Wild in the Moonlight - Jennifer Greene

Jennifer Greene

Wild in the Moonlight

The second book in the Scent of Lavender series, 2004

Dear Reader,

Welcome to another passion-filled month at Silhouette Desire-where we guarantee powerful and provocative love stories you are sure to enjoy. We continue our fabulous DYNASTIES: THE DANFORTHS series with Kristi Golds Challenged by the Sheikh-her intensely ardent hero will put your senses on overload. More hot heroes are on the horizon when USA TODAY bestselling author Ann Major returns to Silhouette Desire with the dramatic story of The Bride Tamer.

Ever wonder what it would be like to be a mans mistress-even just for pretend? Well, the heroine of Katherine Garberas Mistress Minded finds herself just in that predicament when she agrees to help out her sexy-as-sin boss in the next KING OF HEARTS title. Jennifer Greene brings us the second story in THE SCENT OF LAVENDER, her compelling series about the Campbell sisters, with Wild In the Moonlight-and this is one hero to go wild for! If its a heartbreaker youre looking for, look no farther than Hold Me Tight by Cait London as she continues her HEARTBREAKERS miniseries with this tale of one sexy male specimen on the loose. And looking for a little Hot Contact himself is the hero of Susan Crosbys latest book in her BEHIND CLOSED DOORS series; this sinfully seductive police investigator always gets his woman! Thank goodness.

And thank you for coming back to Silhouette Desire every month. Be sure to join us next month for New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jacksons Best-Kept Lies, the highly anticipated conclusion to her wildly popular series THE MCCAFFERTYS.

Keep on reading!

Melissa Jeglinski

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

One

Just as Violet Campbell limped inside the back door into the kitchen, she heard the front doorbell ring.

She simply ignored it. It wasnt as if she had a choice. Wincing from pain, tears falling from her eyes, she hopped over to the sink. After spending hours in the brilliant Vermont sun, her kitchen seemed gloomier than a tomb. It wasnt, of course. Her pupils simply hadnt adjusted to the inside light-either that, or the terrible severity of pain from the sting of a particularly ferocious bee was affecting her vision.

Someone rang her doorbell a second time.

Impatiently she yelled out, Look! I cant come to the door because Im dying, so just chill out for a few minutes!

Everyone in White Hills knew her, so if they wanted something from her, they were hardly going to wait for formal permission. Heaven knew why she bothered keeping the doorbell operational, anyway. People barged in at all hours without a qualm.

Gingerly she lifted herself onto the red tile counter, kicked off her sandal and carefully, carefully put her right foot in the sink. Her skirt got in the way. Ever since opening the Herb Haven, shed had fun wearing vintage clothes-her oldest sister claimed she looked as if she shopped from a gypsy catalog. Today, though, she had to bunch up the swingy long skirt to even see her poor foot. An empty coffee cup was knocked over. A spoon fell to the floor. One of the cats-Nuisance? Devil?-assumed she was in the kitchen to provide a lap and some petting.

She petted the cat, but then got serious. Darn it, she needed to get her foot clean. Immediately.

Until that was done, she couldnt tackle the bee sting. She was positive that the stinger had to still be in there. Nothing else explained the intense, sharp, unrelenting hurt. Well, there was one other explanation. Friends and family had no idea she was a complete coward, but Violet had discovered three years before that there was one terrific advantage to being divorced and living alone. She could be a crybaby and a wimp anytime she wanted to be.

And right now, for damn sure, she wanted to be. As far as Violet was concerned, a bee sting justified a sissy fit any day of the week. She dunked her foot under the faucet and switched on the tap. The rush of lukewarm water nearly made her pass out.

Possibly that was taking cowardice too far, but cripes. The whole situation was so unfair-and so ironic. Everything around her seemed to be heartlessly, exuberantly reproducing. Plants. Cats. Socks in her dryer. Even the dust bunnies under the bed seemed to lasciviously multiply the instant the lights turned off at night.

Everybody seemed to be having sex and babies but her-and that sure as sunlight included the bees. Lately she could hardly wander anywhere on the farm without running into a fresh hive. Possibly having twenty acres of lavender coming into bloom might-might-have encouraged a few extra bees to hang out. But its not as if she went close to the lavender. And her normal bees were nice bees. They liked her. She liked them.

Not this fella. Didnt male bees die after stinging someone? She hoped he did. She hoped his death was violent and painful and lingering.

The front doorbell rang yet again.

