed cheeks and a nose lightly peppered with freckles.

She wasn't exactly pretty. She just had that
something.
Some kinds of women just seemed born pure female. They were never as easy to get along with—much less understand—but they seemed to radiate
that female thing from the inside out. Nothing about her was flashy or sexy, but she was sensual from that pale, shiny hair to her soft mouth to the rounded swell of her breasts.

She seemed to be wearing old clothes—not old, as in practical, but old, as in the stuff you'd find in a great-grandmother's attic trunk. The white blouse completely covered those delectable breasts, but the fabric seemed less substantial than a handkerchief. It was tucked into a long skirt swirling with bright colors. Crystal earrings dangled to her shoulders. A couple of skinny bangle bracelets glinted on her wrist. There was nothing immodest about the clothes; if anything, they seemed unnecessarily concealing for a sultry, ninety-degree afternoon. Cameron just wasn't sure what the vintage gypsy image was supposed to mean.

He also couldn't help but notice that she smelled.

Guys weren't supposed to mention that sort of thing, but smells were Cameron's business—and had helped him put away a sizable bank account—so scent tended to be a priority for him. In her case, she wasn't using the kind of perfume that came out of a bottle, but around her neck and wrists there was the sweet, vague scent of fresh flowers—as if she'd ambled into a garden with roses and lilac petals and maybe some lily of the valley.

He noticed the delicate scents—which helped him forget that he'd also noticed her spanking-orange un
derpants. Usually he knew a woman just a wee bit better before he'd gotten a look at her underwear, but when Violet had been on the counter, trying to wash her foot in the sink, she'd pushed up her skirts—no reason for her to have been thinking about modesty since she obviously hadn't been expecting company.

Hell. He hadn't planned on barging in without being asked, either, but when a woman yelled out that she was dying, he could hardly stand on her front porch and wait politely for further news bulletins.

Now, though, she frowned at him. “We seem to be in quite an uh-oh situation,” she announced.

That wasn't quite how he'd have put it, but he sure agreed. “You'd better get your foot up before that sting swells up on you.”

“I will.”

“You're not still feeling sick to your stomach, are you?” He wanted to directly confront their obvious problem, but since she'd established—incontestably—that she was a hard-core sissy about the bee sting, it seemed wise to get her settled down. He sure as hell didn't want her keeling over on him.

“I think my stomach's fine now. It doesn't matter, anyway. What matters is that we have to figure this out. Your being here. What we're going to do with you.”

“Uh-huh. You want me to get us a drink?”

“Yes. That'd be great.” She sank into a chair at the oak table, as if just assuming he could find
glasses and drinks. Which he could. He just didn't usually walk in someone's house and take over this way.

Being in the kitchen with her was like being assaulted with a rocket full of estrogen. It wasn't just that she was a girly-girl type of woman, but everything about the place. Cats roosted on every surface—one blinked at him from the top of the refrigerator; another was sprawled on some newspapers on the counter; a black-and-white polka-dotted model seemed determined to wind around his legs. Every spare wall space had been decorated within an inch of its life, with copper pots and little slogans over the door and wreaths and just
stuff.
From the basket of yarn balls to heart-shaped rag rugs, the entire kitchen was an estrogen-whew. The kind of a place where a guy might be allowed to sip some wine, but God forbid he chug a beer.

On the other hand, he found lemonade in the fridge in a crystal pitcher. Fresh squeezed. The refrigerator was stuffed with so many dishes that he really wanted to stand and stare—if not outright drool. Never mind if she was overdosed with sex appeal. He might get fed out of this deal. That reduced the importance of any other considerations…assuming either of them could figure out how to fix such a major screwup.

“I think we need to start over,” he suggested. “You seemed to recognize my name? So I assume
you also know that I'm the agricultural chemist from Jeunnesse?”

She immediately nodded at the mention of the French perfume company, so at least Cameron was reassured there was some cognition and sense of reality between her ears. But somehow she looked even more shaken up instead of less.

“I just can't believe this. I
did
know you were coming, Mr. Lachlan—”

“Cameron. Or Cam.”

“Cameron, then. What you said was very true. My sister's called and written me several times about this.” She lifted her bee-stung foot to a chair and accepted the long, tall glass of lemonade he handed her. “I'm just having a stroke, that's all. The timing completely slipped my mind.”

“You have twenty acres of lavender almost ready to be harvested, don't you?”

“Well, yes.”

Cameron took a long slow gulp of the lemonade. It seemed to him that it'd normally be a tad challenging to forget twenty acres of lavender in your backyard.

