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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
    T he 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—inthe 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 marriageand 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