For Petes sake, could you lay off the doorbell? I cant come to the door, so either come in or go away!

Bravely gritting her teeth, she squirted antibacterial soap on the injured foot, then screeched when it touched the stinger spot, which was already turning bruisey red and throbbing like a migraine. She forced the foot under the tap water again.

The glass cabinet behind her head contained the box of first-aid supplies, but when she tried to stretch behind her, the movement sent more sharp shooting pains up her leg. The cat had been joined by another cat on the other side of the sink. Both knew perfectly well they werent allowed on the kitchen counters. Both still sat, as if they were the supervisory audience over an audition she was failing. Her skirt hem kept getting wetter. Her forehead and nape were sticky-damp from the heat-if not from shock. And she noticed the nail polish on her middle toenail had a chip. She hated it when her nail polish chipped.

Allo?

The sudden voice made her head jerk up like a rabbit smelling a jaguar in her territory. This just wasnt a kitchen where jaguars prowled. After the divorce, shed moved home primarily because it was available-her mom and dad had just retired to Florida, leaving the old Vermont homestead clean, ready for family gatherings at any time, but vacant.

Shed made it hers. Not that her mom hadnt had wonderful decorating taste, but shed fiercely needed to create a private, safe nest after Simpson took off with his extraordinarily fecund bimbo. Now, at a glance, she reassured herself that the world was still normal, still safe, still hers. The old cabinets held a prize collection of red Depression glass. A potbellied stove sat on the old brick hearth; shed angled an antique-rose love seat on one side, a cane rocker on the other-both of which made seats for more cats. Red-and-white chintz curtains framed the wide windows overlooking the monster maple in the backyard. Potted plants argued for space from every light source. A crocheted heart draped the round oak table.

Everything was normal. Everything was fineexcept that she heard the hurried, heavy clump of boots in her hall, coming toward the kitchen, at the same time she heard the jaguars voice doing that Allo, allo thing again.

She didnt particularly mind if there was a stranger in her house. No one was a stranger in White Hills for long, and potential serial killers probably wouldnt call out a greeting before barging in. Still, she didnt know anyone who said allo instead of hi or hello. It wasnt the odd accent that rustled her nerves but something else. There was somethingspicyabout that voice. Something just a little too sexy and exotic for a somnolent June afternoon in a sleepy Vermont town. Something that made her knees feel buttery.

On the other hand, Violet knew perfectly well that she was a teensy bit prone to being overdramatic, so it wasnt as if she felt inclined to trust her instincts. Reality was she was more likely stuck with a visitor-and right now she just had no patience with any more complications.

Without even looking up, she snapped out, My God, you nearly scared me half to death. Whoever the hell you are, could you reach in the cupboard behind my head? Second shelf. I need tweezers. First-aid cream. And that skinny tube of ammonium stuff for stings. And the plastic bottle of purple stuff that you wash out wounds with, you know, whats it called? Or maybe hydrogen peroxide. Oh, cripes, just give me the whole darn box-

The stranger interrupted her list of instructions with that quiet, dangerous voice of his. First-where exactly are you hurt?

Like she had time for questions. Im not just hurt. Im in agonizing pain. And I always tell myself that I should stockpile pain pills and narcotics, only damn, I never take any. I dont suppose you carry any morphine on you?

Um, no.

I suppose you think its crazy, my talking this way to a stranger. But if youre going to rob me, just do it. Feel free. I dont even care. But get me the first-aid box first, okay?

Silence. Not just on his part, but on hers. It was one thing to believe she was totally okay with a stranger in her kitchen, and another to have said stranger suddenly show up between her legs-before theyd even been introduced yet.

She gulped.

Close up, the guy could have sent any womans estrogen levels soaring. He seemed to cross the room so fast, and suddenly his blond head was bent over her foot in the sink. He was built long and sleek, with a daunting shoulder span and arm muscles that looked carved out of hickory. His feet alone looked bigger than boats. His hair was dark blond, disheveled, longish, as if hed been outside in the hot breeze for hours. She couldnt see much of his face except for his profile-which amounted to one hell of a nose and skin with a deep tan. The khaki shirt and boots and canvas pants were practical, not fancy, and though he was lean, he looked strong enough to knock down walls for a living.

When he finally glanced at her face, she caught the snap and fire of light-blue eyes, and a narrow mouth that seemed determined not to laugh. All that yelling, he said finally, patiently, was about this sting?