“Cameron,” she moaned, her breath ragged and shallow, and he imagined that the muscles deep inside her body were clenching tightly, the way they would if he was buried in her. The thought was so arousing, the reality so completely fucking necessary, he groaned, biting her lip, wishing they were in his bed, or hers—or fuck, just anywhere that wasn’t surrounded by people. He tried to pull her closer, but the barrier of the chairs between them wouldn’t allow it, so he forced himself to pull away from her, feeling frustrated and drugged and in deep.
“The cottage,” he panted, staring at her lovely, dazed face.
She nodded, her well-kissed red lips tilting up into a relieved smile. “The cottage.”
He stood up, took her hands, and without a word they left Harrell Reserve behind and made their way as quickly as possible back to The Five Sisters.
***
Margaret’s racing heart slammed against her chest as they half walked, half ran back down the dirt road that separated the two vineyards. This was happening. She and Cameron were going to go back to her cottage, and they were going to . . . going to . . . Oh God, she could barely believe that, after a lifetime of longing, she was finally going to have what she wanted.
He squeezed her hand as they approached the cottage, then stopped and pulled her into his strong arms.
“You’re sure, Meggie?” he asked, his eyes managing to be desperate and restrained at the same time. They seemed to say that, even though it would take a Herculean effort, he would let her go if she said the word.
“I’m crazy about you, Cameron,” she said, smiling as his lips descended on hers, kissing her gently. She felt his relief in the way his hands, which had been fisted on her lower back, unclenched.
He pulled away, smiling at her with such intensity, she was almost blinded by it.
Almost, because she was distracted by something behind him.
The door to her cottage was wide open, and she was sure that after dropping off her box of mementos and grabbing a sweater, she’d pulled it closed and locked it.
“What the . . .?” She wiggled away from Cameron and walked up the path to the door.
“Meggie?”
A pile of shattered glass lay on the threshold. Margaret pulled the door toward her to find that the window on the front of the door had been broken. The offending stone still lay on the ground just inside the door.
Cameron pulled her away from the door. His voice was low and clipped. “Don’t go inside. Get your phone out and stay here. I’ll be right back.”
The heart that had beat with passion and excitement only a few minutes before now beat with fear and anger as Margaret wondered who would have defaced her little home like this.
“Cameron?” she called after a few tense minutes.
“Just coming,” he said, his voice tight and furious.
“Can I come in?”
“Wait a sec, okay?”
When he returned, his face was grim. “No one’s inside. But someone was definitely here.”
She whimpered, placing her hands on her hips and looking up at him. “Why?”
He reached for her. “I don’t know, baby.”
“Can—Can I go in?”
He let her go. “Yeah. I’m right behind you. I just want to call the police, okay?”
“The police?”
“This was breaking and entering. Yeah. Definitely we’re calling the police.”
Cameron took his phone out of his back pocket and dialed 911while Margaret made her way into her cottage.
It had always been her treasured heaven, but now it felt unexpectedly foreign to her. Defiled. Even sinister.
In the snug sitting room all of her books had been knocked from the shelves and left in a heap on the floor. Her eyes filled with tears as she noted her antique coffee table overturned, one of the legs broken. In the kitchen, the flowered china containers that held flour and sugar had been swiped off the counter and lay in pieces, covered in white powder and granules, on the floor.
With tears streaking down her face, she walked back through the sitting room and up the stairs to her bedroom. Unlike the sitting room and kitchen, her bedroom was mostly untouched, except for the rug at the foot of her bed, which was curled up, like someone had slid under the bed, and a sudden chill rocked through her as she wondered if they were still there.
“Cam!” she screamed. “Cameron!”
Within seconds he’d bolted back into the cottage and up the stairs, his eyes huge and focused, his body taut, on high alert.
“What? What happened?”
“Is anyone under the bed?” she asked in a very small voice.
“No, baby,” he said, pulling her into his arms and pressing his lips to her head. “No one’s here but you and me.”
Her tears fell freely then, wetting his shirt—in thanks for his comforting and protective presence, in frustration for the evening they’d missed out on, in anger for whomever had chosen to target her home.
“I’m s-sorry,” she sniffled, resting her forehead against his damp shirt.
His palms cradled her face, lifting it to face him. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m just . . . Who would do this?”
He shook his head, looking terribly sorry and angry. “I don’t know. But I’m sure as hell going to find out. The police will be here in a few minutes.”
“O-okay. You know, I think I want to s-stay in Philadelphia tonight.”
“I was going to insist.” He brushed his lips against her forehead and pulled her back against his chest. “Did you notice anything missing?”