A romantic interest. How innocent that sounded. She remembered aching spirals of need as they groped, tore, pounded, made love last night, until they were panting and slick and almost bruised. She'd held nothing back. Neither, she felt, had he.
No, nothing at all, she thought dryly as her muffin popped. Had he guessed her relative inexperience? Had he deliberately unleashed every last inhibition she had? Even now, with the morning light slanting through her windows, she quivered with anticipation at the mere thought of him walking into her kitchen.
"Get a grip," she murmured. "Liddy will be here soon."
Yet she knew she'd never get enough of him. A dangerous thought, that. Even as they'd whispered to each other in the dark, she'd sensed that Clate Jackson was a solitary, skeptical, difficult man, never mind that last night he'd wanted her every bit as much as she'd wanted him. In fact, she'd tried to suggest he sleep on the parlor couch. He'd laughed, sauntered across the room, trailed one finger slowly, torturously across her lower lip, and had asked her if she expected him to stay on the couch.
"Do you always do what's expected of you?" she'd asked.
"Almost never." His eyes had seemed more black than blue. "Except tonight. Tonight's your call."
And she'd made it. "Not the couch, then."
With a shaking hand, she slathered peanut butter and her homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam on the halves of her muffin. She wasn't a bit fatigued. Treasure digging and lovemaking half the night had led to the sleep of the dead. She felt unreasonably refreshed, her muscles loose, just a touch of soreness where soreness was not a problem.
He materialized in her kitchen, smiled a good morning as he took down a mug and poured himself coffee. Then he saw she had none, and he poured her a mug. It was the sort of thoughtful, intimate gesture that fired the imagination. Yet Piper had no illusions. This man wanted entirely different things out of life than she did. Sex to him was easy, casual, done without much consideration of the past or the future, even if proper physical precautions were observed. He enjoyed sex. Absolutely no question there. He'd fallen on her with a hunger and need that were unmistakable, dizzying. But his lovemaking was rooted in the present only and didn't mean anything.
The point was, she'd be a fool to fall in love with a man like Clate Jackson, to demand from him—or herself—what neither could give, or could give up. Enjoy what he had to offer, she warned herself, and leave the rest to fate.
Which would undoubtedly please Hannah no end.
Thought of her aunt sobered Piper. She straightened, thanked Clate for the coffee, and offered him an English muffin. He shook his head. "Coffee first." His eyes had turned to slits as he studied her. "Piper, last night—"
"We don't need to talk about last night." A quick thought jarred. "Do you have regrets?"
He smiled. "Only that it had to begin with two hours of digging. I can think of several ways we could have spent that time."
A shudder of pleasure ran through her, just imagining the possibilities.
He seemed to read her mind. "And I'm the rogue."
"You are, for stirring me up that way."
It hadn't exactly left him unstirred, she noted. But he laughed and moved off to the terrace, giving her his back. "I'll take my coffee and clear out before your sister-in-law arrives. Give my best to Hannah. I trust that whatever you two are cooking up now, you won't let it get out of hand."
And that was the first time that morning that Piper remembered the poison. She'd searched Hannah's townhouse kitchen the night before—and found nothing incriminating. No extra jug of springwater. No old jug of springwater. Either Hannah had tossed them out and forgotten, her father had collected them for refills, or someone had stolen them.
Piper had checked the entire kitchen while she was at it. No decoctions, tinctures, or teas that were anything out of the ordinary for Hannah's pantry and refrigerator.
Before she talked to anyone else about the missing water jugs, Piper wanted to talk to Hannah. Maybe she'd want to change her poison story or abandon it altogether now that she was feeling better and could admit she'd passed out for possibly no reason at all beyond the infirmities that came with advancing years.
Liddy Macintosh arrived well after Clate had slipped back through the hedges. But Piper's sister-in-law had a nose for romance, or perhaps just a lot of common sense. "I can't believe you'd spend the night out here alone with some sicko calling you. I can't believe Andrew and Benjamin let you."
"They told you everything?"
"Benjamin was up half the night ranting and raving. Of course he told me. I think the more he thought about it, the less he liked it."
"It referring to—"
"These phone calls, first of all. Hannah's behavior secondly. Yours thirdly."
"Mine?"
Liddy laughed. "You know, I take your side a lot. Benjamin and Andrew do treat you as if you're twelve half the time, even if they know better. But I think sometimes that's easier for you. Having two older brothers to call upon when the going gets tough helps to keep the going from getting tough. If you know what I mean."