Sweet Enemy (10 page)

"What are you thinking about?" he asked her after a while.

"The memories," she sighed, smiling at the sweep of open country
as they reined up and sat quietly on their mounts, side by side.
"So many of them. The meadow where Janna and I used to pick
wildflow-ers, the pecan trees that had such delicious fat pecans on
them in the fall, the…"

"The stream where I made love to you?"

She glared at him, blushing, her eyes on the brim of his hat,
pulled low and shading his glittery eyes.

"Were you always that conceited, or did you have to work at it?"
she returned.

"You make me conceited, little girl," he replied sharply. "My
God, if you'd reacted to your poor fool of a fiancé the
way you react to me physically, you'd still be engaged!"

She clamped her teeth together and ignored
him.

He threw his leg over the pommel of his saddle while he lit a
cigarette. He shoved the brim back over his eyes, and they burned
into her face even at that distance, green and fiery and
strange.

"How was it, Maggie?" he asked with a deep, low whip in his
voice. "How did it feel to kiss me? You'd wanted it since you were
sixteen. Was it worth the daydreaming?"

She studied her trembling hands on the reins, hardly believing
the nightmare the ride had turned into.

He took a long draw from the cigarette. "No comeback? Maybe I
disappointed you," he continued mercilessly, his eyes narrowing.
"Infatuation doesn't stand up to the demands a man can make on a
woman, does it, little one? Any more than dreams stand up to
reality. What a hell of a pity you didn't realize that four summers
ago."

"Amen," she whispered through her teeth. "Was that what…"

He laughed, and the harsh sound hurt more than the words had. "I
couldn't think of a better way to cure you, honey. I'd had about
all the hero worship I could stand. I did us both a favor."

"Thanks," she said in a pale whisper. "Coming on the heels of my
broken engagement, it was just what I needed."

"You're breaking my heart."

"You don't have one!" she shot back, her eyes burning with
unshed tears as she glared at him. "You wouldn't know what to do
with it if you had one."

He shrugged, putting the cigarette back to his chiseled lips.
"Maybe," he replied quietly. "But you'd better thank your lucky
stars that I have a conscience, young lady," he added pointedly. "I
could have had you."

It was the truth, and it hurt like hell, and she closed her eyes
on the pain and the shame.

"Infatuation or not, you wanted me!" he growled, leashed fury in
every line of his face.

"To my everlasting shame," she whispered brokenly. Her
eyes when they met his were bright with tears and hurt.

His face went stone-hard, as if she'd slapped him.

"I'm leaving in the morning, Janna or no Janna," she whispered
huskily. "I've been tortured by you enough for one
lifetime!"

She whirled the mare and urged her into a gallop as she headed
blindly back to the house, leaning forward in the saddle as if
devils were in hot pursuit. But Clint wasn't following her. He was
sitting frozen in his saddle, his eyes blank and unseeing as smoke
trailed from the forgotten cigarette in his hand.

Supper was an ordeal, and Maggie wouldn't have felt the
slightest twinge of conscience about missing it if it hadn't been
for Emma.

She didn't look toward Clint at all through the meal, or speak
to him. Emma, caught in the middle, tried to keep the
conversation going with a monologue of comments about
the weather, the government, and the Napoleonic Wars. But it was a
lost cause. Neither of them even looked up.

Maggie helped clear the table while Clint stormed off into his
den and closed the door behind him with a force that rattled
windows.

"Is it because you're leaving tomorrow?" Emma asked as
they washed up.

"I don't know." She dried a plate and set it aside. "We had an
argument while we were out riding."

"You've had arguments since you were eight years old, missie,
but he didn't ever slam doors before or leave good coffee
sitting in his cup without even tasting it." Emma looked at
her pleadingly. "Maggie, don't go. Not like this."

"You don't understand, Emma, I have to," she said miserably.

"Why? Because you're afraid he'll make you give in?"

Her face jerked up, astonishment in her pale eyes.

