Sweet Enemy (7 page)

She couldn't seem to get her breath. Her eyes drifted to the
tree trunk behind him. "Do…do you still like to hunt?" she asked
breathlessly.

"Only venison," he murmured. "Your eyelashes are almost too long
to be real, did you know that?"

She caught a shaky breath. "Clint, hadn't we ought to…"

"Ought to what, sweetheart?" he asked softly.

She met his quiet, searching gaze and lost the rest of her
breath as her eyes widened with something like shock.

Without taking his eyes from her, he flipped his cigarette into
the stream and began to draw her closer to him.

"Clint…!" she whispered fearfully, pressing her small hands
against his broad chest as he leaned over her, easing her back into
the dry leaves and pine straw that blanketed the hard ground.

His lean fingers touched her face, gently exploring it in a
silence that throbbed with controlled emotion. "What are you afraid
of?" he asked softly.

"You," she whispered shakily, trembling as his fingers
lightly traced her nose, her high cheekbones, her mouth.

"Why, Maggie?" he asked, his gaze dropping intently to her mouth
as his thumb rubbed across it, parting it, testing its silky
softness.

Her heart raced under the soft, sweet pressure, and her eyes
closed helplessly. The silence was as pure as dawn, broken only by
the gentle swish of the tree limbs with their long gray beards of
Spanish moss-and the erratic sound of her own breathing.

His lean fingers speared into the soft hair at her temples,
holding her flushed face firmly as he bent; and she felt his firm,
chiseled mouth touch her closed eyelids. His broad chest
eased gently down against her in a contact that sent a shudder of pure pleasure rippling through her slen-derness.

"Don't be afraid of me, little girl," he murmured against her
ear. "I'm not trying to seduce you."

She blushed, swallowing nervously, and she felt his deep, soft
laughter vibrate against her. Over the thin cotton shirt, her small
hands pressed against the warm muscles of his chest.

His mouth, slightly parted, caressed her high cheekbone, the
soft line of her jaw, her chin. "Unbutton it," he murmured
absently.

"W…what?" she managed, drowning in new sensations.

"My shirt," he breathed at the corner of her mouth.

Her slender hands curled against him. "I…I can't!" she
whispered shakily.

"Don't you want to touch me, little innocent?" he asked
quietly. "You did that night in the pool-until you realized what
you were doing."

"Clint, must you…!" she moaned

"Hush," he whispered, his mouth moving until it was poised
just above hers, so close that his warm, smoky breath mingled with
hers. His hands moved on her face to tilt her chin up. "I need your
mouth now, little girl, under mine, soft and warm and sweet."

Her eyelids opened briefly so that she could see him, and the
look on his face made her tremble. "Clint…" she whispered
tremulously.

"Tell me you want it," he whispered huskily.

A sob caught in her throat. "Oh, Clint…!"

His lips brushed against hers in a slow, unbearably tender
tasting kiss that was everything she dreamed it could be.
Vaguely she felt his fingers slide under her head to cup it, felt
him stiffen as he began, ever so gently to deepen the kiss until it
grew suddenly from a tiny spark to a bellowing flame between
them.

A gasp broke from her lips at the fury of it, and her hands
trembled as they went up to clutch at the broad shoulders above
her. Clint. This was Clint, who taught her to ride, who bullied
her, who broke her young heart that unforgettable summer- who was
teaching her a lesson in ardor that nothing would ever erase from
her mind or her heart. Clint, who was…loving her…!

All at once, he tore his mouth from hers and looked down at her
with eyes that seemed to go up in green smoke.

One lean finger traced the soft, slightly swollen curve of her
mouth in a lazy, tangible silence. "Margaretta Leigh," he
whispered, his eyes sketching every line of her face. "What you
know about love-making could be written on the head of a pin."

She jerked her eyes down to his chest. "I never pretended to be
sophisticated," she said tightly. "I'm sorry if I
disappointed you. May I get up now?"

"You didn't disappoint me," he said quietly, tilting her
reluctant face up to his.

An irritating mist blurred him in her sight, and she hated the
burr in her throat.
"I don't know anything…!" she
mumbled miserably.

