Jennifer Greene - Wild in the Field

He’d hurt her. She hadn’t expected him to say anything mean or critical. And implying she couldn’t handle something always had been, likely always would be, like waving a red flag in front of a bull. At the time, he hadn’t seen any other choice. He’d been trying to find a way to get to her. But Cam had put up so many fierce defenses that getting to her by any conventional means simply didn’t work.

In her driveway, his headlights flashed on the snow fence she’d set up for Darby, who promptly began an exuberant symphony of snarling and barking the instant the truck pulled up. Camille pushed out of the seat and vaulted down with a good-night for the boys, but noticeably no comment for him.

He’d hurt her, all right. Only it felt as if it were his own heart that had been stabbed.

As soon as the truck lights disappeared, Camille hustled in the cottage, rooted high and low until she came across the dog leash, and then hustled outside again.

Killer was still howling and snarling himself into a frenzy. “Shut up, you witless dolt. There’s no one here but me. C’mere.”

The dog, naturally, hated the leash. “I know. I haven’t been making you use the leash anymore, but this is different. The fact is, I can’t trust you. I’m willing to take you for a walk to run off that energy, but I can’t risk your running off and attacking someone. Believe me, I understand your bad temper. I’m in exactly the same kind of mood. But right now, you only have two choices-a walk with the leash, or no walk.”

It was hard enough to clip on the leash when the dog wasn’t being rambunctious and ornery, but tonight it was dark besides. Finally she managed, but right as she was pushing to her feet, the dog licked her cheek.

“I don’t love you, so don’t be thinking I care,” Camille scolded, but Killer seemed as unimpressed with this threat as all her others. Once she unlatched the gate, he bounded beside her, ears perked high and alert, walking to her exact pace.

The long night walks had become a pattern. She’d been sleeping better ever since she’d begun working in the lavender-the backbreaking work guaranteed she’d fall asleep. But sometimes the ridiculous nightmares still plagued her, and then walking seemed to help. Stumbling in the dark wasn’t ideal, but Killer was sure-footed, and the farm path around the acres of lavender had become a familiar route.

Since no one was around, she talked to the dog. It seemed a little saner than talking to herself. And it didn’t seem to matter what she said or how mean she said it, Killer seemed to listen. In fact, the damn dog seemed to crave the sound of her voice-not that she did it for his sake.

Tonight, though, she set up a fast hiking pace and didn’t talk at all. Killer, tuned to her channel, hiked and watched-with only a few breaks to tear off into the bushes and lift a leg.

The brisk walk helped Camille work up a fume. The nerve of that man! Implying she couldn’t handle a movie if she wanted to! Implying she was a coward for not leaving the farm!

Pete hadn’t been through what she had, for God’s sake. And for the first time in all these weeks, she’d actually been trying to tell him. Not a lot. But she hadn’t opened up at all since the whole thing happened, and she thought she could trust Pete. Instead, he’d implied that she couldn’t handle even something so little as going to a movie.

It chafed like a rug burn.

Not hurt. Camille had no intention of ever allowing her feelings so out of control that being hurt was even a possibility. But she could be…chafed. And aggravated. And insulted.

The whole damn world had been nice to her since the attack. Everyone had appreciated what a terrible and unbearable thing she’d been through. Everyone. And there she’d shared the tiniest bit with Pete, and he’d made out like she was a wimp. She was inclined to…why, she was inclined to…

She promptly stumbled on a rock and nearly tripped. Not because she was clumsy, but because she glanced up and saw Pete standing on her back porch. He stood directly under the porch light, as if knowing she’d tend to be afraid of anyone showing up after dark, yet she felt no fear. If she felt a shiver seep into her pulse, it was caused from something far different from fear. Although her first thought was just: Good, now she’d have the chance to punch his lights out.

Killer, of course, started immediately barking-and because Camille wasn’t prepared, the dog yanked the leash from her hand and tore off toward Pete, sounding like a canine version of Sylvester Stallone on a Rambo rampage.

“Oh, shut up, Darby,” Pete said.

The dog promptly sat down and then lay down, tongue lolling. Camille shook her head, flabbergasted at the dog’s docility, but Killer couldn’t hold her attention for long. Her gaze glued on Pete and wouldn’t let go. “What are you doing here?”

“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.