Sweet Enemy (4 page)

Three pairs of puzzled eyes followed his tall figure as he
thudded up the stairs.

"He doesn't
look
drunk," Brent remarked
casually.

Clint's temper seemed to have improved when he came back
downstairs, his dark hair still damp from a shower, in a pair of
dark slacks and a green patterned silk shirt open at the neck, in a
shade that matched his eyes. He seemed to go out of his way to be
pleasant to Brent, dwelling on the subject of cattle and land
management to such an extent that Emma and Maggie ignored
them and talked clothes all through the meal.

"I haven't been around back yet," Brent said as they relaxed
over coffee in the living room. "Is the pool still there, and filled?"

"It is," Clint said pleasantly. "Feel like a swim? Maggie?" he
added, glancing at her.

"If you'll let me wear a bathing suit, instead of pushing me in
fully clothed," she said sweetly.

"Honey, it'll be a pleasure," he said in a voice that made
chills run down her spine.

"Did I miss something?" Brent blinked.

"Last summer," Maggie explained, "he threw me in the river with
my clothes on."

"You kicked the hell out of me first," Clint replied
imperturbably.

"What was I supposed to do, stand there and let the stupid snake
have first bite?!"

"Did you think you could stone the damned thing to death with a
handful of pebbles?"

"They were stones, and I…!"

Brent stood up. "If you two want to do this thing properly, why
don't you appoint seconds and meet in the lower pasture at
sunup?"

Clint gave him a look that sent him toward the stairs.
"I'm going after my trunks. Coming, Maggie?"

She glared at Clint. "Why not?"

The pool was Olympic-sized, and the water was pleasantly
cool. Maggie floated quietly, her slender body scantily covered in
an aqua two-piece bathing suit, her long hair floating behind her.
She and Brent had done two laps paralleling each other when Clint
joined them. Swimming was something he rarely did in company,
and never among strangers. A long, jagged white scar ran from the
center of his broad, hair-laden chest along the bronzed skin of his flat stomach. Another
was visible on his muscular thigh. Souvenirs, he called them, of a
long-ago conflict when he hadn't quite dived away in time to miss a
shower of shrapnel. To Maggie, they weren't in the least
unsightly-the only thing about him that shook her was the sight of
that powerful, dark body without the veneer of clothing to
make it less sensuous. But Clint was touchy about his scars
nevertheless, so she never mentioned them, nor did Brent.

They relaxed in the soothing water without talking for
lazy minutes, until Emma shattered the peace by calling Brent to
the phone.

"They find you wherever you go," Brent groaned as he
pulled his slender body out of the water. "Carry on without me,
Maggie. Clint'll save you if you go down for the third time."

"Want to bet?" she murmured, but he hadn't heard her.

Clint surfaced beside her, shaking his dark head to throw his
hair out of his eyes, and his lean hands caught her bare midriff,
sending a wild shudder of pleasure through her slim body as he
righted her in the water and pulled her body against him
roughly.

"What was that crack supposed to mean?" he asked, his eyes
burning into hers, his muscular legs entwining with hers under the
water.

"That you'd probably enjoy drowning me," she said unsteadily.
Chills began to run over her. "Please let me go. I'm cold."

"Cold or excited?" he asked, his face solemn, his gaze level and
questioning. "You always had a soft spot for Brent, didn't you,
Irish?"

"We get along very well."

"And you and I don't," he said flatly.

"That goes without saying. Clint…" Her hands pushed against
him, touching the thick scar at his breastbone. Her eyes drifted down to it lying under the thick tangle of wet hair that
felt strange and new to her touch. Her fingers traced it gently,
then they moved over the broad, hard chest that was cool from the
water. A shock went through her as she realized what she was doing
and she jerked her hand away as though his flesh had scorched
her.

He caught her hand and lifted it to his shoulder, holding it
there as he studied her downcast face. "Maggie, don't," he said
gently.

"I'm sorry," she murmured in a whipped tone. "I didn't mean
to…"

He caught a handful of her wet hair and pushed her face against
him until it was smothered against the cool, bronzed flesh, the
curling hairs tickling her nose.

