Sweet Enemy (3 page)

She dropped her eyes to his chest, and suddenly he released her,
moving away to light a cigarette with long, steady fingers.

She rubbed her chafed arms. "If…if you want those records
typed today, I'd better get back to the house," she said, turning
toward the bank. "And," she threw over her shoulder as she bent to
wipe her wet feet with a handkerchief, "you owe me a package of
bobby pins."

She felt his eyes running over her as she pulled on her
boots.

"Leave it down, Irish," he said carelessly, his eyes never
leaving her as she got up and untied Melody's reins. "I won't make
any more remarks about it, but leave it loose."

She gaped at him, puzzled at the anger in his deep voice-anger
that was meant more for himself than for her. With a shrug, she mounted and rode away without a backward glance.

He stood and watched her until she was out of sight, his eyes
narrowed against the sun, his face thoughtful and solemn.

Emma only set two places at the supper table, noting Maggie's
puzzled glance with a smile.

"Clint's got a date," she explained, leaving Maggie to put the
silverware at the places while she went out to the kitchen to bring
the food in.

A pain like being shot went through Maggie's slender body, and
she wondered at it. For all that her pride had been crushed by Philip, her heart had never been touched by any
man-except one. She hated the rush of feeling, the green surge of
jealousy that thinking about Clint and a woman, any woman, could
cause. It had always been that way, always. And she managed to keep
it hidden because of what he'd already done to her stubborn spirit.
But it was still there, inside, glowing and sweetly burning like a
candle no amount of wind could blow out. And she hated Clint for
causing it.

He came in from the feedlot just as Emma and Maggie were
finishing up the dishes, and to avoid him, Maggie retreated to the
front porch and glued her lean body onto the porch swing. It was
warm and sweet-fragranced, that long porch in the darkness. In her
childhood, she had sat in it while the thunder shuddered around
her, feeling the misty whip of rain in her face while she closed
her eyes and heard the soothing squeak of the swing in motion.

The sudden blinding glare of the porch light brought a surprised gasp from her lips; she sat stark
upright as Clint came into view.

It was always a shock to see him in a beige linen suit and coral
silk tie, the white of his shirt bringing out his swarthy
complexion, his dark hair. He could have passed for a very
masculine model, sophistication clinging to his tall,
muscular body like the spicy cologne he favored.

His eyes were a dark green as they swept over her blue-jeaned
figure, rigid in the porch swing. He eyed her through a small gray
cloud of cigarette smoke, moving closer like some big,
graceful cat.

"Hiding, Irish?" he asked quietly.

She dragged her eyes down to his broad chest. "I felt like some
air."

One dark eyebrow went up. "You fell out of that swing on your
head once," he recalled. "You and Janna were using it for a rocking
horse, and you went head over heels."

Her fingers touched the dark green wooden frame and the cold metal chain gently. "You like to
remind me of the unpleasant things, don't you?" she asked
carelessly.

"Would you rather be reminded of that day by the corral when you
did everything but go down on your knees and beg me to make love to
you?" he asked mockingly, a harsh note in his voice that cut as
much as the humiliating words.

Her eyes closed at that memory, at the pain of it. There was a
streak of cruelty in him, she thought miserably; there had to be or
he wouldn't enjoy taunting her like this. She got out of the swing,
still avoiding his eyes, and started past him.

One lean, steely hand shot out like a bullet and caught her arm
roughly, hauling her up against him as easily as if she'd been a
child.

"No comeback, Irish?" he growled. "Where's that hot temper
now?"

She couldn't find it. Her body trembled in his grasp, and she couldn't even fight him.

With a gesture that was barely short of violence, he threw his
unfinished cigarette off the porch and caught her by both
shoulders, his fingers hurting, his green eyes blazing down into
hers.

"Let me go!" she burst out, panic sweeping through her because
of the new sensations he was causing her to feel as he bruised her
body against him.

"Why?" he asked shortly. Her full mouth trembled as she
searched for the words that would free her.
"You're…hurting me," she managed.

"Where?" he murmured, and his eyes began to sketch her small,
flushed face like an artist's brush.

"My…my shoulders," she stammered.

His crushing hold loosened, became warm and sensuously caressing, his fingers burning her through the thin cotton blouse.

"Does this hurt?" he asked gently.

She couldn't get the words out. He was burning her alive with that slow, tenderly soothing touch,
making her heart dance, making her lungs feel collapsed. Her small
hands went to the silky shirt, pushing halfheartedly against
the warm, unyielding muscles of his broad chest.

