Wild in the Moment (3 page)

“No showers. No baths. What if you fell?” But when she fed him another spoonful, she had to consider the thought. “It
could
be a good idea to make sure there isn't any dust or debris near that head wound, though.”

“Yeah, that's what I was thinking. And I couldn't fall if you took the shower with me. Maybe if we got around to formally introducing ourselves? I'm Teague Larson—”

“I know. The sheriff told me. And I'm Daisy Campbell. You can either call me Daisy—or Battle-Ax—but either way, no shower. I'll try to cook up some way to get your hands clean. If we still have water and power tomorrow, maybe we can talk about a shower for you then. But tonight we're doing what the sheriff said for a concussion.”

“I don't have a concussion.”

“You knocked yourself out. You could very well have a concussion,” she corrected him.

“I knocked myself out because I was an idiot, took a chance I shouldn't have taken. But my head's too hard to dent, trust me, or ask anyone who knows me. In the meantime, I don't suppose there's any more soup? Or any real food somewhere?”

“The kitchen's a complete disaster—which you should know, since you're the one who tore it up. I was lucky to find the soup and a pot to put it in. You're not getting any meat or heavy foods, anyway, so don't waste your breath looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

She fed him one more spoonful of soup, then ignored those soulful eyes and carted the dishes into the downstairs bathroom. Without running water in the kitchen,
she was stuck doing dishes in the bitsy bathroom sink—but that was the end of the chores. She could still do a dozen more things to prepare for a loss of power, but they just weren't going to happen. She was two seconds away from caving.

When she returned to the living room, she brought the invalid a fresh glass of water and a warm washcloth to wipe his hands, then knelt at the hearth. Once the fire was tended, she fully intended to sink into a nightlong coma. The blaze was going strong, but she needed to poke the fattest logs, tidying up the bed of ashes, add on two more slow-burning logs.

“The way you talked to the sheriff, you seemed to know him.” Teague, darn him, sounded wide awake.

“George Webster? I went to school with him.” She hung up the poker and turned around. “He followed me around my whole senior year with his tongue hanging out.”

There, she'd won a grin. His eyes tracked her as she pushed off her shoes and shook out a blanket. “I'll bet a lot of boys followed you with their tongues hanging out,” he said wryly.

“A few,” she admitted. “What kills me now is realizing how immature I was. I wanted the guys to like me. I wanted a reputation for being wild and fun. And whether that was dumb or not, I had two younger sisters, both of whom looked up to me. I should have been thinking about being a role model for them, and instead…”

“Instead what?”

“Instead…” She curled up in the overstuffed recliner and wrapped the blanket around her. God knew why she was talking. Probably because she was too darn tired to think straight. “Instead there was only one thing
in my head in high school. Getting out. I couldn't wait to grow up and leave White Hills and do something exciting. I was never in real trouble—not like trouble with the police. But someone was always calling my mom on me. My skirt was too short. My makeup was too ‘artsy.' I'd skip English to hang out in the Art Room. I never did anything
big
wrong, but I can see now it was all just symbolic little stuff to show how trapped I felt in a small town and how much I wanted to leave.”

“Yet now you're back.”

“Only for a short time. I just need a few weeks to catch my breath before moving on again.” Even though her eyes were drooping, she could hear the ardent tone in her voice. She so definitely wasn't staying. A few hours back in White Hills, and already she'd been caught up in a blizzard and a guy problem. It was a sign. She should never have tried coming home. Even for a month. Even knowing she'd been pretty darn desperate.

“If you don't mind my asking, how did you come to be living in the south of France?”

Her eyes popped open—at least temporarily. Maybe tiredness had loosened her tongue, but she couldn't fathom how he'd known she lived in France.

He explained, “Pretty hard not to know a little about you. You're one of the exotic citizens of White Hills, after all. Daisy Campbell, the exotic, glamorous, adventurous girl…the one all the other girls wanted to be, who had the guts to leave the country and go play all over France with the rich crowd….”

“Oh, yeah, that's sure me,” she said wryly, and washed a hand over her face. Sometimes it was funny, how you could say a fact, and it really was a fact—yet
it didn't have a lick of truth to it. She hadn't been playing in a long time. Anywhere. With anyone. “Anyway…I ended up living in France because I fell in love with an artist. Met him at one of his first American shows, which happened to be in Boston. I can't even remember why I was visiting there…but I remember falling in love in about two seconds flat. Took off and married him right after high school.”

“I take it he was French?”

“Yeah, he was French. And he wanted to live in Aix-en-Provence, where Cézanne had studied with Emile Zola. And then Remy-en-Provence, where Van Gogh hung out for a long time. And then the Côte d'Azur—because the light on the water is so pure there, or that's what all the artists say, that there's no place like the French Riviera.”

