Sweet Enemy (9 page)

It was inevitable that she'd wind up by the little stream with
its curtain of long, curling gray Spanish moss dangling lazily from
the tall oak trees at the bank's edge.

With a sigh, her eyes went to the carpet of twigs and fallen
leaves under that massive oak where Clint had…

Her eyes closed on the memory, hearing again the deep, soft
voice in her ear, feeling the delicious crush of his arms,
the slow, confident experience in the mouth that had taught hers
what a kiss should be.

Her eyes misted with remembrance as she studied the leaf-covered
ground that bore no trace of two enemies who had behaved
almost like lovers here. If only. She sighed again, reaching up to
touch the moss as her eyes followed the bubbling stream where it
wound like a silver ribbon into the distance between the leafy
trees. Oh, if only!

She had to leave. She knew it suddenly and surely. If she stayed
here now, knowing the way she felt, she'd have no defense at all against him if he touched her again. Despite the promise
she'd made to stay until Janna came, she'd have to leave. She
was more vulnerable now than she'd ever been. And, she admitted to
herself, Clint wouldn't hesitate to test that vulnerability. He'd
always known-or thought he did- exactly how she felt about him. He
seemed to enjoy the power he had over her. And now…

She turned back toward the house. She didn't have a choice
anymore.

Surprisingly, almost as if Janna could read her mind, she called
that night after supper.

"How's it going?" Janna asked, and Maggie could almost see the
grin on her friend's face.

"How do you think it's going?" she asked. "Janna, I love you
like a sister, but I'm going to poison you when I get back."

"Oh," she sighed. "I'd hoped from what Brent said…"

"You talked to Brent?" Maggie burst out. "But he's in Hong
Kong… ?"

"Hong Kong! Brent?"

Puzzle pieces whirled around in her mind. "But Clint
said…"

"My sweet brother threatened to break his arms if he came back
down there while you were in residence," Janna said
triumphantly.

There was a long, static silence while Maggie tried to fit the
puzzle pieces together into something that made sense. "I
don't understand," she muttered absently.

"I do. You and Brent were always close, weren't you? Maggie, my
dear," Janna said gently, "don't you know that my brother doesn't
tolerate competition from anybody? If he wants something badly
enough, he'll use some of the most ruthless methods in the book to
get it. And apparently," she added with smug pleasure, "what
he wants right now is you."

Boy, if you only knew, Maggie thought. "Been eating green
toadstools again, huh,

Janna?" she asked pleasantly. "The only thing going on between
Clint and me is one everlasting argument, and this time we've very
nearly come to blows. All I want is to go home. When are you coming
down here?"

There was a wistful sigh on the other end of the line.
"Saturday," came the reply. "Or maybe Friday night, I'm not
sure. I had my vacation switched. If you're determined, we
can go back to Columbus next week."

"Determined isn't the word. Oh, Janna, come protect me," she
moaned. "I'm so tired of fighting…"

"Are you well, Maggie?" her friend asked. "You, tired of
fighting Clint? That's got to be a first."

"It'll make all the record books, but I really am. Hurry, will
you?"

"All right, since it's you asking. But, Maggie, why did Clint
threaten to break both of Brent's arms?"

"Because we stole his rotor, tied bows on his cows' tails, and I filled the swimming pool with a
box of bubble bath or two…"

"Never mind, and I thought it was something romantic. Can you
stay out of trouble until I get there, Maggie?"

"Nothing easier," she laughed. "Clint's still gone, and all I
have to do is keep out of his way until you get here."

It was late afternoon when Maggie delivered Emma's grocery
list to Shorty, and she paused on the front porch to feast her eyes
on the fiery sunset with its blazing fingers of color before she
went inside. The city had nothing, she thought, to compare
with this. The sweep of open land, the smell of country air laced
with the smell of flowers, the sound of dogs barking in the
distance, the peace of nonmechanical sounds. And Clint had called
her a city girl. She shook her head as she went into the house. He
didn't know her at all.