"Oh, yes, I know," Emma said gently. "It's written all over both
of you. Don't you know why he got Brent away from here? Why he
can't take his eyes off you lately?"

She lowered her eyes to the soapy water in the sink. "I can't
give him what he wants."

"Do you know what he wants, Maggie?

Does he?"

"Oh, yes," she replied bitterly. "He wants me to find someone
else to 'hero-worship.'"

"Isn't that odd," Emma remarked, "when he never seemed to mind
it before?"

Maggie attacked another plate with the drying cloth.

"Stay one more day," Emma coaxed.

"Janna's going to be here in the morning and everything will be
better. You'll see."

"Emma…!"

"Take him his coffee."

"And get my head snapped off?"

The older woman touched her hand gently. "Maggie, you can't let
this drag on any longer. It's tearing you both apart. Take him his
coffee, talk to him. I think… Maggie, I think he's hurt more than
he's angry."

"You couldn't hurt him with a bomb. He's invulnerable," she
growled.

"Go on."

She gave Emma a last resentful glance and, with a reluctant
sigh, picked up the mug of hot coffee and took it into the
study.

It was like facing a lion on his home ground, she thought, as
she walked in after his gruff, "Come in!" She pushed the door shut
behind her and carried the coffee to his big oak desk. He was
standing out-side on the patio, his shoulder against the doorjamb, a smoking
cigarette in his hand.

He turned to watch her set the cup down, and she almost caught
her breath at the sheer masculinity that seemed to radiate
from his tall, powerful body. His shirt was unbuttoned against the
heat, hanging loosely from his broad shoulders, revealing a
thick mat of curling dark hair that made a wedge against the smooth
bronze muscles of his chest and stomach. His thick hair was
tousled, as if his fingers had restlessly worked in it. His eyes
were narrow and solemn and darker than she'd ever seen
them.

"I…Emma said to…to bring your coffee to you," she
faltered, the words coming unsteadily as he shouldered away
from the door and started toward her.

"Where's yours?" he asked quietly.

"Mine?"

"You could have had it with me."

"Oh." She studied the carpet. "I had mine in the kitchen."

He perched on the edge of the desk and crushed out the finished
cigarette.

"I don't want it to be like this," she whispered miserably. "I
don't want to leave here with you hating me…!"

"I don't hate you," he replied deeply.

No, she thought, because that required emotion and there wasn't
any in him. He was simply indifferent.

She studied her shoes. "Anyway," she said quietly, "thanks for
letting me come. I'm sorry to leave you without a
secretary…"

"You aren't," he said coolly. "I ran into Lida while I was away.
The marriage broke up overnight. She'll be here Monday." He
smiled carelessly. "So you see, little girl, you picked a good time
to go. No harm done."

She smiled brightly despite the throbbing ache in her
heart. "No harm done," she echoed. "Well, I'll say
goodnight…"

"Take this back with you." He drained the mug and handed it to
her. But as their fingers touched, he felt the cold trembling of hers and
something seemed to explode in his eyes.

"Cool as ice," he murmured through set lips. "But only on the
outside." His hand whipped out and caught her by the shoulder,
dragging her to him. In this half-sitting position, she was on an
unnerving level with his jade eyes. "You don't like me to know just
how much I affect you, do you, Irish?" he growled angrily.

"Don't…" she pleaded, all the fight gone out of her at the
merciless fury she read in his eyes. "Clint, please, let me go,
don't…"

"Don't what? Shame you?" he taunted. He snatched the cup out of
her hands and tossed it onto the desk. His lean hands gripped her
shoulders fiercely, slamming her against him.

"Clint, I'm sorry!" she whispered, realizing at last what
was wrong. She'd stung his pride, and now he wanted
revenge…

"You don't know what shame is," he growled, bending his head,
"but I'm going to teach you."

"Clint…!" Her voice broke on the pleading cry, just as his
hard mouth went down against hers and taught her what a punishment
a kiss could be.

