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 it’s 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. Didn’t 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 Pete’s sake, could you lay off the doorbell? I can’t 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 weren’t 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 wasn’t a kitchen where jaguars prowled. After the divorce, she’d 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.
She’d made it hers. Not that her mom hadn’t had wonderful decorating taste, but she’d 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; she’d 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 fine…except that she heard the hurried, heavy clump of boots in her hall, coming toward the kitchen, at the same time she heard the jaguar’s voice doing that “Allo, allo” thing again.
She didn’t 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 wouldn’t call out a greeting before barging in. Still, she didn’t know anyone who said “allo” instead of “hi” or “hello.” It wasn’t the odd accent that rustled her nerves but something else. There was something…spicy…about 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 wasn’t 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, what’s 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. “I’m not just hurt. I’m in agonizing pain. And I always tell myself that I should stockpile pain pills and narcotics, only damn, I never take any. I don’t suppose you carry any morphine on you?”
“Um, no.”
“I suppose you think it’s crazy, my talking this way to a stranger. But if you’re going to rob me, just do it. Feel free. I don’t 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 they’d even been introduced yet.
She gulped.
Close up, the guy could have sent any woman’s 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 he’d been outside in the hot breeze for hours. She couldn’t 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?”
“Hey. It’s not just a sting. You didn’t see the bee. It was huge. Bigger than a horse. Practically bigger than an elephant. And it—”
“Are you allergic to bee stings?”
“No. Good grief, no. I’m not allergic to anything. I’m totally healthy. But I’m telling you, this was a big bee. And I think the stinger’s still in there.”
“Yeah, I can see it is.” Again he lifted his head. Again she felt those amused blue eyes pounce on her face, and caught a better look at him. That shag of blond hair framed a long-boned face that looked carved by a French sculptor.
If she wasn’t dying from misery, she might have let a shiver sneak up her spine. One look—and no matter how soggy her mind was from the pain—she was absolutely positive this guy wouldn’t normally be running around White Hills, Vermont…or any other back-country town.
“For the record,” she said, “you’re lost.”
“You think?” He shifted behind her, opened the cabinet and promptly hefted down her first-aid box. Well,