She walked into the study and, unex-pectedly, he was there. It was like being hit in the stomach
with a baseball bat. She felt her heart stop just at the sight of
him. He looked as though he'd just gotten home, still dressed in a
dark brown suit and a cream silk shirt. He turned and gazed at her,
something dark and strange and violent flashing in his eyes
at the sight of her standing there in the little yellow
polka-dotted sundress she'd thrown on in a whim. He sketched her
quietly, deliberately, pausing at the low bodice, the thin
straps that left her round, smooth shoulders bare, her hair hanging
silkily around them.

"H…hello," she stammered, captured by his narrow
eyes.

"Hello," he replied. "Going somewhere?"

"Oh…the dress, you mean?" She shook her head. "I…it got
hot."

"It's getting hotter by the minute," he mused, and his eyes went
from her wavy dark hair to her sandals.

She swallowed nervously at the sensu-ous, masculine appreciation in his eyes. "How…how was your
trip?"

His face seemed to go taut at the question. He turned away
to light a cigarette and take a deep draw before he replied, "Not
very pleasant, little girl. I swung by Austin to see
Masterson."

"Duke?" She felt something dark stir inside her, something cold
and ominous. "How was he?"

"I got there in time for the funeral," he said quietly.

The unexpected blow brought tears to her eyes as she remembered
the big, dark man and ancient tombs and the lure of the past all at
once in a jumble of thoughts. "Oh," she whispered brokenly.

He turned with a heavy sigh. "His plane crashed on the way back
home," he told her. "In a way, it was a blessing. He was in a hell
of a lot of pain. And to have to wait for it…"

She nodded silently, agreeing that it was best, while inside she
felt as if something had been torn out of her. Tears ran unashamedly down her
face.

His eyes darkened. "For God's sake, stop it!" he growled.
"Masterson wouldn't want that. He wouldn't want you to grieve for
him!"

She bit her lip, hating him for being so insensitive, so cold.
"Excuse me," she said brokenly. "Caring is the number one sin in
your book of rules, isn't it?"

She turned and started toward the door. He caught her before she
went two steps, whipping her around into his hard arms, pressing
her shaken, trembling body close against the warm strength of
his.

"I can't bear to watch you cry," he murmured harshly against her
temple. His fingers contracted in the cloud of hair at her
nape.

The admission stunned her until she realized that, like
most men, he couldn't stand tears from any source. She fought to
regain her composure, to stop the hot tears from running down her face into the corners of her
mouth.

"I liked him," she said unsteadily. "It was as if…as if I'd
known him all my life."

"It happens that way sometimes." His arms contracted, and she
felt one warm, lean hand against her bare back just above the line
of her sundress, gently caressing the silky skin. Under her ear she
could feel the sudden heavy sigh of his breath as his lips brushed
against her forehead, and she stiffened involuntarily.

He drew back abruptly, his hand going to the inside pocket of
his jacket. "Mas-terson had this in his pocket," he said, handing
her an unsealed envelope. "It was addressed to you. His nephew
asked me to deliver it."

She swallowed nervously, staring at the small white envelope in
her hand, at the bold, black scrawl of her name and the ranch's
address. "For me? What…what is it?"

"I don't know," he said, moving away from her to retrieve his
smoking cigarette from the ashtray on his desk. "None of us felt we
had the right to read it."

She fingered it with a sigh. She couldn't bring herself to open
it here, now, with Clint only a few feet away. "I'll read it later.
Clint, Janna called. She's coming Saturday."

He whirled on his heels, his eyes narrow, his face harsh.
"Did you call for reinforcements?" he demanded hotly.

"No!" she flashed. "She called and said she was coming. What was
I supposed to do? Tell her no, and that her brother…?"

"That her brother what?" he growled.

She turned away. "I left all your messages on the desk,"
she said quietly.

There was a long pause. "I bought some replacement heifers," he
said finally, the iron control back in his deep voice. "And a
couple of bulls to add to my breeding stock. We'll get those records out of the way tomorrow."

"Yes," she said in a whisper.

"Maggie."

She paused with her hand on the doorknob, but she didn't
turn around to face him. "What?"

"Don't wear that dress again."

She was afraid to ask him why. The husky note in his voice was
almost answer enough.

Upstairs, in the privacy of her room, she sat down in a chair by
the darkened window and read her letter by the light of the
small lamp.

