“Initially, Jeunnesse just wants to buy your crop. However you planned to harvest it, I’ll either take charge or work alongside you, whichever you want. Obviously, your twenty acres are no big deal in themselves, it takes five hundred pounds of flowers to make an ounce of lavender oil. But I can easily get enough to analyze the quality and nature and characteristics of your lavender. Enough for me to extract some oil, my own way, under my own control, so we’ll know for sure what we could have.”

She’d stopped rocking. Stopped nursing her bee-stung foot. In fact, she’d completely forgotten about her bee-stung foot. “And then what happens?”

“Then, at the end of the harvest, we make some decisions. If your strain is as unique as I think it is, you have several choices. No matter what, you want to get started on patenting your strain. Then, if you want to grow it yourself-and can buy or rent the acreage to do it-then Jeunnesse would offer you a long-term contract. Another choice would be for you to sell the rights to Jeunnesse for a period of years. We’re talking a long-term commitment, worth a great deal of money on both sides-that is, assuming your strain of lavender lives up to its potential. But we have to see what this mysterious strain of yours can do before making any promises.”

Violet wasn’t asking for promises-from him, from Jeunnesse. When it came down to it, she wasn’t asking for any promises from anyone anymore. She’d stopped believing in luck-or that anyone would be there for her-the day she’d caught Simpson in bed with his fertile little bimbo.

Now, though, she felt old, rusty emotions trying to emerge from her heart’s cobwebs. For the lavender, she thought. It’s not that she really believed she was suddenly going to get ridiculously lucky over something so chancy as her playing around in the greenhouse. It was just that there was no reason not to go along with Cameron’s plan. Whether she got rich or not didn’t matter. She had nothing to lose-and a lot of fun and interest to be had-just to see if this crazy thing came true.

For the lavender, she’d take a chance.

Not for the man.

But then, she’d never thought for a minute that Cameron Lachlan was a threat to her heart, so that wasn’t even worth a millisecond’s worry.

Four

The moonless night was silent as a promise. Cameron lay on his back on the open sleeping bag, trying to fathom why he felt so strangely moody and restless. He wasn’t remotely moody by nature. Normally he’d have inhaled a special night like this. Clouds were building, stealing in from the west, concealing the moon but also bringing tufts of cooler air. God knew he was tired, and when he closed his eyes he could smell the sweet summer grass, the lavender in the distance, the blooms whispering out of Violet’s garden.

The lights had gone off in the upstairs bedroom an hour ago. Vi had told him he could sleep inside-in the spare room, on the living room couch, on the porch, wherever he wanted. But Cam had sensed she was uncertain around him. If sleeping outside might make her feel safer, it was sure no hardship for him.

Any other time, he’d have treasured the night. He’d found some wild mint growing near her mailbox, rubbed it on his neck and arms, enough to chase off the mosquitoes and bugs. No dew tonight, so the grass was warm and dry. He heard the hoot of a barn owl, the cry of crickets. Fireflies danced as if Violet’s long lawn were their personal ballroom.

He owned the world on nights like this-or that’s how he’d always felt before. Instead the frown on his forehead seemed glued there. It made no sense. He loved his freedom, loved the smells and scents of a night this breathless, this private. He’d never been prey to loneliness. Something just seemed off with him lately. Especially tonight.

After Violet had gone inside, he’d walked all over her family farm. She had a pretty piece of land-but he’d seen pretty pieces of land before and never felt inclined to plunk down roots.

Cameron had long realized he had an allergy to roots, or any other possessions that could tie him down. His father had built up millions, running a company that-as far as Cam was concerned-had taken over his dad’s life. Peter Lachlan had died before the age of fifty-five, with a son who never knew him, a wife who’d slept alone most of their marriage and fabulous possessions that didn’t do much more than collect dust. Even as a young boy, Cameron had refused to follow in his father’s footsteps. He’d carved his own, and if his independence and vagabond ways weren’t everyone’s choice, he’d loved his life.

It was just tonight that a weird, unsettled restlessness seemed to hem his mood, nipping at his consciousness, stealing his peace.

A sudden brisk wind brushed his hair. The cats, who’d been purring relentlessly at his side, stood up and shot toward the house. The black sky suddenly started moving, clouds being whipped like cake batter. The fireflies disappeared.