"It makes for a hell of a change," he told her, and smiled
patiently down at her. "I'm used to good-time girls who know
everything, not sweet little innocents who need teaching."

Involuntarily, her fingers went up to touch the hard, firm
mouth, feeling its sensuous contours. He kissed her fingers
absently, his own going to the top buttons of his shirt to
snap them open. He caught her searching hand and moved it down
inside the opening, against the warm, slightly damp firmness of
bronzed muscles and curling black hair.

With a gasp, she jerked her hand away as if it had been burned
by the brief contact with his body.

His dark brows drew together, his eyes narrowed. "My God, is even that too intimate for you?" he
growled. "You damned little icicle, do you think the touch of those
slender young hands, untutored as they are, could send a man into a
web of uncontrollable passion?"

She flinched at the anger in his deep voice. He rolled away from
her to sit up, curbed violence in the way he put a cigarette
between his lips and lit it.

"Put your boots on, little miss purity," he said roughly, "and
I'll see you safely home with your honor intact."

"Clint, I'm sorry, please don't…!" she began tearfully.

"You heard me." He got to his feet, making a swipe for his hat
on the ground and slamming it on his head. He moved through the
underbrush to the horses, leaving her to follow.

She tugged her boots on over the damp socks, fighting tears, and
blindly made her way to the little mare. She swung into the saddle,
refusing to even look his way. She turned her mount and kicked her velvety flanks, startling her
into a gallop. "Maggie…!" Clint called after her.

She leaned over Melody's neck, her fingers clinging to the
soft mane, and urged her on recklessly. She wanted nothing more
than to get away from him, and in a haze of pure panic, she forced
the mare into a run.

It happened with incredible speed. One minute she was firmly in
control. The next, she caught a glimpse of blue sky, a glimpse of
green grass, and her body came into shuddering contact with the
hard ground.

She was vaguely aware of a voice calling her, of a touch
that was none too gentle. She was too winded to answer, and
her head hurt. She moaned as she opened her eyes and the sky, along
with Clint's dark, tight face, came into blurry focus above
her.

"You damned little fool!" he thundered at her, and the look in his eyes was frightening.

"I…fell," she managed in a winded whisper.

"And it's too damned bad you didn't break your stupid neck," he
growled mercilessly. "I just may do it for you. Where do you
hurt?"

Her lips trembled shakily. "My… head," she
murmured.

His hands ran over her helpless body, feeling surely for breaks.
His face was lined as she'd never seen it, emphasizing his age, and
there was a pallor around his mouth that hinted of strain.
"M…Melody?" she got out.

"She's all right," was the terse reply. "No thanks to you," he
added.

That was the proverbial straw. Tears began to flow down
her cheeks in agony, her chest rising and falling jerkily with
suppressed sobs.

"If you cry, so help me, I'll hit you, Maggie," he threatened
darkly.

"You…big bully!" she wept. "I hate you!"

"That's no news." His arms went under her knees and her back,
lifting her gently against him. "If I put you on Melody, can you
hang on until we get home?"

"Yes," she replied doggedly. She'd hang on until hell froze
over, just to spite him.

"We'll go slow," he said quietly, easily lifting her onto the
small mare and making sure she had the reins firmly in hand. "Can
you make it?"

She glared down at him with fierce green eyes. "You can bet on
it," she said icily.

He ignored the anger, and the ice, and swung into the saddle
himself. "Let's go."

It was the longest ride she could ever remember, and she was
bathed in sweat when they reached the ranch house. Clint reached up
for her just as she swayed diz-zily in the saddle and carried her upstairs yelling for Emma as
he went.

"What in the world…?" Emma asked in concern.

"Annie Oakley fell off," Clint said roughly. "Stay with this
stupid child while I call Dr. Brown."

"I hope you trip and fall down the stairs!" Maggie called after
him tearfully, wetness burning her eyes as she lay panting
and disheveled, sore and miserable on the coverlet of her bed.

Emma sat down beside her and smoothed the wisps of hair out of
her eyes. "Oh, my poor baby," she cooed, frowning in quiet empathy.
"Does it hurt much?"

