Sweet Enemy (5 page)

"Clint, I am sorry about the bubble bath," she said, "but it did
look so pretty…"

He tweaked a long strand of her hair. "Brent's a bad influence
on you. And from now on keep your little hands off my jeep."

"Yes, Clint."

"So meek!" he drawled. His eyes dropped to her mouth and
lingered there for a long time. Abruptly he caught her tiny waist
with both hands and jerked her up against him, holding her so
tightly that she cried out involuntarily.

"You beast, will you let me go?" she gasped angrily.

His breath was warm at her temple. "It's dangerous to stop
fighting me, Irish," he murmured in a stranger's husky voice. "I'm
a man, not a boy like Brent, and I'm not used to limits of any
kind. Are you too innocent to understand that, or do you want me to
spell it out?"

She felt the lean, hard body against hers go taut as his hands
put her away, and she moved to pick up the sheets of paper and pen
that had fallen to the floor.

"I seem to remember your telling me that I didn't…appeal to
you
that
way," she said through tight lips, avoiding his
watchful gaze.

There was a long, static silence between them. "Do you have a
list for Shorty?" he asked after a while, and she heard the click
of his lighter just before a cloud of smoke drifted around her.
"He'll need to get those supplies today so that he can start
cooking early in the morning."

"I've just about finished it," she replied, sitting back
down. "I thought I'd have him get some paper tablecloths and plates and napkins, too,
and plastic utensils."

"Thrifty little soul, aren't you?" he asked gruffly. "Am I
supposed to be impressed?"

"The only thing that might impress you," she returned hotly, "is
a steam roller!"

"More depressing than impressing, surely," he said with a flash
of a grin.

She drew a hard sigh. "You are without doubt, the most maddening
human being…!"

"With your hair loose like that," he murmured, "and your eyes
like green buds in early spring, you're pretty maddening yourself,
honey. Just make sure you don't fling any of that sweet magic in
Brent's direction. I'd hate like hell to have to throw him off the
property."

"What I do with Brent…!" she began.

"…Is
my
business as long as you're on
my
ranch,"
he said flatly, his eyes daring her to argue about it. "Don't make the mistake of
underestimating him, either. He's a man, and the kind of teasing
you do with him can be just as inviting as a come-on."

Her mouth flew open. "Clint, for heaven's sake, I've played at
words with him all my life!"

"And while you were still eight, and he was ten, it was safe."
His dark green eyes swept over her lithe figure in the soft tan
blouse and slacks. "Baby, you're a hell of a long way past your
eighth birthday. Don't tempt fate."

"How strange that you should be warning me about Brent,"
she flung at him, "when just the other day he was warning me about
you!"

One eyebrow went up and she could see the mischief sparkling in
his eyes. "What did he say?" he asked.

Her mouth opened to say the words just as she realized what they
were and shut it again. Her face burned like fire.

He laughed softly. "Well?" he prodded. "You know I'm not going
to let that drop until you tell me. What did he say,
Maggie?"

She shifted uneasily. "He said you were a force to behold," she
said finally.

"And what else?"

"That was…all," she faltered. He studied her for a long time,
idly drawing on the cigarette. "I think I can guess," he mused.
"And he's right, up to a point. I can have damned near any woman I
want. But, Maggie," he added, his voice soft now, "I don't rob
cradles." She kept her eyes down, inclined to argue, but too
smart to open that can of worms. "How soon do you need this
list?"

"In an hour. I've got to send Shorty into town anyway for some
wire I ordered. Since mother's not going to be back for two or
three more months," he added, "you'll have to act as hostess."

"Can't Emma…?"

"Honey, there's nothing like a pretty, sexy woman to keep buyers
happy," he taunted.

The open glare she shot up at him was as potent as words. "I
will not be used as a…!"

He leaned down, his warm breath mingling with hers,
stopping the tirade effectively just by moving close. His
eyes burned deep into hers. "Twelve years," he murmured, "and you
still can't tell when I'm teasing and when I'm not. I don't
intend using you as bait. And if any man lays a finger on
you, I'll break both his arms. Satisfied?"

Her eyes widened, her whole expression puzzled. "Clint, why do
you…?"

