She blew a strand of hair out of her mouth and fastened her eyes, luminous in the near darkness, on him, and he sucked in a breath at what he was thinking, feeling. Every muscle went rigid, as if that could force common sense back into him. He wanted to kiss her, he wanted to scoop her up into his arms and carry her upstairs to his bed.
Her eyes narrowed, and she whispered, "Oh, dear," and he knew they were lost. Her fingers dug into his upper arms. Whether she found his mouth or he found hers, in the next moment he was consumed by the taste of her, the heat of her, the feel of her small, lithe body against his. She responded eagerly, moaning softly. It wasn't instantaneous. It couldn't have been. She must have been thinking, imagining, what could happen if he caught her this time.
With a sharp jolt, Clate realized he wanted nothing more, now, than to sweep her down onto the dew-soaked grass and make love to her until dawn. But Piper had boldly lied to him, snuck onto his property every time he turned his back, and had troubles and distractions that could make her regret what she'd done come morning, no matter how much she wanted him now.
He'd have no regrets, Clate thought with another sharper, deeper jolt, even as he eased back from their kiss. He slid his hands down along her hips, finally noticing her outfit: a high-collared, simple black dress right out of a mourning scene in a John Wayne movie. "What the hell do you have on?"
"One of Hannah's dresses." Her voice wasn't shaky, even if her eyes were shining, fiery with desire. "Actually, she's never worn it. It was one of her first efforts, and she got the size wrong. It fits me okay—"
"Why one of Hannah's dresses?"
"I don't own anything all black."
Matter-of-fact. As if that explained everything. Clate noted, his hands still light on her hips, that she wasn't nervous or intimidated by him, just boldly buying herself time. "This is right up there with bee balm and hummingbirds as far as tall tales go, Piper."
"Hannah also believed the dress would bring me good luck. I figured, why not? But obviously she was wrong." She screwed up her face, frowning at him. "Don't you ever sleep?"
"Uh-uh. You're not blaming me. You're the one in the wrong here. I heard you yell."
"I hit a tree root and banged my shovel against my ankle. And that was a stifled yell, not a full-blown yell. You must have already been awake."
"Why did you run?"
She blinked at him as if she were dealing with a moron.
Clate grinned. "Knew what would happen, did you?"
"You know, for a man who doesn't want any more complications in his life—"
"This wasn't complicated, Piper." He let his hands drop to his sides. "This was damned simple."
"For you maybe," she said under her breath.
"All right. Two questions. One, why would you need to wear black? Two, why would you need luck?"
"Same answer to both." She squared her shoulders and tilted up her chin, and he wondered if she had any idea how beautiful and sexy and ridiculous she looked in her nineteenth-century, ill-fitting black dress. "I didn't want you to catch me. You seem to have this thing about trespassers."
"That's why I had the signs posted."
"I know that, but Hannah—" She gave her head a toss, her hair, straight and thick, had been whipped into tangles by the breeze and her race across his yard. "Hannah insists you posted the signs to draw me over here."
"I'd never even met you when I decided to post my land."
"That wouldn't matter to her."
No, he thought with a resigned sigh, it wouldn't. The woman was an eccentric, her grandniece one in the making. "It's all part of our destiny?"
"I think so."
"Why the shovel?"
She hesitated. "I needed it."
He wasn't letting her off the hook, not this time. "For what?"
Her eyes leveled on him, steady, gleaming in the soft starlight. But she didn't answer him.
"You managed to dig your valerian root the other night with a trowel. What were you planning to dig up tonight, a whole damned tree?"
"Actually, no." Her voice was cool, just a hint of annoyance. "If you really must know, I was digging for buried treasure."
He thought she was being sarcastic and bit off a hiss, but then he saw that she was perfectly serious. Buried treasure. He inhaled sharply. "Hell." It came out as a low growl of exasperation, irritation, resignation.
"Well, I'll just get my shovel and head on home."
"Uh-uh. No way." He pointed toward the Frye house. "Inside."
She looked mystified. "For what?"
He could think of a thousand answers to that one, not one related to buried treasure and the whims of an eighty-seven-year-old. His thoughts must have revealed themselves in his expression, because Piper took a step back, wariness flashing in her eyes, a little thrill. lie saw a wink ol what must have been a while petticoat, and his gut twisted at the image of dispensing with nineteenth-century undergarments as well as a nineteenth-century dress before getting to her trim body.
But he reined himself in and said, "I'll make coffee, and you can tell me about your buried treasure."
"It's not my buried treasure, it's Hannah's."