Night Scents (25 page)

She left him to it and headed through her work-in-progress parlor and up the steep stairs in her front vestibule, straight into her bathroom. Every step was an effort. She enjoyed the pretty femininity of her little bathroom with its white fixtures, rose-flowered wallpaper, fluffy, rose-colored towels. She had arranged a small, antique chest with an array of scented candles she'd made herself, tubs of various creams and potions Hannah had pressed upon her, tiny vials of essential oils, a basket of pretty-smelling soaps.

First she peeled off her stockings and tossed them in the trash. Her skirt was next, flung into the wicker laundry basket. Her blue-striped cotton shirt hung to her hips. It was a lost cause, too. The sleeves were soaked, the rear hem damp. She remembered reaching into the water, frantically combing the bottom with both hands, as if one cell phone would turn Cape Cod Bay into a Superfund toxic waste site. If her brothers had ventured by at that particular moment, that would have been that. Off to the loony bin with her. Or under a hot light for further interrogation.

She discarded her shirt in the basket and washed up with rosewater-and-glycerine soap that had never felt and smelled so luxurious, so sweet and comforting. She took her time drying off with a fresh towel, splashed on rosewater toner, then rubbed in some of Hannah's special hand cream, made of an infusion of lady's-manfle and essential oil of geranium.

In her bedroom, she put on clean underwear and, given the fog, was debating between long pants and shorts when she heard footsteps on her stairs.

She went still. "Clate?"

"I've got your tea."

"Great, thanks." But her reaction just to his voice was dramatic, awareness sparking, flaring, before he'd even reached the top of the stairs.

She slipped on her terry bathrobe, just wrapping it tightly around her without tying it as she met him at the door.

Seeing him under the low, slanted ceiling of her upstairs shattered whatever equilibrium she'd succeeded in regaining. And he hadn't touched her. He hadn't even looked at her.

A muscle in his jaw worked as his gaze swept over her quickly and efficiently. He was trying not to capitalize on the situation, she realized. Emotionally, physically, she was exposed, unable to hide anything from herself much less him.

"Here." His voice was husky, the drawl barely detectable. He held out the steaming mug for her to take from him. "Drink up. Hope it helps."

"It won't as much as one of Hannah's teas. I wonder what she'd recommend for a situation such as this." But her attempt at humor faltered, and she cupped the mug in her palms, soaking in its warmth. "Thank you."

"No problem."

He turned to go.

Piper managed a sip of the tea. Ordinary, orange pekoe tea, with a touch of honey.

But it was no use. She couldn't concentrate on tea, on changing clothes, on anything except the man retreating from her bedroom. He was doing the honorable thing, of course. She'd just had a fright, she'd been fishing cell phones out of the bay. Yet she wanted him. She was hot and quivering just with the thought of him staying with her while she dressed.

"Clate, I—"

He glanced back at her, his eyes a smoky blue in the gray light.

She smiled. "Please stay."

He didn't move from the doorway. Although he wasn't over six feet, his head skimmed the frame, which she had carefully sanded and painted a rosy taupe. This was her space. She'd chosen it, worked on it, decorated it. It fit her dimensions, her tastes, her varying moods. Yet somehow—she couldn't describe how—his presence wasn't jarring.

"Unless," she went on, still smiling, "you want to get back to your tea."

"Not hardly." His laughter didn't quite reach his eyes. He was holding back, playing the Southern gentleman, and the effort it required—the restraint—crackled in the air between them. He moved toward her, and when she still didn't send him back downstairs, didn't change her mind now that he was there, close enough to touch, he took her mug from her hands and set it on her dresser. "Hot tea doesn't do anything for me right now."

He came back to her, slid his arms around her, inside her bathrobe, his palms settling on the small of her back, on her bare skin.

"I'm not cold anymore," she said, the slightest quaver in her voice. She hoped he didn't mistake it for nervousness. Because she wasn't nervous. Shaky with want and anticipation, yes. But not nervous.

He smoothed his palms over her hips, downward to her thighs, where her skin was still cool from her dash into the bay. "You're cool here." His eyes darkened. "Cool and still a little damp."

His palms slipped around to the fronts of her thighs, until finally she gripped his upper arms, desire like hot pin prickles all over her. He didn't stop, but moved up her thighs, inward, excruciatingly slowly, until she was throbbing, aching just with the thought of those hands. She dropped her head against his chest as he slid one hand between her thighs, not moving any faster. One finger drew back her underpants, slipped inside to where she was decidedly hot and damp.

"Don't stop," she moaned half to herself. "Don't ever stop."

She could feel his erection hard between them, knew he had no intention of stopping unless she said so, and that knowledge—that certainty—only added to her sense of urgency.

His mouth found hers, his tongue spearing inside her with the same fierceness she felt. Her breasts swelled inside her bra. And all the while his hand moved slowly, with delicious agony, probing, circling, teasing out every emotion, every sensual urge she had.