He felt the first drop of rain, didn’t move. If the sky got serious, he’d move onto the porch, but it was still warmish. If anything, the sudden spin of damp wind brought out her farm’s sweet scents. He told himself he was looking at the old red barn with the Dutch shingled roof, the rock fence, the rolling slope in front of him. But somehow his gaze kept straying to her house. Not the architecture of the sturdy old white farmhouse…but the shiny windows on the second story.

Specifically the window on the east. The one where the light had been switched off an hour before. The one with the filmy drift of white curtain at sill level. The one where he’d seen her unbraid that long, long pale hair and shake it free. The one where she’d reached behind her to unbutton her blouse-and then, damnation, disappeared from sight to take the rest of her clothes off.

He couldn’t figure her out.

She was awfully bright for a batty woman.

She cooked better than a professional chef. Had more business pots going-the land, the house, the greenhouses, her herb and flower business-than any one person could normally take care of. She seemed to be emotionally and financially thriving on all that chaos, even if she did choose to dress like an old-fashioned spinster. She also seemed to make a point of acting as if she were witless, goofy, one of those fragile women who’d swoon if life put any stress on them.

As far as he could tell, she loved stress.

Most confusing of all, though, those soft eyes were studying him-then shying away-as if she were a young girl unfamiliar with the chemical pull between the sexes. She’d been married, for heaven’s sakes. She’d surely had a hundred men react to her before. Besides which, he knew perfectly well when he sent off interested signals to a woman.

He was interested. Hell, she was sensual to her fingertips, complicated in personality and character, and he’d always liked complicated woman. But he needed to seriously work with her, and the instant they met, he picked up her wariness of him. So he’d sent out no signals, no vibes. He knew he hadn’t. And he sure as hell wouldn’t go near a woman when she made it clear she wasn’t in the market for attention-at least not from him.

But damn. She was a handful of fascination.

Another raindrop plopped on his forehead. Then another.

From one breath to the next, a meandering drizzle suddenly turned into a noisy deluge. Skinny needles pelted down, warm and wet. He climbed to his feet quickly enough, but before he could scoop up the sleeping bag, he heard a warning growl of thunder…followed by a breathtaking crack of lightning that seemed to split open the sky.

Abruptly her back screen door slammed open. “Damn it! Get in here!”

For a second he had to grin, lightning or no lightning. Unquestionably the screech came from his delicate flower of a hostess. The one with the vintage clothes and the fluttery hands who made out as if stringing a whole thought in a single sentence was a difficult challenge for her.

A yard light slapped on. Ms. Violet-harridan- Campbell showed up on the porch steps, barefoot, her tank and boxer shorts looking distinctly unvintage-like. In fact, her boobs looked poured into that tank, making him pause for another moment in sheer respectful appreciation.

“Have you lost your mind? That’s lightning, for God’s sake! Didn’t you hear the storm coming? I kept waiting and waiting for you to come inside, but obviously you’ve been living in France too long. In America, we know enough to get out of the rain.”

“I’m coming-”

“By the time you get around to coming in, we’ll both be electrocuted. Look. I may not have welcomed the idea of your sleeping in the house-for God’s sake, I don’t know you. But a storm is a storm, for Pete’s sake.

“Pete’s sake, God’s sake… I’m getting confused whose sake is involved here-”

“Lachlan! Move your butt!”

Well, he’d been planning on it, but while she was screaming at him, she was also getting rained on. Which meant that tank and boxers were getting wet. And so was that long silvery curtain of blond hair.

Maybe he was thirty-seven, but he hoped to hell he never got so mature he failed to appreciate a beautiful woman. Particularly a beautiful woman whose attributes were outlined delectably between the yard light and the rain and the lightning.

On the other hand, being electrocuted posed a threat to his long-term ability to appreciate much of anything, so he hustled to the door just behind her. The instant she opened the screen, four cats seemed to leap from nowhere, determined to cut inline. And then, in the blink of a second, her yard light went out.

“There goes the power,” she muttered.

It was his instinct to take charge, especially when a woman was in trouble. He couldn’t help it. It was how he’d been raised-not by his absentee father, but by his mom, who’d expected even small kids to step up when there was a problem. He’d never minded. He liked stepping up. But in this case, the image Violet projected of being scatterbrained and helpless was-he was coming to understand-totally misleading.