Soft, deep laughter brushed her ears. "Can't you talk to me,
little Maggie?" he whispered deeply. His hands left her shoulders
to cup her face and hold it up to his eyes. The warm strength in
them drained her of protest, the tang of his cologne was
permeating her senses. Her fingers, where they pressed
against him, were so cold they felt numb. And still she couldn't
move, couldn't look away from the mocking gaze that had her
hypnotized, trapped.

His eyes dropped to her soft young mouth, and one thumb came up
to brush across it like a whisper. "I could break your mouth open
under mine like a ripe melon right now," he murmured
sensuously, "and you wouldn't lift a finger to stop me, would you, Irish? You're still mine to take, any damned
time I want you!"

With a sob of exquisite shame, she broke free of him, catching
him off guard, and she ran every step of the way back into the
house, ignoring Emma's stunned queries as she took the steps
two at a time.

All the long night she lay awake, staring at the dark ceiling,
planning a way, any way, out of this nightmare. Even going back to
her old job, seeing Philip again, didn't hold the terror that
staying here did. She had to get away. She had to!

She climbed out of bed and into her clothes numbly as the sun
began to climb out of the early morning clouds. She packed before
she went downstairs, her mind made up, her eyes red and
dark-shadowed from lack of sleep. She'd have breakfast and explain
to Emma, then she'd get a cab to the bus station, and Clint would
never…

He was still at the breakfast table, where he normally wouldn't have been at this hour of the morning. His
own eyes looked as if he hadn't slept, and she wondered bitterly
what time he'd come home, reasoning she must have dozed off
eventually because she never heard him come in.

"I'll get you some coffee, honey," Emma said quietly, patting
her on the shoulder as she passed toward the kitchen.

She made a big production of unfolding her linen napkin and
smoothing it on her lap, of studying the tablecloth, of doing
everything but meeting the watchful gaze across from her.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked finally, his voice deep
and slow and bitter.

"Oh, I…I slept fine, thanks," she managed.

"Like hell," he scoffed.

"Shouldn't you be out with the cattle?" she asked.

"Not until you convince me that you're not going to be on the
first northbound bus," he said flatly.

That brought her eyes jerking up to meet the question in his,
and he had all the answer he needed.

"I thought so," he said, leaning back in his chair to study her
through narrowed eyes. "Running never solved anything, Maggie."

She glared at him, feeling something break inside her. "I need
your advice like a hole in the head," she snapped, her face
wounded. "What are you trying to do to me, Clint? Wasn't what
Philip did to me enough without you trying to shatter the few
pieces of me he left intact? Why do you enjoy hurting me?"

"Don't you know, honey?" he asked in a dangerously quiet
tone.

It was the stranger's face again, not Clint's, and she stared at
him curiously. "I…I don't think I know you at all
sometimes," she said involuntarily.

"You don't." He gulped down the remainder of his coffee
and lit a cigarette. "You're wallowing in self-pity, Irish, or didn't you realize it? Poor little girl, betrayed by her
fiance, left alone at the altar… well, I'm fresh out of
sympathy. He was a damned two-timing cheat, and you're well rid of
him. All he hurt was your pride, little icicle," he said
ruthlessly. "You wouldn't recognize love if it came up and sat on
your foot."

"I suppose you would, being such an expert!" she flashed.

His eyes glinted at her over a mocking smile. "That's more like
it," he chuckled.

She frowned. "What?"

He rose, pausing by her chair on his way out, one long arm
sliding in front of her as he leaned down. "I told you before,
baby," he murmured at her ear, "I like it when you fight me. That's
the easiest way to tell that you aren't trying to bury your head in
the past."

She flushed, suddenly understanding- or, almost
understanding-his behavior last night.

"I
don't want to spend the whole two weeks fighting you,"
she grumbled.

His fingers caught her chin and raised her eyes to his. All the
levity was gone from his hard, dark face now. "Why don't you get
Emma to pack us a picnic lunch?" he asked softly, "and bring it
down to the feedlot around noon. We'll go down by the river and
eat."

"B…but, the sale; all those invitations, and the…the
publicity…?" she stammered.

One long finger traced the soft curve of her mouth in a silence
that made her unsteady breathing audible. "I'll lay you down
under that gnarled old oak," he whispered deeply, holding her eyes,
"and teach you all the things Philip should have had the patience
to teach you."