Suddenly, he lifted her, carried her to the bed, and laid her down. Her bathrobe fell off in the process. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, unclasping her bra, exposing her breasts to his gaze, his palms, his mouth. His hands moved lower, as he cast off her underpants. When she was right on the edge, he quickly pulled off his own clothes, and it was all she could do not to gasp and stare at his hard body. Small scars she hadn't seen before scored one shoulder and upper thigh, only adding to his air of rough masculinity. Yet he had brought her tea. He would, now, leave if she changed her mind.

But she had no desire to change her mind. No intention.

"I have protection," she said. "In the drawer." At his amused look, she added, unembarrassed, "You know us Yankees. We like to be prepared for anything." She had her evacuation plan for the next Category 5 hurricane, too, which of late she'd thought was more likely than finding a man she'd want to make love with. "I'm not sure about the expiration date, though."

As he reached over to her nightstand, she ran her fingers down his hips, curved inward, and skimmed his huge erection, exulting in the feel of him. Even when Hannah had been casting out into the universe for a man for her niece, Piper hadn't in her wildest fantasies come up with any who thrilled her more than this one.

"Date's good." He eased back to her, grinned. "Not that I'm ever unprepared."

"You mean you—"

"In my wallet. Always." He winked, settled his palm over her stomach. "Just in case an old Yankee witch summons me to the woman of my dreams."

His words, his sexy drawl, the gleam in his eyes were enough to rekindle her earlier sense of urgency. Then he added more fuel by easing his firm, naked body onto her, letting her touch, taste, explore, until finally he drew her hands from him and raised up off her, gazing into her eyes. "I want to love you, Piper." His drawl was husky, his body rigid, a hint of the control that he was exercising.

She nodded, unable lo speak herself, feeling breathless, already spent. Yet when he dealt with protection and came to her again, fresh energy surged through her. She guided him to the hot, wet entry, gasped when he thrust into her, gently at first, through the tightness, letting her get used to the feel of him, the size of him. Then he thrust harder, faster. She shut her eyes and concentrated on the slick, hard feel of him inside her as she went still one moment, arched up to meet his thrust the next.

But concentration, experimentation, even real consciousness quickly became impossible. Her world was spinning, sparking, shimmering. Nothing mattered but
now,
this moment.

She thought he called her name. She knew she called his. And it seemed so right, so perfect.
Clate.
It was as if she'd been waiting her entire life to cry out that name.

Slowly, she became aware of the fog settling in over the marsh. The tiny house, the low, slanted ceilings, the isolation of their little spit of land. They might as well have been alone in the universe.

Stretched out beside her, Clate touched her hair. "You're wondering if your aunt's not a witch after all."

"Does it matter?"

He smiled. "Not to me."

"This wasn't—I didn't—" She grimaced, unable to find the right words.

From her hair, his fingers moved down her cheek, touched her mouth lightly. "It's okay, sweetheart. We don't have to talk now. You don't have to think."

"Whatever I feel for you, / feel. It's not Hannah's doing. It's my own." She grinned suddenly, skimmed a knuckle across the scar on his jaw. "I won't have her taking the blame for you."

"Piper, whatever happens between us, happens. No one gets the credit or takes the blame."

"You don't know my brothers," she said dryly, only half seriously.

He laughed. "Maybe it's a good thing I live a thousand miles away."

"And have a house with a high fence and big dogs."

"Not that you've ever let your brothers intimidate you."

"Never. But they've totally intimidated most of the men on Cape Cod."

He grinned, kissed her softly, and whispered, "Then I say good for your brothers."

Chapter 12

While Piper showered and drank a fresh cup of tea Clate had brought her, he ventured out into her herb garden. Fog had descended over the bay and was fast encroaching on the marsh, distorting sounds, heightening the senses. Everything seemed closer, saltier, cooler, damper. He noted purple and yellow blossoms among Piper's herbs, recognized chives, parsley, maybe basil, not much else.

He sipped on his mug of tea. He didn't want it, but he'd poured it anyway. Gave him something to do. Helped stop him from charging upstairs and into the shower with Piper, soaping her up, making love to her again. But her life was already in enough of a turmoil without adding him to the boiling cauldron.

He could still feel her body against his, his body inside her. The soft, smooth skin, the firm muscles, the fragrant hair.

A sip of tea. Helped unclench the jaw, it did.

"Hell," he muttered.

He needed to be straightforward with her. That was a point of honor with him. He did not delude women in order to keep them in his bed. He never made promises he had no intention of keeping.

But Piper had asked no promises of him, and he'd made none. If he tried to be straightforward with her now, he didn't know what the hell he'd say because he didn't know what the hell he wanted.

As satisfying as the prospect of more good, rousing sex with her was, it left him feeling limited, even diminished. What Piper wanted from him, what she gave to him, was up to her. That wasn't what was eating at him. It was that he didn't know what he wanted from himself.