She tried to struggle against the merciless hard arms that
held her, but she couldn't get loose, she couldn't
breathe…yielding to the strength that was so much greater than
her own.

Then, like magic, the crush of his muscular arms eased,
cradling her now as gently as he'd hurt her before. The
pressure of his mouth lessened, became soft and caressing,
coaxing.

"Maggie," he whispered against her bruised lips, sliding his
hands under the hem of her blouse to burn against the bare flesh of
her back. "Maggie, you feel like silk."

Her fingers curled into the cotton of his shirt as she hung
there, breathless, while he toyed with her mouth, taunting it with brief, biting kisses
that kindled fires in her mind. His lean, warm hands pressed her
even closer, rasping slightly as they brushed her smooth skin.

'Touch me," he murmured huskily. "Touch me, honey."

Involuntarily, her slender hands moved away from the cotton
shirt onto the warm, bronzed muscles of his broad chest,
tangling in the thick cushion of curling black hair as she
caressed him blindly, feeling the sensuous masculinity of him,
drowning-in the tangy scent of his cologne as sensation after
sensation washed over her.

"Like that, hellcat," he murmured, "that's it. Maggie, open your
mouth, just a little. I want to taste it…"

Burning with the hunger he created in her, she yielded
mindlessly as he opened her soft lips and drew her completely
against the long, warm body, building the pressure until he heard
the moan smothered under his mouth.

"Did that milksop fiance of yours ever kiss you like this,
Maggie?" he growled huskily. "Did he stir you until you moaned
against his mouth?"

"Oh, don't," she pleaded dizzily, her slender hands making a
halfhearted protest against the pleasure his were causing.

"Why not? You want it," he whispered. His mouth brushed lazily
over hers, open and moist and deliberately sensuous. "You want my
hands and my eyes on every inch of this sweet young body, don't
you, Maggie? Answer me.
Don't you?"

Her voice broke on a sob. "Yes!" she wept. "Damn you, yes!"

"Ask me nice and sweet, Maggie," he taunted. "Say, please Clint,
say it, Irish. Whisper it…"

Her eyes opened slowly, bright with longing and love. "Please,"
she breathed against his hard, torturing mouth. "Please,
Clint…"

His hands contracted on her waist as he suddenly thrust her
roughly away. A cold, merciless smile tugged at his mouth. "And that, Miss Kirk, evens
the score. You wanted something to be ashamed of. You've got
it!"

It took seconds for her to realize what he'd said, what he'd
done. Her face went red, then white. Deathly white. Ashamed
of…even the score… She gaped at him numbly, feeling as though
she'd been slammed with all the strength in that tanned, lean
hand.

He lit a cigarette calmly, his narrow eyes flicking her stunned
expression as he snapped the lighter shut and pocketed it. "You've
been following me around like a damned pet dog since you were about
eight years old," he remarked. "For future reference, I'm tired of
it. I won't be a stand-in for a jilting fiance, or a balm for a
broken heart. From now on, if you want to be made love to, look in
some other direction. I'm tired of giving you lessons." Her face
went, if possible, even whiter. Her mouth refused to form the words
that would tell him how hateful she thought he was. Inside, she felt
beaten, bruised. Tears misted on her long lashes, tears that she
turned away to keep him from seeing. She went blindly toward the
door.

"No comeback, Maggie?" he chided.

Her hand touched the doorknob.

"Would you like me to kiss you goodbye?" he persisted.

She opened the door and went out.

"Irish!"

She closed the door behind her and went blindly and quickly up
the steps. Behind her she was vaguely aware of the door opening
again, of eyes following her. But she didn't slow down or look
back. Not once.

Maggie sat in the chair by her bed in the dark for hours, aching
with a hurt that went deeper than any pain. The deliberate cruelty
was almost unbearable. He knew he'd hurt her. She'd seen the
satisfaction in his jade eyes. And all because she'd stung his ego.
For no other reason than that.