His finger tapped her nose lightly. "Finish your list. I'm
up to my neck in work."

He turned abruptly and left her staring after him.

Sale day came all too soon the next morning as the buyers
started arriving by car and plane. In no time at all, the lush grounds were covered
with them. Shorty was trying to be ten places at once, busy with
roasting huge carcasses for barbecue, stirring baked beans, making
rolls-Maggie volunteered to help, but he wouldn't hear of it,
gesturing angrily at her flowing white dress and demanding to know
how she'd ever get grease spots out. She left him to do it with a
smile and a wink. Seconds later, Emma barged in with her
apron already spotted and stained, and started watching the beans.
Shorty almost fell on her shoulder and kissed her.

Maggie supervised the temporary help, getting tables set up,
coffee urns arranged, tea made and tubs brought in for soft drinks
and beer. She remembered sale days in her childhood, when Mrs.
Raygen had made this seem so easy. It was anything but.

Unconsciously, she searched the nearby stalls for Clint and
found him with her eyes. A tall, slender, beautiful blond woman held onto him while he talked cattle with an elderly
man beside her. There was something so familiar about the woman;
she searched her memory and came up with a name. Sarah Mede. Little
Sarah, who'd grown into a siren, and was chasing Clint as
wholeheartedly as Maggie ever had at the precocious age of nine.
Maggie sighed wearily. Janna had said something about Sarah and her
father being on vacation in Europe. Apparently they were
back, and she didn't need to ask who Clint had been dating
recently. That possessive little jeweled hand said it
all.

She turned back to her chores, wishing with all her heart that
Brent could have made it back in time to give her some moral
support. She felt as if she'd never needed it more. If only she'd
never come!

"Well, hello," came a smooth masculine voice from behind
and she turned to find a fortyish, rather attractive man in a
rust-colored leisure suit standing behind her.

She smiled automatically. "Hello. Here for the sale?" she
asked.

He smiled down at her. "That's why I came," he drawled with a
laugh in his voice. "But I hear Clint's cousin already put in a bid
for Bighorn. I sure had my heart set on that old Hereford
bull."

"Sorry," she said with a smile. "But Brent did, too."

"You one of the family?"

She shook her head. "I'm Clint's temporary secretary. But
I grew up just a few minutes north of here. I've known Clint and
Janna and Brent most of my life."

"I hate to be pushy, but do you think I could get a cup of
coffee while we wait on that barbecue?" he asked. "I flew out of
Austin without breakfast, or coffee, or a kind word from my
housekeeper, and I'm just about dry."

"There's beer if you'd rather," she said, thinking he looked
more like a beer man than a coffee one.

He grinned, making extra lines in his swarthy face. "Can't stomach the stuff," he said with quiet
honesty. "Although I will admit to a taste for aged Scotch. But
right now all I want is coffee."

"Then, that's what you'll get, Mister…?"

"Masterson," he replied. "Duke Mas-terson. You?"

"Maggie Kirk."

"Just Maggie?" he probed.

She shrugged. "Well, actually, it's Mar-garetta Leigh," she told
him, "but nobody ever calls me that."

"Why not?" he asked gently. "I think it's lovely."

She felt very young under those quiet, dark eyes, and out of her
depth. "Let's see about that coffee."

He was a cattleman, as she guessed, with a large ranch near
Austin as well as real estate and oil holdings. He was also an
attractive man, with a charm that put her immediately at ease.

"I've been overseas for a month or so."

he told her over a cup of steaming black coffee. "In
Greece."

The question was out before she realized it. "Did you go
to see Pompeü?"

It seemed to startle him. "Why, yes, I did. And Troy, and the
Acropolis." He leaned forward. "Don't tell me you're an archaeology
nut."

"I spent my childhood climbing over Indian mounds, and I read
everything I can lay my hands on about new digs," she
admitted.

"By God," he whispered. "Sounds like me. I used to follow my
father down the rows as he plowed and pick up arrowheads, and
pieces of pottery. I spend as much time as I can…"

"Tired, Masterson?" came a quiet, deep voice from just behind
Maggie.

