Jennifer Greene - Wild in the Field

She wasn’t aware of him as a man.

She couldn’t be.

She certainly didn’t want him. She didn’t want anyone. She never planned to want another man as long as she lived. But damn…he did bug her.

Quickly, she shook off the ridiculous sensation. Pete MacDougal was no one she needed to feel cautious around. She knew that. He was a neighbor. He was interfering and bossy, for sure, but being afraid of him at any level was absurd. And more to the immediate point, he’d obviously noticed the dog.

So she hurled out the door lickety-split. Immediately Pete glanced up and motioned toward the shepherd.

“I see you managed to give our boy some food.”

“Our boy,” she repeated, abruptly realizing that Pete already knew the dog. “Peter MacDougal! You did this to me?”

“I did what?”

“You left me this dog? You tied this mean, godforsaken, dangerous dog to my tree? Why in God’s name would you do such a thing?”

He smiled. As if she hadn’t just screamed abuse on him up one side and down the other.

“His name is Darby. Used to be a show dog. Hard to believe, the way he looks now, isn’t it? But he’s a thoroughbred shepherd with a long, pretty lineage. The neighborhood kids used to play with him, he was that sweet and gentle…”

She crossed to the fence, her gaze sweeping the ground for a log big enough to brain him with.

“…belonged to Arthur Chapman. You remember him, don’t you? Quiet guy, lived down Cooper Street and across the creek, that property on the left after the bridge. Good man. Dog lover. But then Art got Alzheimer’s. Naturally, people realized he was getting strange, but you know how folks are tolerant in White Hills. So they just tried to let him be. Nobody realized that in his own house, he’d gotten mean, was beating and starving the dog. It wasn’t really his fault. He wasn’t in his right mind. Anyway-”

She couldn’t find a log. Lots of twigs in the grass, but nothing big enough to do any damage.

“Anyway, the neighbors finally figured out that Art wasn’t coping on his own. They called the cops, who called Social Services, all that. Everybody was prepared to take care of Art, but no one realized they’d find the dog in such a godawful mess.”

“You’re taking this dog right back.”

“Nope, I’m not. But if you don’t want him, you can call the pound.”

“I most certainly do not want him-”

“Of course, they’ll put him down,” Pete assured her genially. “They don’t have the time or means to turn him around. Actually, I’m not sure anyone can. But the pound, for sure, will believe it’s easier to put him to sleep. In fact, that’s probably what I’d do.”

“You son of a sea dog, you take this dog back! I can’t believe this! That you’d desert me. Leave me alone with this horribly vicious dog!”

“Naw. I’ll give you the number for the pound, if you want them to come and kill it-”

“Quit saying that.”

“Quit saying what?”

“That they’re going to kill the damn dog!”

“Well, Cam. That’s how it is. I just thought… Darby’s got one chance left. That is, if you’ll give him one. He was such a great dog that I just thought, man, he has to be worth one last try… But hell.” Pete pushed back from the fence. “Who cares, right? I’ll go home, get the phone number for the pound-”

A log was too good for him. She vaulted over the fence, determined to give him what-for. She wasn’t precisely sure how to deliver that what-for, but she was madder than a bed of hornets and the “how” didn’t immediately seem that important. She hurled after him, yanked at his shirt, put a wagging finger up in his face, and the next thing she knew, she was in his arms.

It all didn’t make a lick of sense. She was mad. She knew she was mad. And whatever emotion Pete MacDougal might have been feeling, he’d never let on for a blink that he felt anything sexual for her.

Yet his lips came down on hers as if they had been waiting for just that moment. His arms slid around her waist, as if he’d known she was going to be on shaky ground. The sun tilted in her eyes, so bright and hot she couldn’t see. She still planned to sock him. Eventually. It was just that right then…she was so stunned.

His lips were sun warmed, smooth. He dipped down for a second kiss before she’d recovered from the first. He was tall enough to make her feel surrounded, protected. She heard the yearning coo of a mourning dove. Felt the damp earthy loam beneath her feet, felt the sliver of breeze tickle the hair at her nape. She felt his heart, beating, beating. Felt her own, clutched tighter than a fist.

Slower than a sigh, he lifted his head. His gaze roamed her face, his eyes dark with awareness, electric with what they’d kindled together. She felt his fingertip on her cheek. His voice came out rough and tender-low.

“I knew it was in there. That soft, wonderful heart of yours. I hate to see you hurting so bad, Cam.”

He didn’t lower his hand particularly fast, or turn around and start walking away with any speed. But still she couldn’t come up with an answer before he was already a hundred yards onto his own property. She couldn’t talk at all. She still seemed to be gulping in air and sensation both.

There’d never been anything wrong with her IQ. She realized perfectly well that Pete had been trying to reach out a hand to her ever since she’d come home, but she’d assumed it was a neighborly hand. She’d never expected…kisses. She’d never expected to feel his heart thundering against hers, to see the stark shine of desire in his eyes, to feel his body rousing because of their closeness.

Pete wanted her.

It seemed an astounding revelation.

She stared after him, but memories of Robert suddenly pushed into her mind-her lean, elegant Robert, with his city ways and boyish grin. He’d loved the night lights. So many Friday nights they’d gone clubbing, her in her highest heels and slinkiest black dress, Robert in his city-guy clothes. Robert could dance down the house when he got in the mood; he knew his wines, knew his music, knew all the cool places to go.

Camille couldn’t imagine Pete giving a damn about “a cool place” in a thousand years. He was day-and-night from Robert in every way.

Pete was lean himself, but when a man was built that tall and physical, he just wasn’t…elegant. His shoulders were as broad as a trunk. His skin had an earthy tan; his hair never looked brushed. He roared when he was mad, laughed from the belly when he was happy. Nothing scared Pete. He was elemental, earthy, wild himself.

He made her think of male alpha wolves-of the kind of guy a woman was instinctively very, very careful around. Not for fear he’d hurt her, but for fear of being taken under by a force bigger than her, an emotional force, a sexual force.

Camille shivered suddenly, and then abruptly, scowled. Elemental force? Where on earth was this horse hockey coming from? The damned man had left her with a filthy, vicious dog that no one could love or want, and somehow managed to divert her attention for a couple seconds by kissing her senseless.

Well-the next time she saw him, there’d be no kisses and no nonsense either. She whirled around, only to find Killer-alias Darby-snoozing on his side in the maple’s shade.

If that wasn’t typical! Both males had wreaked total havoc on her day, and now one was sacked out and the other had walked away.

She was simply going to ignore them both, and that was that.

When most women got kissed, Camille thought grimly, their mood perked up. At least if it had been a good kiss. And Pete’s kiss had certainly qualified as a humdinger.