The tears hadn't stopped since she closed the door behind
her into this womb of security that was darkness. Hadn't stopped, hadn't eased. Not
when the knock came hesitantly on the door and Emma's voice called
her name gently. Not when she heard two voices outside the locked
room, one deep and slow and angry, the other soft and pleading.

When the first light of dawn filtered through the fluffy white
curtains, she still hadn't moved from the chair, or slept. Her eyes
were red-rimmed and dark shadowed, her face as white as it had been
last night.

Automatically, she began to pack, quietly and efficiently
stuffing clean and dirty clothes together in the single suitcase,
gathering cosmetics from the chest of drawers, her toiletries from
the bathroom. She didn't allow herself to think. Not about what
she'd felt for Clint, not about what he'd done to her, not about
the anguish of walking away from him for the rest of her
life. She kept her mind on getting away and nothing else.
Escape was the only important thing left in her life right now. She wanted
to run.

Without pausing to drag a brush through her hair, she picked up
the case and, without a backward glance, closed the door.

"Oh, there you are," Emma said in a strange, hesitant tone as
Maggie reached the bottom of the staircase. "Ready for breakfast,
missie? Surely you're not going to leave without breakfast?"

Maggie didn't answer, making do with a short, wordless shake of
her head. She picked up the phone and calmly called a taxi, aware
as she put the receiver down that Clint had come into the hall.

Emma exchanged a quick glance with him and left the hallway,
quietly closing the kitchen door behind her with a soft click.

Maggie picked up her case and started for the front porch just
as Clint moved, standing quietly in front of her, his hands jammed
deep into the pockets of his jeans. His own eyes were bloodshot,
his face haggard. She only spared him a brief, cold glance before she
averted her eyes.

"Please get out of my way," she said in an uncommonly quiet
tone.

"I want to talk to you, Maggie."

"Write me a letter," she said to her shoes. "If you try, you can
probably come up with a few more insults by the time you mail
it."

"Maggie!" he groaned, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

She flinched away from him as if he'd cut her to the bone,
backing away with wide, burning eyes. "Don't ever do that again,"
she whispered unsteadily. "Don't ever touch me. I'm getting out of
your life just as quickly as I can, Clint, isn't that enough?"
Tears misted in her eyes. "What more do you want from me, blood?"
she cried.

He drew a deep, slow breath. "My God, I never meant to hurt
you…" he breathed huskily, something dark and somber in his eyes
as they searched her face.

"No, you didn't, did you?" she asked bitterly. "You
wanted to take the hide off Lida, but she wasn't here and I was.
Maybe things will look up now, since she's coming back."

"Maggie, not like this, for God's sake!" he growled as she
started for the door. "I want to tell you…!" .

"The score's even, Clint, you said so," she told him from the
porch, her eyes accusing. "There's nothing more you can say
that I want to hear. You said it all last night."

His eyes narrowed as if in pain, his gaze searching, quiet, as
if he'd never seen her before and couldn't get enough of her face.
"No, honey," he said gently. "I didn't say enough. Maggie…"

A loud blare from a car horn coming up the driveway interrupted
him, and she turned and started down the steps with a burst of
relief that made her slender shoulders slump. "Tell Emma
goodbye," she called over her shoulder, "and tell Janna I'll write!"

He didn't answer her, his face dark and still, his eyes riveted
to the slender form as it crawled into the cab and the door closed.
He watched her go, his eyes haunted and tortured as the cab slowly
faded to a yellow speck in the distance.

Emma came out onto the porch behind him, drying her hands on the
white apron.

"I've got breakfast," she said gently.

He didn't answer her, his eyes blank, his face drawn.

"You wanted her to go," Emma reminded him. "That's what
you told me last night."

He turned and went into the house, into his den, closing the
door behind him firmly. With a sigh, Emma went back to the kitchen,
idly wondering how she was going to explain any of this to
Janna.