She began to cry, burying her face in Emma's apron. "I hate
him," she sobbed. "Oh, I hate him, I…"

"I know," Emma said gently. "I've always known. Men can be
so very blind, Maggie, and so hurtful. That one more than most.
I've never known him to care about a woman. It's as if he's afraid
of any deep emotional involvement. Even Lida- that was a physical
thing, you know."

"Everything… with him is…physical," she wept.

"His father loved his mother deeply," Emma recalled, gently
smoothing the dark waving hair on her knee. "But Mrs. Ray-gen was
never able to return that love, even though she was fond of him.
Perhaps the age difference was really too much. But Clint sensed
that lack of balance in his parents' marriage, and it affected him.
Love is a word he doesn't understand, my darling," she sighed. "I'm
sorry it's taken you so many years, and so much heartache, to
learn it."

"Oh, Emma, so am I," she whispered.

Dr. Brown wanted to see her immediately, and she went
reluctantly with Clint to his office to spend over an hour being
X-rayed and probed and checked from head to toe. It was a mild
concussion, and she was sent home with orders to stay in bed for at
least twenty-four hours and for Clint to contact him if there were
any nausea or unusual sleepiness.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

Maggie said tersely on the way home, drowsy already from the
office visit and emotional stress. "I'll make up my work."

He took a long draw from his cigarette. "No sweat, Maggie," he
said.

She leaned her head against the window, closing her eyes. She
was already asleep when they got back home, not even aware of being
carried upstairs and tucked in her bed. Not aware of the tall,
solemn figure that sat quietly watching her for the better part of
an hour with an intensity that would have shaken her if she'd seen
it.

The next day, she was sore and stiff, but the headache had
eased, and some of the heartache with it. Another week and she
could go back to the apartment, and Janna, and a new job, and leave
all this behind. All this. Clint. Clint! Her eyes closed
miserably. This time, she'd have to leave him behind for
good. No more trips to the ranch, ever, not even for a few days in
the summer, and Emma wouldn't understand and neither would Janna.
There'd have to be a very good excuse by then. Maybe if she had an overseas
job…

"You'll have premature wrinkles if you keep scowling like that,"
Clint remarked from the doorway.

She spared him a quick glance, noting that he was dressed in a
neat gray business suit instead of his jeans, and his dark head was
bare. He looked more like a businessman than a rancher-and
devilishly attractive.

"Going away, I hope?" she asked sweetly, concentrating on her
cold hands.

"For a few days," he replied, a mocking smile touching his
hard mouth. "I thought that might cheer you up."

"It's doing wonders for my disposition," she agreed.

There was a long pause before he shouldered away from the
door and came to stand beside the bed, his eyes dark green and
strangely solemn as he looked down at her.

"Head better?" he asked.

She nodded. "Lots, thanks."

"Look at me."

The quiet note in his deep voice brought her eyes up to meet his
in a silence laced with tension.

"I want to know," he said, "why you were afraid to touch me that
day by the stream."

She felt and hated the color that warmed her cheeks. "It's over,
can't we just…?"

"Hell, no, we can't!" he shot back, his whole look threatening.
He sat down beside her on the bed. "Tell me."

She pressed back against the pillows in an effort to escape any
physical contact with him. "It's just a game with you," she said
quietly. "You know a lot about women and you can tie me in knots
without really trying, and you enjoy taunting me with it. But
I'm not a toy, Clint, I'm a human being, and I don't like being…
used!"

He stared at her without any expression at all in his dark face. "You thought I was…playing, Maggie?"
he asked.

Her eyes riveted themselves on the silken knot of his tie. "I
should never have come," she said softly, regret in her tone. "That
summer I made a fool of myself is still there, like a curtain you
like to pull down often enough that I'll never forget what I did.
Don't you think," she asked bitterly, "that I've been punished
enough, Clint?"

"I'll agree with you on one point," he said curtly. "You
shouldn't have come. Why I let myself be talked into it…"

"I'll be gone in another week," she reminded him.

"Back to what?" he asked then, his eyes narrow and assessing.
"Back to the two-timing boyfriend? Back to your old job in his
office?"