“Hmm…so you traveled around a lot. Sounds ritzy and exciting.”

“It was,” she said, because that's what she always told everyone back home. They thought she was gloriously happy. They thought she was living a glamorous, always-exciting dream of a life. No one knew otherwise—except probably her mother, and that was only because Margaux had the embarrassing gift of being able to read her daughters' minds.

“So…are you still married to this artist?”

“Nope. Pretty complicated getting a divorce for two people of different citizenships, but that's finally done now. And I don't know exactly what I'm doing after this, but you can take it to the bank, I'm never living anywhere but my own country again.” She opened her eyes. Somehow, even now, she seemed to feel obligated to say something decent about her ex-husband. “My ex really was and
is
a fine artist. That part was totally the
real thing. He wasn't one of those artists who have to die to make it. His work's extraordinary, been recognized all over the world. Jean-Luc Rochard. You might have seen his paintings.”

“Not me. The only original artwork I've got are those paint-by-number-kit things. Oh. And a black-velvet rendition of Elvis.”

Darn it. He'd made her chuckle again. “Got a houseful of those, do you?”

“Maybe not a houseful.” She felt his gaze on her face in the firelight. “So…what happened?”

“What happened when?”

“What happened, that you got a divorce. You talk up the guy like he was the cat's meow, a woman's romantic dream. And you were living the high life in fantastic places. Yet something obviously had to go wrong, or you'd still be with him.”

“Oh, no. I've spilled all I'm going to spill for one night. Your turn next. And if this storm is going to be anywhere near as bad as I'm afraid of, we'll be marooned here for another day or two—so we'll have more time to talk than either of us probably wants. For the immediate future—do you need a trip to the library but are too embarrassed to tell me?”

“I'll deal with a trek to the library after you go to sleep.”

“Well, that's the problem, Mr. Teague Larson,” she said patiently. “I'm completely dead on my feet. Which means I'm going to conk out in this chair any second now. I'm supposed to call the sheriff every few hours, report how you are. And I'm supposed to wake you up every two hours and look in your eyes, check the size of your pupils. Only, I'm afraid that I'm not going to get either of those things done. I'm losing it, I can tell.
So if you need some help getting into the bathroom, you need to tell me now.”

“I don't need help.”

“Yeah, you do. But I'm not up for bullying you. I'm warning you, this is your last call for free help.” She yawned, as if to punctuate how tired she was. And that was the last thing she remembered.

T
eague had to grin. When that woman slept, she slept. She'd been right in the middle of talking when her eyelids suddenly closed and she snugged her cheek in the side of the chair. Two blinks later she was snoring. Not big, noisy, guy snores, but whispery little snores. The kind a woman makes when she was end-of-her-rope tired.

Teague figured it was the perfect time to hightail it into the bathroom—finally. Contrary to what Daisy thought, he wasn't embarrassed. He was a grown man, for heaven's sake. But the truth was, the only way he could make it into the bathroom was by crawling on all fours. The bump on his head ached and stung, but that wasn't the worst problem. As long as he only moved slowly—and didn't laugh—the head wound wasn't bugging him too much. His swollen right ankle was giving
him fits, though. At least for tonight there was no chance of his walking on it.

Teague had asked for help in his life. He was almost sure of it, even if he couldn't remember a single occasion specifically. For damn sure, though, he wasn't asking a woman, as if he were some kind of needy, sickly, dependent type.

So he crawled into the bathroom, at an extremely annoying snail's pace. Then he had to sit on the blue-tiled floor until his head stopped spinning and he stopped sweating from the exertion. Eventually, though, he took care of nature, brushed his teeth, managed a reasonably efficient sponge bath, and then crawled back into the living room.

The wind howled louder than ever, or maybe the intense darkness made it seem that way. Eerie shrieky sounds seemed to seep through the walls and whistle through the cracks. Teague hesitated at the couch, but rather than climb back up there, he carted the pillow and blanket closer to the fire. The yellow blaze was dancing-hot, but wouldn't last all night. He figured he could feed it easier through the wee hours if he was already located on the carpet, closer to the hearth.

He used a log from the stack of cut wood to elevate his right leg, and then sank back against the blanket. Just when he thought the setup was perfect and he could doze off, he realized that he couldn't see Daisy's face from that angle—her whole body was in shadow. That wouldn't do, so he had to refix the log and blankets and pillow all over again.

By then he was wasted-tired and getting cranky from the day's various aches and injuries. But he could see her. If a guy had to be miserable, she was the best diversion he could conceivably imagine.

There were dark shadows under those gorgeous eyes. Didn't matter. She'd be striking if she were dead-sick with the flu. She had the bones, the style, the attitude. No one was going to miss noticing Daisy Campbell—at least no guy was, not in this life.

She wasn't, though, even remotely the way she billed herself.