Later, sitting wearily on the bus to Miami, Maggie read
Duke Masterson's letter for the third time and said a silent thank you to the big dark
man for this way out. She couldn't have borne going back to the
apartment just yet, facing Janna and the inevitable questions. The
wound was too raw, too new to be probed just now. In a few days, a
few weeks…she gazed lovingly at the ticket that promised
escape. It was a reprieve from too much hurting, too much pain.
Philip, then Clint…especially Clint. She closed her eyes against
the bitter memory. Would she ever forget how he'd humbled her;
would she ever heal from the crippling blow her pride had
suffered?

Her eyes turned to the window, to the palmettos and pines on the
horizon, the occasional home tucked away in a nest of trees.
Things were going to be awkward from now on. She wouldn't be able
to spend holidays with Janna ever again if they meant the ranch and
Clint. It would be worse when he flew into town on business
and came to see his sister. She sighed wearily. Perhaps it would be
better if she looked for a job in Atlanta and moved away from her childhood
friend. That would be painful, too. But maybe, in the long run, it
would be for the best.

She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her tired
eyes. It seemed so long since she'd slept, since she'd felt any
peace at all. Her mind was full of Clint, of the old days.

It seemed so long ago that she and Clint had sat on the porch
swing together and talked about horses. Or went for long rides in
the forest as she listened to his tales about the early days of
Florida's exploration when canoes sailed down the Suwan-nee
River on scouting trips.

He made the Sunshine State come alive for her. She could see the
proud Spanish conquistadores tramping through the underbrush
by the river. She could hear the drums of the proud, fierce
Seminoles, who were never conquered by the United States government
despite a series of three wars they fought between 1817 and 1858.
She could picture the tall sailing ships that departed
Florida's sandy coast, bound for the Indies or South America.

She sighed. Clint had liked her as a child. They'd been friends.
But now he was an enemy, and all her tears wouldn't change that.
Not after what he'd done to her. Her eyes closed with pain at the
memory. Had that really been necessary, she wondered, the
humiliation he'd caused? Why should it have upset him so, what she
said while they were out riding, about being ashamed of what
he could make her feel?

She shook her head idly. If he'd wanted to shame her, he'd
accomplished that. But what puzzled her was the look on his face
the next morning, the dark, hungry look in the green eyes that
watched her leave the ranch. Had it been guilt in his eyes-or
pain?

Her brows came together. She wondered what Janna would think
when she got there; or would Clint even tell his sister the whole story? She hadn't mentioned that she was going to
Miami. Nobody knew she had the cruise ticket. Clint and Emma had
simply assumed that she was going home to Columbus.

Well, what difference did it make, she wondered, her eyes on the
cloudy landscape outside the tinted bus window as the sunset
made lovely flames in the sky. How quickly the day had passed, and
soon the Miami skyline would come into view on the horizon. She
shifted restlessly on the comfortable seat. Miami. Would any of
them worry besides Emma and Janna? Well, she would mail Janna a
postcard from Greece or Crete or wherever she landed. Janna and
Emma, she corrected.

She got off the bus in Miami and took a cab to Miami Beach where
Collins Avenue boasted almost wall to wall hotels. She gaped
like a country girl at the sights and sounds of Miami Beach at
night, drinking in the salt sea smell, the glorious fairyland
colors of the night lights. There was no parking space available at the hotel she chose, so the
driver let her out across the busy street and lifted out her
suitcase.

"Watch the traffic, lady," he cautioned as he handed her the
change from her fare.

She nodded and smiled. "Awesome, isn't it?" she laughed.

"Not after you've been here a while." He grinned as he drove
away.

She lifted the suitcase, still smiling as she surveyed the
bigness and richness of this man-made Mecca. In just hours, she'd
be on that cruise ship heading out into the Atlantic. Leaving
behind her worries, her heartaches, her obligations, just for a
little while. She took a deep breath of warm sea air. Thank you,
Duke Masterson, she said silently, feeling a twinge of sadness that
the big, dark man wouldn't be somewhere in those ancient ruins
waiting for her.