"My God, I like it when you touch me," he whispered at her ear,
a husky, strange note in his voice. "There's nothing to be ashamed
of. It's natural for a woman to be curious, especially when she's
innocent." His fingers tightened at her nape.

Against her, under the water, she could feel the heavy, hard
beat of his heart. "Come here, honey," he whispered, and both arms
went around her, swallowing her, in an embrace that brought the
stars down into the pool with them. His hold tightened slowly,
holding her, crushing her, hurting her…

"Give me your mouth," he growled huskily.

Burning, hungry, she lifted her face to his blazing eyes and saw
them shift to her lips with something like awe. This was
Clint-Clint, who teased her and tormented her, who was as
much a part of her childhood as the ranch, the horses, Janna. But
it had never been like this, not in all her wild young imaginings.
He was a man, older than she, experienced, confident. And her
inexperience was no match for the hunger she read in his face.

"And now," he whispered roughly, bending his dark head, "now I'm
going to teach you sensations you never knew you could feel, little innocent. I'm going to show you how to be a
woman…"

She was trembling, helpless as she waited breathlessly to feel
his hard, chiseled mouth on hers. She started to speak, to
say something, anything, just as the patio door opened and broke
the spell.

She felt the shudder run through Clint's hard body as he
released her and dove under the water. Brent came running,
his bare feet thudding on the wet concrete, and dove into the water
with a resounding splash.

Maggie went riding with Brent the next day when she finished
Clint's terse correspondence, which he left for her on the
Dictaphone.

"I love this place," Brent said with a smile, drinking in the
lush green forest around them. "I spent a lot of my childhood
here."

She smiled, too. "So did I. Janna and I used to play cowboys and
Indians here, re-member? Once we ambushed you from the top of one of those
pines."

"And got ticks, both of you," he remembered gleefully.

She shuddered. "It was awful!"

"No doubt." He stopped and looked down at her, frowning. "What
got into Clint last night?" he asked suddenly.

She felt the blush rising, and averted her face. "Bad temper,"
she said flatly, remembering how he'd left the pool without a
backward glance just after Brent's return. He had left the house
not long afterward, and it had been early morning before
Maggie heard the car return. By the time she and Brent got to
the breakfast table, he was already at work. She closed her eyes on
the memory of what he'd been about to do-what she'd almost let him
do. She could still see his hard mouth poised just above hers, feel
his warm, smoky breath mingling with her own. She'd wanted that
kiss so much that it was like being torn apart when Brent had
interrupted them.

But it was better this way, she reminded herself. Clint had all
the women he needed, that was obvious. He liked to humiliate
her, anyway, so she should have been better armored. Perhaps now
that Brent was here…

"Where are you?" Brent asked, waving a hand in front of her
eyes.

She glanced at him with wide eyes. "Mars," she whispered
theatrically, "out there! Exploring strange and exotic places with
my mind!"

He grinned. "Why not try exploring me with your lips?" he
leered, raising and lowering his eyebrows for effect.

She burst out laughing and let Melody flow into step beside his
horse. "You're just what I needed. Oh, I'm so glad you came!"

"I'm glad
you
are," he replied.

"What do you mean?"

He glanced at her speculatively. "I mean, Cousin Clint isn't.
Look out, my long-ago leading lady. Clint in action is a force to
behold."

"I don't understand."

"He wants you," he told her nonchalantly.

Her heart stopped, then started again. "He's only playing games,
Brent. Lida ripped at his pride and…"

"He wants you," he repeated quietly. "I've never seen him look
at a woman exactly that way before, but the intent is all too
familiar. I wouldn't like to see you hurt."

His concern was comforting. She reached out and touched his thin
arm. "I don't want to see me hurt, either," she said with a smile.
"I've got both eyes wide open. I'm not burying my head in the
sand."

He shook his head, smiling back. "My sweet, you've been in love
with him most of your life, pseudo-fiances notwithstanding.
He may not see it, but I do."