For a woman who complained about being stuck with him—and yelled loudly to the sheriff how desperate she was to get him off her hands—she didn't act remotely thrown about taking responsibility for an injured stranger. In fact, she was taking no-fanfare, no-fuss, damn good care of him. She also acted sassy and snappy, but those hands of hers were gentle and so was the concern in her eyes.

Every contradiction seemed more interesting than the last. For a woman who looked as if French couture was her
raison d'être,
she sure made a feast out of an ordinary cup of potato soup. And although she carried herself as if a ton of servants usually trailed after her, she'd shown a ton of practical common sense about storm survival.

He didn't get it.

He didn't get her.

Something strange was happening here. Really strange. Teague didn't like surprises. He didn't mind being attracted to her—hell, no man had control over that. His you-know-what couldn't tell whether a woman was potentially catastrophic or not. But his brain did.

She'd given him the message loud and clear that she was a rolling stone.

He'd fallen in love with one of those once before. Had no reason to volunteer to be kicked in the head a second time.

Still. There was no harm in just looking at that spectacularly interesting face. It was one of those favorite guy fantasies, being marooned with a beautiful woman with no one else around. It's not as if there were any chance of their getting close. Hell, he couldn't imagine laying a finger on her.

Teague couldn't have closed his eyes, because that howling wind was itching on his nerves, and he hurt in too many places to really rest.

But suddenly his eyes opened. Any man's would. Because out of nowhere there seemed to be an extremely warm, mobile, voluptuous woman plastered against him.

More than his eyes popped up, in fact. It occurred to him that the same woman pressing warm, firm, full breasts against his chest and winding a leg around his hip, was precisely the same one he'd just sworn—seconds before—that he'd never lay a finger on.

“You're awake, Teague? Don't get shook. It's just me.”

Maybe it was pitch-black in the room, give or take the yellow firelight behind the screen, but he fully, fully realized who was wrapped around him.

“We lost power. Since it was already down across the road, it's really amazing we had it this long—especially in this kind of snowstorm. When it's morning and there's more light, I'll go down to the basement, see if I can get the Cunninghams' generator fired up. For right now, though, we're sealed up in this room as tightly as we can be. I know it's cold and getting colder. The fire alone can't keep up with subzero temperatures like this. But if we stay close, combine blankets and body heat, we'll be fine.”

“Okay.”

“We could be snowed in for a couple more days, but there's no way it'll be longer than that before someone comes to rescue you. We've got food and water and firewood. We may be cold, but we'll be able to manage.”

“Okay.”

“Nothing's going to happen to you. I know you're hurt. Being stranded has to feel a lot more unnerving if you're hurt. But I lived in Vermont my whole life. I can do whatever we both need doing. Don't worry.”

“I wasn't worried.”

“I realize this has to be uncomfortable for you—”

In spite of his pounding head and throbbing ankle, he reached over and kissed her. He wasn't trying to shut her up. He didn't give a damn if she talked and kept them both up all night. But he did mind her treating him as if he were a schoolboy who needed nonstop reassurance.

The kiss might have been impulsive, but it still seemed a reasonable, logical way to tactfully let her know he was a man, not a boy.

And that seemed the last reasonable, logical, tactful thought he had for a long time. Seconds. Minutes. Maybe even hours.

She was cold. Heaven knew how long she'd been freezing up in that chair, but her lips were chilled, her hands even more so. The instant his mouth connected with hers, though, she stopped moving altogether. She seemed to even stop breathing. Her eyes popped wide. His were already open, waiting for her. Both of them were suddenly frowning at each other in the shadow of the blankets.

There was a lot to frown about, Teague acknowledged, since they were obviously near-complete strang
ers, and neither expected any problem with intimacy. At least he hadn't, for damn sure—but now he'd tasted her, he had to go back for another kiss.

She tasted like sleepy woman. Thick. Sweet. Her neck had the barest hint of scent. Not perfume exactly, but the echo of something clean and natural and soft…lavender, he thought. A whisk of spring in a night that couldn't have been darker or colder.

And that was the last time either of them had to worry about the cold night. Body heat suddenly exploded between them. They could hardly move under their combined blankets, which was almost funny, since neither suddenly needed any of that blanket heat, anyway.

This wasn't him, wildly kissing her, recklessly running his hands down her lithe, supple body. It couldn't be. He wasn't remotely a wild or impulsive man. He was the kind of man who paid attention to every detail, who did things right and thoroughly. But damn. Right then there were only two of them in a winter wilderness. A caveman who'd drawn his chosen mate under his bed of furs.

If she accidentally kicked his ankle, he'd undoubtedly cry like a baby.