Margaretta Leigh,
it began in a thick, heavy masculine
hand,
if I'd had more time to arrange it, I'd have sent you
a ticket to Stonehenge instead. As it is, I was
holding this one for a free week which, in all honesty,
I'm not expecting to have. You'll find that all the expenses are
covered, from the cruise to meals and lodging. I had to get
home in a hurry, or I'd have

twisted your arm and made you take this ticket Maggie,
please don't refuse it. Humor an old man who enjoyed a
few of the happiest hours of his life in your company.
It was almost like a homecoming. I don't know if you
believe in deja vu,
the letter continued, and she shivered
involuntarily,
but if such things happen, maybe we knew
each other in some distant past and shared more than
coffee and conversation. This lifetime wasn't for us. Maybe
next time. With deep affection. Duke Masterson.

Maybe next time…
Her eyes closed as she folded the
letter back around the ticket. When the tears passed, she read the
letter over again and stared at the ticket. It was for a round trip
passage to archaeological sites all over the Mediterranean, all
expenses paid, on a cruise which was to begin the
following Monday. She stared blankly at it. Could she really afford
to go now, when she should be looking for a job…

Emma's voice calling her to supper stopped the confusing thoughts temporarily.

It plagued her, whether or not to go on the cruise. She wanted
to, desperately. But she was torn between pleasure and the very
real problem of a job to go to when she left the ranch. She hadn't
told anybody about the ticket. It was safely put away in her purse,
tucked in Duke's letter, and she kept it secretly like a prayer too
precious to share with anyone. But she was troubled, and it
showed.

She felt Clint's brooding eyes on her at breakfast the day
before Janna was due home. He watched her like a hawk these days,
she thought bitterly, even though he'd been careful to keep as far
away from her as possible ever since he came back from his trip.
The way he avoided her had even raised Emma's eyebrows, no mean
feat. Maggie was at once hurt and relieved by it. At least she
didn't have to fight any monstrous temptations. There weren't
any.

"Why don't you talk about it," Clint growled finally when she'd finished picking at the eggs
and bacon on her plate, "instead of sitting there with that damned
crucified look on your face?"

Her eyes burned as her face jerked up. "Why don't you mind your
own business?"

"You are my business," he said shortly.

"Not for much longer."

"Praise God!"

She threw down her napkin and stormed out past Emma who was just
coming in with a plate full of ham. "Maggie… ?" she called.

Clint went right out the door behind her, his jaw set, his eyes
blazing.

' 'Clint… ?" Emma murmured.

Neither one of them seemed to even hear her. With a sigh and a
shrug, she took the ham back to the kitchen.

Clint caught up to Maggie on the front porch, jerking her around
with a rough, cruel hand.

"Stop throwing tantrums," he said gruffly, "or I'll give you my cure for them."

She tossed her hair impatiently. "Please let go of my arm."

"Where are you going?"

"For a ride! Is that all right, or do I have to…?"

He pressed a long, gentle finger against her lips, reading the
emotional storm that was tearing at her as he met her eyes.

"No more," he said softly. "Come riding with me. It'll
help."

She gazed up at him helplessly, feeling the yielding start and
hating it. "Aren't…aren't you busy?"

"Always, honey," he said with a kind smile.

"I…I can go alone," she murmured.

"I want to be with you," he said. His lean hand brushed some
stray hairs away from her lips. "We haven't had much time together
since I've been home."

"You wanted it that way," she replied, hiding her eyes from
him.

"I know."

"Clint…" Her eyes went up to meet his, a question in them.

He shook his head. "Not now. Not yet." His dark brows drew
together as he looked down at her, as if she made a puzzle he
couldn't put together. "Damn it, woman…!"

Her lower lip trembled at the sudden anger. "What have I
done now?" she grumbled.

He drew a sharp breath and turned away. "Never mind. Come
on!"

They rode in a companionable silence for several minutes, and
Maggie knew that she'd treasure this time with him like a hoard of
gold when she left the ranch. Her eyes darted toward him when he
wasn't looking at her, tracing the sharp profile, the powerful set
of his shoulders, the straight back. The sight of him was like a
cold drink in the desert. She wished she'd brought her camera, that
she could have a picture of him to take home and… She sighed. She'd carry a picture of him in her heart until the day
she died. That would be haunting enough.