“You're supposed to want me here,” he said tactfully.

“I do, I do. I just forgot.” She raised a ring-spangled hand. “Well, I didn't just
forget.
It's been unusually chaotic around here. Our youngest sister,
Camille, got married a couple weeks ago. She'd been here most of the spring, working on the lavender. And she left on her honeymoon. Only, then she came back to get the kids.”

Boy, that made a lot of sense.

“Cripes, I don't mean
her
kids. I mean her step-kids. Her new husband had twin sons from a previous marriage. And actually since Camille thinks of them as hers, I suppose it's okay to call them her sons directly, don't you think?”

Cameron took a breath. As thrilling as all this information was, it had absolutely nothing to do with him. “About the lavender…” he gently interrupted.

“I'm just trying to explain how I got so confused. I started the Herb Haven three years ago, when I moved back home, and it's done fine—but it was this spring that it really took off. I've been running full speed, had to hire two staff and I'm still behind. And then Camille needed me to do something with all their dogs and animals while the family was on the honeymoon— I mean, they got a few days to themselves, but after that they even invited the kids and his dad, can you believe it? And then this old farmhouse I try to keep up myself. And then there are the two greenhouses. And Daisy…well, you already know my older sister, so you know Daisy's genetically related to a steamroller.”

Finally she'd said something that Cameron could connect to. Daisy was no close personal friend, only
a business connection, but he'd spent enough time to believe the oldest Campbell sister could manage a continent without breaking a sweat. Daisy was a take-charge kind of woman.

“Anyway, the point is, sometimes Daisy runs on—”

“
Daisy
runs on?” Cameron felt that point needed qualifying. As far as he was concerned, Daisy couldn't touch her younger sister for her ability to talk—extensively and incessantly.

Violet nodded. “And I just don't always listen to her that closely. Who could? Daisy always has a thousand ideas and she's always bossing Camille and me around. We gave up arguing with her years ago. When you've got a headstrong horse, you just have to let them run. Not that I ride. Or that Daisy's like a horse. I'm just trying to say that it's always been easier to tune out and just let her think that she's managing us—”

“About the lavender,” Cameron interrupted again, this time a wee bit more forcefully.

“I'm just trying to explain why I forgot the exact time when you were coming.” She hesitated. “I also seemed to have forgotten exactly what you're going to do.”

Before he could answer, someone rapped on her front door. She immediately popped to her feet and hobbled quickly down the hall. Moments later she came back with her arms full of mail. “That was
Frank, the mailman. Usually he just puts it in the box at the road, but at this time of year, there can be quite a load—”

More news he couldn't use. And before he could direct her attention back to the lavender, her telephone rang. Actually, about a half dozen telephones rang. She must have a good number of receivers, because he could hear that cacophonic echo of rings through the entire downstairs.

She took the kitchen receiver—which enabled her to pet two cats at the same time. Possibly she was raising a herd, because he hadn't seen these longhaired caramel models before. The caller seemed to be someone named Mabel, who seemed to feel Violet could give her some herbal suggestions for hot flashes.

This took some time. Cameron finished one glass of lemonade and poured another while he got an earful about menopause—more than he'd ever wanted to know, and more than he could imagine a woman as young as Violet could know. What was she, thirty? Thirty-one? What in God's name was squaw root and flax seed oil?

She'd just hung up and turned back to face him when the sucker rang again. This time the caller appeared to be a man named Bartholomew. Although she seemed to be arguing with the guy, it was a stressless type of quarrel, because she sorted through her mail, petted more cats and put breakfast cups in
the dishwasher during the conversation. A woman could hardly be ditsy to the bone if she could multitask, right? Then she hung up and started talking to him again.

“You see?” she asked, as if there was something obvious he should be seeing. “That's exactly why it's impossible for you to stay. Bartholomew Radcliffe is supposed to be putting a new roof on the cottage. The place where you were going to stay when you came in July.”

“It
is
July,” he felt compelled to tell her.

She made a fluttery motion with her hand, as if the date were of no import. Clearly there were several things in life that Violet Campbell considered inconsequential—dates, facts, contracts and possibly anything else in that generically rational realm. Because he was starting to feel exhausted, he rested his chin in his hand while she went on.

“That's exactly the thing about July. The roof was supposed to be done by now. It's just a little cottage. How long can it take to put a roof on one little cottage? And Bartholomew promised me it'd only take a maximum of two weeks, and he started it way back near the first of June. Only, I've never worked with roofers before.”

“And this is relevant, why?”