She blushed furiously and tore her eyes away. "I…I really
don't need any lessons, thank you," she said shortly. She jerked
away from his lean hand. "Once burned, twice shy, Clint. You won't bring me to my knees again, not
ever!"

He didn't seem to be fazed by her passionate outburst. He
only smiled. "Won't I? Don't underestimate me, honey."

"I learned early not to underestimate the enemy," she
replied.

He went out laughing just as Emma returned with the coffee
and a plate of eggs, bacon, and fresh biscuits. "Now, what's got
into him?" she asked curiously.

"The devil," Maggie said tightly.

Maggie was just finishing an advertisement on the sale for
the local weekly paper when she heard a sudden loud pounding at the
front door, and Emma's quick footsteps going to answer it.
There was the snap as the door opened, and a sudden jubilant
cry from Emma, and then two voices mingling, Emma's excited one and
a laughing, pleasant male one.

"Maggie! Come here!" Emma called Puzzled at the commotion,
Maggie stuck her head around the door and found her eyes held by a pair
of dark blue ones in a deeply tanned face outlined by thick blond
hair.

"Well, hush my mouth, if it isn't the girl I swore undying love
to on the stage in our sixth-grade play!" Brent Halmon grinned, his
eyes sparkling at her from the hall.

"Hi, Sir Got-A-Lott, where's your hawse?!" she laughed back.

He threw open the door and swung her up in his lean arms,
planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. "By gosh, you've grown,
Maggie!" he teased, giving her a lengthy appraisal as he set her
back on her feet. "Did you really get this pretty in just four
years?"

"This isn't my real face, you know," she whispered
sotto
voce.
"It's the mask I wear so my green warts won't show!"

"Still got 'em, huh?" he said in mock resignation, shaking his
head. "I warned you about kissing those frogs, didn't I?"

"You two!" Emma laughed, eyeing them. "Always into mischief of
some sort or other. You gave Clint gray hairs when you were
kids."

"Speaking of old Heavy Hand, where is he?" Brent grinned.

"Out putting diapers on his baby cows," Maggie told him. "And
ribbons on their mamas, and evening jackets on their daddies.
There's a sale day coming up next week."

"I know," Brent told her, "that's why I came. I've got my eye on
that prize Hereford bull of Cousin Clint's."

"Speaking of mammoth ranches," Maggie said, "how is
Mississippi?"

"Green and beautiful. Why don't you ever come to visit me?"

She shrugged. "Work. As a matter of fact, I'm Clint's temporary
secretary for the next couple of weeks. That's why I'm here."

He nodded. "I heard about Lida taking a powder on him," Brent
said with a harsh sigh. "It was no less than I expected. I thought Clint of all
people would have more sense…"

"And I think everyone's got the wrong idea," Emma said quietly.
"Clint wasn't in love with Lida. He wasn't thinking of marriage,
either. He's a normal, healthy man, and she was a sophisticated
woman who knew the score. And that's enough about it. Come on,
Brent, I'll show you up. Clint will be so surprised…!"

"See you in a few minutes, Mag," Brent called over Emma's bright
conversation.

Brent was changing for supper when Clint came in, dusty and
tired and in a gruff temper. His eyes narrowed as they settled on
Maggie, finishing one last letter at her desk.

"Weren't you hungry?" he asked without preamble.

She stared at him blankly. "Hungry?"

"At dinner," he said flatly.

She remembered what he'd told her at breakfast and began to bloom with color. "You were joking…"
she said weakly.

"The hell I was," he shot back, his eyes narrow,
threatening.

She opened her mouth to speak just as Brent came in the door and
clapped Clint on the back.

"Hi, Cousin!" he said cheerfully as Clint wheeled, stunned, to
face him. "Surprise, surprise!"

"My God, what are you doing here?" Clint asked irritably.

"I came for the sale," was the imperturbable reply. "You
did invite me," he reminded the older man.

"For the sale, not the summer!" Brent's eyebrows went up, but he
cheerfully ignored Clint's ill humor. "Bull gore you or
something?" he asked pleasantly, studying the taller man's dusty
clothes for sign of blood.

Maggie stifled a giggle, but not before Clint shot a narrow
glance her way and saw her face.

"Oh, you're home!" Emma smiled at Clint from the
doorway. "Just look who's here. Isn't it nice to have Brent back
again?"

"Enchanting," Clint agreed. "Pardon me while I go upstairs and
put a gun to my temple in honor of the occasion."