Sweet Enemy Read online

  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. “Masterson 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 havetwisted 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 déjà 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.

  “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 wildflowers, 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 outside 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…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 fiancé of yours ever kiss you like this, Maggie?” he growled huskily. “Did he stir you until you moaned against his mouth?”