Masterson chuckled. "Beat, Clint," he admitted. "I got two hours
of sleep last night and flew out without breakfast or even a cup of
instant coffee. Margaretta took pity on me."

Clint moved into view with Sarah Mede still attached to his arm.
He looked down at Maggie with strange, probing eyes. "Margaretta?"
he murmured curiously.

Maggie bristled. "
It
is my name."

"And a very pretty one," Masterson added, sipping his coffee.
"Clint, how about letting me borrow her for the evening? Just
long enough for company at the supper table, at least."

The question seemed to surprise Clint as much as it did
Maggie.

"I'd love to!" Maggie said without thinking. "We can talk some
more about archaeology!"

"Archaeology?" Clint burst out, his eyes narrow and darkening.
"What the hell do you know about that?"

She glared at him. "Quite a lot, in fact. I had two courses in
it at University, and I spent two months on a dig just last
year!"

"I don't see what you're so upset about, Clint, honey," Sarah
murmured softly, and smiled at Maggie. "It isn't often that two people find something
like that in common. And so quickly, too. Well, as you and I
both like country-western music, Clint," she explained.

"I'll take care of her," Masterson told Clint, and something in
his eyes seemed to convince the younger man. "I think you know me
well enough, don't you?"

"I do," Clint said finally, his voice deep and quiet. "And you
can take that as a compliment. There aren't many men I could say
that about."

"What is this?" Maggie grumbled, glaring at Clint. "I'm a grown
woman. I don't need a watchdog!"

"Grown," Clint scoffed. "Twenty, and you've got all the answers,
is that it?"

"But, Clint," Sarah cooed, "I'm just twenty-one, and you never
fuss about me…"

"Shut up, Sarah," he said flatly.

"You'd never say that to me," Maggie told him. "I'd flatten you
like a…!"

"Go to hell, Maggie," Clint said with a hellish smile, and
turning, drew Sarah along with him. "Get her home by
midnight, Masterson," he called over his shoulder. "She turns
into a pumpkin if you don't."

Masterson smiled at her. "Do you?" he asked, watching the
emotions working on her wan face.

"I wish he would," she whispered hotly. "I don't need a big
brother any more."

"I think you do." He folded his arms on the table and studied
her. "I'm forty-two years old, little girl. And I'll guarantee that
if Clint didn't know me personally, you'd never set foot outside
this yard with me. But I don't have designs on you, and he knows
that, too. I just need company, and it's very pleasant to have a
conversation with someone who understands carbon dating
and the lure of ancient tombs."

She smiled. "Thank you."

Both his heavy eyebrows went up.

"Thank
you
. Now, how would you like to hear about
Pompeü?"

"Oh, I'd love it!" she replied, and settled down to
listen, trying not to hear Clint's last angry words, trying to
forget the hatred in his eyes…

The sale was over, the guests leaving, bare bones where the
barbecued steer carcasses had been, when Maggie left with
Masterson for the restaurant.

Clint had gone off with Sarah, and it was a blessed relief.
She'd had about all the battle she could stomach for one day.

Over a nicely grilled steak, Masterson shared some of his
journeys with her, smiling at the rapt expression on her
young face as he described places she'd have given worlds to
see.

"I've always wanted to see Stone-henge," she told him.

"Then why not go?" he asked. "Air fares aren't all that high,
you know."

She smiled. "And I could always vol-unteer for a dig. It's just time. There never seems to be
enough."

Something darkened his eyes for an instant. "I know. Don't
let yours ran out before you do a few of the things you want
to do, little girl."

She shrugged. "I've got plenty."

"No," he said softly, his eyes distant. "No, none of us has
plenty."

It was midnight on the nose when Mas-terson pulled his rented
car up in front of the ranch house.

"I enjoyed that so much," Maggie told him with a smile. "If you
ever get to Columbus…"

"That's not on the books, little one," he said gently. His dark
eyes smiled at her. "Thank you for keeping an old man
company. Someday you'll understand how much it meant."

"Old man? You?" she asked incredulously.

He chuckled. "Now, that was a compliment. Goodnight,
Margaretta Leigh."

"No goodnight kiss?" she asked saucily. "I think I'm
insulted."