"I took her out a couple times myself," O'Rourke had admitted. "Andrew and Benjamin made it pretty damned clear they were keeping an eye on me."
Maybe, Clate thought, they'd had good reason. O'Rourke didn't strike him as a man who'd want much more from a woman than what she could provide in bed and in the kitchen. If Clate saw that after only a couple of encounters, Piper's brothers must have seen it after knowing him all their lives.
Still, if the Macintosh men underestimated her capabilities and her self-reliance, this would annoy her, and could explain why she was hesitant about telling too much too soon about her disturbing phone calls.
Clate could understand their impulse to protect her. The spray of freckles, the straight, chestnut hair, the faith in people, the single-minded determination to stand by her crazy aunt, even the kind of work Piper Macintosh did made her seem more vulnerable than perhaps she was.
He flipped over onto his stomach, irritated with himself. It was the middle of the damned night. He should be sleeping, not brooding about his neighbor and her troubles. He was accustomed to being alone. Solitude suited him. As a kid, an only child, the kind of boy other parents didn't necessarily want their own kids playing with, he'd fished, walked in the hills, just sat for hours watching the creek. Only when Irma Bryar had taken him by the ear after he'd been rude to a clerk in the corner store had he begun to make his peace with who he was. He got along all right with people. He just needed his time alone. For a while his place along the river outside Nashville, with his dogs, was enough. But it was harder and harder to keep friends and colleagues away without being rude, and so he'd ended up buying a place on Cape Cod. It was his personal retreat. He wasn't looking to develop it, and he sure as hell hadn't bought it because of some old woman's damned spell on him.
The plain muslin curtains billowed in a sudden breeze. He'd have to pull up a blanket in a minute. He was sleeping nude, as was his custom, even when alone, which had been the case more often than not in the past year. He wondered if old Hannah Frye knew that one.
"Ouch! Damn it?'
He went very still. The voice—a loud whisper more furious than pained—had come from outside, somewhere beneath his window.
He'd bet a nickel it was Piper Macintosh.
In case he was wrong and it was her anonymous caller, he rolled out of bed and stayed low as he crept to his dormered window.
Silhouetted against the starlit background of sky and sea was the distinct figure of a woman. Clate set his jaw. She must have tripped in the dark. She wasn't moving, probably waiting to see if he'd throw on a light and yell out his window. It was tempting.
Instead, he felt his way to the blanket chest at the foot of his bed, found a pair of shorts he'd tossed there, and pulled them on. He groped for a sweatshirt, pulled it on. Late at night, the mosquitoes could be fierce. He even took time to locate his sneakers, in case Piper tried to run off and he had to lay chase.
He hissed in annoyance. "What the hell's she doing this time?"
Not procuring smelly roots for her lunatic aunt, he'd wager. He remembered her scared, wild look that morning on the beach. She'd fought herself over how much to tell him. There was more. Whatever it was would explain why she was out there now.
He slipped through his bedroom door out to the hall, down the steep stairs, not moving with his usual assurance. It was pitch dark, the ground unfamiliar. He half expected to bump into sharp-cornered secretaries, some damned fussy antique table. In Nashville, he had space, light, tall ceilings, tall windows, spare furnishings. Here, everything was cozy, cramped, intimate.
Maybe old Hannah Frye had put a spell on him.
He was through the kitchen, moving fast now. He didn't care if Piper heard him. She wouldn't have time to make her escape.
He tore open the back door, banged open the screen door, and was out in the cool, fragrant night air.
"Oh, damn!"
Her voice, not pleased. There was a clattering sound, then her silhouette streaked down the slope toward the marsh.
Clate jumped after her. "Piper! Hell, woman, don't make me chase you."
She didn't stop to argue. The stars and sliver of a moon provided just enough light for him to make her out as she lurched away from him.
Then she tripped, going down face first, cursing vociferously.
She was still cursing, up on her hands and knees, when Clate caught up with her. She seemed to have on a long, black dress or nightgown that had tripped her up. Without thinking, he grabbed her around the middle and hauled her to her feet.
It was as big a mistake as he'd ever made.