She chewed on her bottom lip, staring down at the pommel of her saddle. "I thought Philip
would…"

"…Compensate?" he finished for her. "You knew better, didn't
you? Maggie, you shouldn't have come here."

She laughed softly. "It's a little late now."

"Come home with me when I leave," he said quietly.

She stared at him, trying to read his thin face.

"No, it isn't like that," he laughed. "Maggie," he added, solemn
now, "I know how you feel. There's a woman back home…I'd give
everything I own, and more; she doesn't feel that way about me.
And, like you, I know that nobody else could take her place. Don't
let yourself be drawn and quartered like this. We'll console
each other."

"A shoulder to cry on, Brent?" she asked softly.

"That's all I can offer you," he replied, more serious than
she'd ever seen him. He grinned suddenly. "Did you think I was offering you a grand
passion?"

She laughed feverishly. "Let me think about it. Right now, I'm
doing a job, and I gave my word."

"It's up to you what you do," he replied. "I never try to
actively interfere in anyone else's life. But I'm offering you a
refuge if ever you need it. And he'll never find you."

She nodded. "Thanks for the option."

He winked at her. "You're more my cousin than he is. We always
were a pair of rascals."

"We still are." She leaned toward him conspiratorially. "Let's
swipe the rotor out of his jeep."

"You're on!"

Clint eyed both of his innocent-looking guests over the supper
table.

"A strange thing happened to me today," he remarked
casually. "I tried to start my jeep and the rotor was missing."

"The rotor?" Emma exclaimed, pausing in the act of lifting
a forkful of mashed potatoes to her mouth. "The rotor was
gone?"

Maggie raised both eyebrows and met Clint's searching gaze
levelly. "How strange," she said impassively.

Brent strangled on his coffee and had to excuse himself from the
table.

"Never fear!" Maggie called after him, rising. "First aid is on
the way!"

For the next few days, she and Brent fortunately were able to
keep out of Clint's way-just. But his temper was shorter than ever,
and getting things ready for the mammoth sale wasn't helping
it.

"Hey, Maggie," Billy Jones, the foreman called, "Clint
wants to see you!"

She looked up from the porch where she was getting a checklist
ready for the midday barbecue at the sale. "Well, here I am!"
she called cheerfully. "Tell him to look to his heart's
content!"

Billy went away shaking his head, and

Maggie was instantly sorry. Brent had just been called away on
business that morning and she was afraid to push Clint too far
without Brent's protection. But the tension was beginning to get to
her…

"So there you are, you damned little witch," Clint muttered,
coming up the steps, his hat cocked over his brow, fury in every
line of his hard face.

She felt herself cringing, but she kept her eyes raised.
"Yes?"

He stopped just in front of her and swept off his hat, slinging
it onto the nearby table. He leaned down, one hard-muscled arm on
either side of her where she sat in the big, high-backed rocking
chair, trapping her.

"If I were you," he said in a dangerously soft voice, "I
wouldn't push too hard. I've had about all I can take from you and
Cousin Brent!"

She felt the raw power in that lean body at the proximity, and
it was disturbing. "Just because we hid your rotor…"

"
…And
tied pink ribbons on the tails of two of my milk
cows,
and
put bubble bath in the swimming pool, and…" he
growled hotly.

She flushed. It had really been funny at the time. "Your trouble
is that you don't have a sense of humor," she grumbled.

"You've got enough for both of us!" he shot back. His eyes were
like a panther's-green-gold in that swarthy face, narrow and
threatening.

"Even when Brent and I were kids, you managed to make us feel
like criminals every time we played a prank," she told the open
front of his blue-checked shirt, where dark, curling hair peeked
out, damp with sweat.

"You damned near turned my hair white a few times," he recalled,
and some of the anger drained out of him. He smiled.

"So I see," she murmured, and involuntarily her fingers
reached up to touch the silver at his temples. "You're
absolutely

sure
it isn't a sign of old age?" she added
mischievously.

He chuckled softly. "You brat."

All the years seemed to fall away when he laughed like that, and
he was the Clint of her childhood, the bigger-than-life
creature her dreams were made of, invulnerable and
indestructible.