She started toward the hotel across the street, her mind far
away, her eyes unseeing. She didn't notice the powerful car
pulling away from the curb with a squeal-ing of tires just a few meters away. Not until she felt the
sudden impact and everything whirled down into a painful
sickening blackness…

Sound came and went in vague snatches, from a great
distance.

"…Several ribs broken, internal injuries. She's not
responding."

"She's got to! My God, do something, anything! I don't give a
damn what it costs!"

"We're going to do all we can, of course. But…she's not
trying, you see. To live, I mean. The will to live can make the
difference in cases like these."

The voices faded away, and then one of them came back, deep and
slow, and she was dimly aware of fingers curling around hers,
holding them, caressing them.

"Running out on me?" the voice growled. "Is that what you're
trying to do, Maggie, run some more?"

Her eyes fluttered, her brows contracted.

Her head moved restlessly on the cool pillow.

"I…don't want…to," she whispered half-consciously.

"Don't want to what?"

"Live," she managed. "Hurts…too much."

"Dying's going to hurt more," came the short reply. "Because if
you go, I'm coming, too. You won't escape me that way. So help me,
God, I'll follow you! Do you hear me, Maggie?"

Her head tossed. "Leave me…alone!" she whispered
painfully.

"Why the hell should I? You won't leave me alone."

The fingers tightened, and she felt or thought she felt a surge
of emotion flowing through them, warming her, touching her, gently
holding her to life.

She licked her dry, cracked lips. "Don't…let go," she
murmured, clenching her hand around those strong fingers.

"I'll never let go, little girl. Hang on, sweetheart. Just hang
on."

"Hang…on," she breathed, and the darkness came again.

The voices came and went again, now droning, now arguing. A
feminine one joined in, pleading, soft. It was like a strange
symphony of sound, mingled with the clanging of metallic objects,
the coolness of sheets, the feel of warm water and cool
hands. And that one voice…

"Don't give up now," it commanded, and she felt the strong
fingers gripping hers. "You can do it if you try. Just hang
on!"

She took short, sharp breaths and they hurt terribly. She
grimaced with the effort. "Oh, it…hurts!" she moaned.

"I know. Oh, God, I know. But keep trying, Maggie. It'll get
better. I promise."

So she kept trying, fading in and out of life until the sounds
became familiar, until one day she opened her eyes and saw the
white sheets and smelled the medicinal smell and saw sunlight filtered through the blinds across her
bed.

Blinking, her lips raw, she looked up into a pale, haggard face
with emerald green eyes and disheveled dark hair.

She frowned, numb from painkillers and sleep. "Hospital?" she
managed weakly.

Clint drew a deep, heavy breath. "Hospital," he agreed.
"Still hurt?"

She swallowed. "Could I…water?"

He got up from his chair and poured water and ice into a
glass from the plastic pitcher by the bedside. He sat on the edge
of the bed to lift her head so that she could sip the ice
water.

"Oh, that's so good," she almost wept, "so good!"

"Your throat feels like sawdust, I imagine."

"Like…desert sand," she corrected, wincing as he laid her back
on the pillows. "Am…am I broken somewhere?''

"A few ribs," he said.

The tone in his voice disturbed her. "What else?"

He ran a lean hand through his thick, dark hair. "You took a
hell of a blow, Maggie," he said quietly.

"Clint, what else?" she cried.

"Your back, honey," he said gently.

With a feeling of horror she tried to move her legs…and
couldn't.

"Oh, my God…" she whispered.

"Don't panic," Clint cautioned, brushing the damp hair
away from her temples. "Don't panic. It isn't broken, just bruised.
Your doctors say you'll be walking again in weeks."

Her eyes opened wide, searching his desperately. "You
wouldn't…lie to me?"

His fingers brushed her cheek gently. "I'll never lie to you. It
won't be easy, but you'll walk. All right?"

She relaxed. "All right."

"How did they…find you?" she asked.

A ghost of a smile touched his chiseled mouth. "Masterson's
letter, in your purse.