Jennifer Greene - Wild in the Field

“Yeah, I could have. But the fact is, I thought it was a great idea.”

“How amazing. Why did you think that giving me a forsaken mangy cat was a great idea?”

He ignored that question temporarily and went back to the point. “The boys have talked more and more about the two of us getting together, being together. So has my dad. They think the sun rises and sets on your shadow-which is great, but I just couldn’t believe it when they first started with the matchmaking talk. As far as I can tell, you’re the only woman they trust-or have come close to trusting-since their mother took off.”

“But that’s crazy, Pete. I haven’t done anything to make them like me. Or trust me.”

He rolled his eyes to the sky. “I’m not sure you’d see good in yourself if someone slapped you in the face with it. And hell, Cam. That follows through with everything else as well. You can’t think of a single reason why I’ve been sleeping with you either, right?”

She edged back a step. “Of course I can,” she said testily. “Sex.”

“Camille.” He lowered his voice a full octave. “You’re coming close to pissing me off. And you don’t want to do that.”

“I’m ticking you off! Try and get this through your head, MacDougal. I’m the one who’s mad. You leave me this aggressive, killer dog that acts as if he’ll attack anyone who looks at him sideways. Then you leave me a cat that looks so bad its own mother would disown it. Like you think I need trouble, is that it? You really think I need more problems in my life?”

He warned himself that she looked ready to bolt and he needed to keep his cool. But just possibly, he was as ready for a showdown as she was, because he leaned over her, glowering as damn hard as she was. “I think you’ve done enough feeling sorry for yourself.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I think it’s time you kicked yourself in the keester and figured it out. You’ve been through hell, but you made it through to the other side. You don’t need more coddling.”

“Since when-” her finger started poking his chest, hard “-did you ever coddle me?”

“Since never. Because everyone else was doing it. And if all that coddling had helped you, it’d be fine. But it didn’t. In fact, it was turning you into a liar.”

“Liar?” Her finger poked him again. A totally enraged finger. “I never lie. I’m the most honest person you’ll know or ever know, MacDougal.”

“Horse hockey. When you first came home, you were beat up. You were like the lavender, full of weeds and tangles and too choked up to breathe…and way too scared to care about anything. I get it, Cam. I’ve been hurt. But these last weeks, it’s not that way…”

“Oh? You think you’re going to tell me what I feel?”

“Nope. But I’ll tell you what you’ve been doing. Lying. Making out like you don’t care-about anything or anyone. You’re nuts for that dog.”

“I am not! ”

“And you’re going to be just as nuts for that derelict cat. You always did have a gift for animals, used to be able to talk down a scared cat or an injured dog, even when you were a scrawny little kid. Maybe you forgot that, but I didn’t. You’ve got to have something to love or you go nuts.”

“In your dreams, MacDougal. I’m not going to be nuts for that cat! Ever! I’m giving the dog away as soon as I find a home for it. And the same thing with the cat.”

“And cows fly. Furthermore, you’re totally nuts for my sons. You love them both. So why the hell can’t you just say so? What, do you think God’ll reach down and slug you if you admit to caring about things again?”

“I don’t care!”

“And you don’t feel anything. For anything or anyone, right?”

“Right. Exactly right!”

Aw, hell. Arguing with her was a complete waste of time. He didn’t know he was going to do it-he swore to himself!-but somehow he was hard as rock; somehow he was fighting this impossible, powerful urge to kiss her; and somehow he knew he was going to give into that temptation unless something drastic happened, fast.

So just as her forefinger was aiming to poke his chest again, he clamped both hands on her waist and lifted her in the air. She shrieked before her sandals even left the ground.

She was still shrieking when he turned her in a circle-she was light, but not so light he didn’t need to build up a little momentum-and then hurled her into the pond.

He knew the pond well. Off the shore edge, it went straight down for about five feet. It was a fantastic pond for swimming on a broiling day, because it was spring fed-which meant it was fifty-five degrees. Cold enough to make her nipples pucker, for damn sure. And thinking about her nipples puckering was enough to make his tighten like buttons.

She came up sputtering, and oh, man, was she mad. So, so mad.

He was in awe of the sequence of words she strung together. The only other person he knew who could get that eloquent with swearwords in a high temper was him. The amazing part, though, was watching all that passion and fire pouring from a woman who thought she didn’t feel a damn thing.

Before Pete could think twice, he heeled off his boots and dove straight in after her. The shock of icy water slapped every nerve awake. He came up two feet from her, gasping and sputtering. The cold water should have taken care of his arousal. Heaven knew why it didn’t.

He’d barely hauled in a lungful of air before he felt a punch of water splashed in his face. Cam splashed him a second time, then in one long stroke swam closer with the clear intention of drowning him-or at least dunking him good.

He deserved it, he knew. And normally he wouldn’t mind being emergolated-not by Camille-but just then, there was so much more at stake than her momentary temper. So when she clutched her hands on his shoulders, trying to push him down, he kicked them both several feet toward shore toward shallower water. The instant he could stand, he dragged her wet body against his.

She was right in the middle of reaming him out a new litany of insults when he plastered a kiss on her mouth. The kiss was so wet and hot that it made steam shoot up his veins, where seconds before he’d been shiver-cold. So had she. But she warmed up damn fast, too. When he got around to it, he tore his mouth free.

“Show me,” he said roughly. “Show me again how you don’t feel. How you don’t give a damn.”

He kissed her again. Again. He used his body to brace her, to walk her out of the water, climbing to the tall prickly grasses on the shore. Their clothes stuck to them like soggy glue, miserably cold, and still he kissed her. Still she kissed him back.

Out of nowhere, both of them paused-both heaving from lack of breath-and when they tried to gulp in a fresh batch, her eyes opened. Her gaze lost that sexy, foggy haze and suddenly sharpened as if she remembered how mad she was. Her fist came swooping toward his ears, so obviously, he had to kiss her again. Had to peel off her clothes. Had to peel off his.

Sunlight poured down on them as they sank down. The grasses were rough, tingly against bare flesh, and still both of them came together in a frenzy, rolling next to the pond edge, rolling away, the sun blinding him, then her, and always, nothing mattering more than claiming the next kiss, reaching the next level of hunger, inspiring the next touch.

It had never been like this for him. Not even close. His world centered around her taste, her kiss, her touch. For him, she was champagne and velvet, moon and sunshine both. She brought him light. She matched him, passion for passion, touch for touch, stroking him as intimately as he stroked her, braving ways to tease him, to take, as he braved ways to fuel sensations and needs in her.