"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 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... Maggi
e, 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 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, qui
etly 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.
Books By Diana Palmer Page 51