But until then, the caveman thing was taking over his head, his hormones, his pulse. Either that or the taste of her, the touch of her, was acting like an uncontrollable fever. He didn't respond to a woman like this. A few kisses never packed this kind of punch. And sex—the kind of sex that mattered, that pulled out all the stops—only happened between two people who knew each other damn well.

He didn't know her at all.

But it felt as if he did. Maybe his reaction was explainable, two people caught in extraordinary circum
stances, but it felt…she felt…as if no other woman had ever touched him. She made an oomph sound, a groan, when his mouth chased after hers yet another time. Lips teased, trembled together, then parted. Her tongue was already waiting for his.

Her rich, thick hair shivered through his fingers as he cradled her head, holding her securely to take her mouth, to dive for that sweetness again. She was already surfing on that channel. Her arms wound around him, tugged around him, as if she could anchor him to her. Through tons of blankets, tons of clothes, he could still feel her breasts throbbing, heating against his chest. Still feel the tension in her long, slim legs, still feel the chaotic burn, the urgency, of a connection neither wanted to break.

There'd been no one who kissed like her, and Teague sensed, never would be, never could be. Maybe he'd survive without another taste, but he couldn't swear to it.

The fire sizzled and spit.

Dark shadows danced on the walls.

Blankets tangled and fought. His head, his ankle…both hurt. But not like the ache building deep in his groin. This was champagne he'd never tasted, a high he'd never expected. It pulled at him.

She pulled at him.

He didn't believe for a second that she intended to respond this way. Wildly. No inhibitions. Just need, hanging as naked between them as secrets. Longings bursting to the surface because no one thought they'd needed a lock to protect them, not this night, not this way.

She'd been through hell. She'd never said that exactly—but it was there, in her eyes, her touch, that kind
of urgent take-me-take-me-because-I-want-the-hurt-to-go-away. He knew the words to that song. When you were hurt, you wrapped yourself up tight, so the wounds had a chance to heal. You'd have to be crazy to ask for a fresh hurt before the old scars healed up…yet loneliness was always the worst when you'd been hurt. It took you down. Made you doubt whether anyone'd ever be there for you again. Made you worry what was wrong with you, that someone you'd given your best to hadn't loved you enough.

Hell. He not only knew that song. He knew the refrain and every verse. But as he increasingly sensed her vulnerability…he was stuck increasingly sensing his own.

He tore his mouth free from her, tried to gulp in some oxygen, when all he really wanted to do was gulp in her. Now. All night. Forever, and then all over again. “Daisy…”

“I know. This is insane.” She was struggling for oxygen just as he was, looking at him with dazed dark eyes. “But damn. I just wasn't expecting this.”

“Neither was I.”

“Do you always kiss this well, or am I just really fantastic at bringing it out in you?”

“Um, something tells me there's no way I can answer that question without getting my head smacked.”

Gentle fingers lifted to his cheek. “I wouldn't hit you in the head,
cher.
Not when you're already wounded. I wouldn't do anything worse than slug you in the stomach, and that's a promise.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“We're both getting some common sense back, aren't we.”

“Yeah,” he said regretfully.

“I'm up for doing impulsive things. For going with the moment. For living. But maybe…this is just a little too impulsive.”

“I know.” But he still couldn't keep the regret out of his voice. “I never do stupid things.”

“No? Well, heaven knows, I do. I've made so many stupid, impulsive mistakes that really, I could give courses in blundering the wrong way through life. I could teach you how.”

“From you,” he said, “I'd like to learn.”

She chuckled, a seductive whisper from her throat. “How about if I promise, Teague, that sometime during this blizzard…”

He waited to hear the end of her comment. And when she said nothing else he tilted his head so he could easily see her face.

The eyes were shut, little breathy snores sneaking from her damp, parted lips again. She'd fallen asleep. Just like that. Leaving him harder than stone and with an unnamed promise.

He hoped to hell that wasn't an omen.

 

Daisy vaguely heard the cell phone ringing. Jet lag and exhaustion had taken her down so deep she couldn't seem to jolt herself awake. It was cold. Her brain got that right away. It was also daylight, because the unfamiliar room was much lighter than the night before.

Slowly more reality managed to bully itself into her mind, forcing her to seriously wake up. She was at the Cunninghams'. She'd kissed the stranger. She was in the middle of a blizzard. Damn, had she
ever
kissed the stranger. The fire was still going strong, ashes piled deep and glowing, fresh fed fairly recently—by someone who wasn't her. She'd not only kissed the stranger
lying next to her, she'd come on to him like a fresh-freed nun. Her family was all out of town; she was broke as a church mouse; her entire life was in shambles. She seemed to be
still
wrapped around Teague Larson as if they were glued at the hip and pelvis.

And it was his cell phone ringing, demanding someone get up.

She pushed out of the blankets, had the cold air slap at her skin and decided that a girl only needed so much reality.