Sweet Enemy

by Diana Palmer

“You little brat!” he growled, and, leaning forward, he caught her face in long, merciless fingers, spearing them into the hair at her temples to hold her. “Was it too close to the truth, Maggie?”

  Her hands went up against his chest, pushing at it helplessly. “Let go of me! You think you know so much…!”

  The fingers holding her head suddenly released it to catch her wrists like traps and slam them up over her head, pinning them to the bed.

  There was something strangely ruthless in the way he looked down at her struggling, twisting body, in the burning half-smile that flamed on his chiseled mouth. “Fight me, wildcat,” he murmured in a dangerous, low tone. “I love it when you fight…!”

  She twisted instinctively, but his body went down to half cover hers, pressing her slenderness into the mattress, leaving only her eyes free to struggle.

  The look on his dark face frightened her almost as much as the green fires that burned deep in his eyes, as he looked down at her with something like triumph. His glittery gaze shifted to her parted, trembling mouth.

  “Don’t!” she protested shakily as his dark head moved down.

  He only laughed, softly, confidently. “Try being a woman instead of a cowering child,” he said against her soft mouth as he took it.

  An outraged cry broke from her under the punishing force of the kiss. She was aware of struggling briefly, fighting him until she felt the sting of his teeth against her soft lips, until the warm, steely near-ness burned through the bedclothes against her, until he forced her trembling mouth to part for him and taught her sensations she’d never been capable of feeling.

  She began to relax involuntarily when his mouth eased its pressure and became caressing, seductive, arousing. He released her wrists and his warm, long-fingered hands came down to cup her face, tilting it gently as he deepened the kiss in an intimacy she’d never shared with a man. A soft, barely audible protest broke from her.

  “Not yet,” he murmured deeply, his breath mingling with hers as he nipped sensuously at the soft contours of her mouth. “Kiss me back.”

  Her wet lashes opened lazily over misty, confused eyes, to find him staring back at her. He was so close that she could see the tiny lines around his eyelids, the dark eyebrows above them. Wonderingly, her fingers went up to trace them down to the hint of a frown that wrinkled his brow.

  He drew back slowly, studying her. Her mouth was parted, her hair wild and disheveled, her eyes shimmering with mingled pleasure and awe.

  “Beautiful little cat,” he murmured, and his breath came heavily with the words. His hands slid into the thick tangle of hair at her ears, gently caressing. “Your eyes are like emeralds. I like the way you feel under me, Maggie.”

  Her lips parted as she tried to catch her breath, her heart racing under the warm crush of his chest. “You…hurt me,” she whispered.

  “That’s what it’s all about, little girl,” he said quietly. His mouth brushed hers tenderly. “You bit me,” he whispered against the moist, bruised softness.

  She sighed against the drugging brush of his warm mouth, drowning in pleasure. “You…you bit me back,” she murmured.

  He laughed softly. “With a vengeance. I was afraid I’d drawn blood,” he mused, studying the bruised little mouth so close under his. “I’ve never fought so damned hard for a kiss.”

  Her lips pouted up at him, her eyes clouding. “Well, don’t think I enjoyed it!” she muttered.

  “Didn’t you, honey?” he asked deeply, and leaned down to tease her mouth with his in a heady, coaxing pressure that tore a moan from her throat as she raised up against him in a silent plea.

  But he drew away and stood up in a smooth, graceful motion to bend a calculating gaze down at her. His dark hair was ruffled, his mouth sensuous from the contact with hers. The silk tie was disarranged, and he looked altogether masculine and disturbing.

  He turned away to straighten his tie and his hair in her mirror. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?” he asked carelessly.

  She fought to regain her composure, clutching the bedclothes around her as if they were a lifeline. “Work, I suppose. Did…did you leave any letters you want done?”

  “Not a word,” he replied coolly. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. “Take another day or so before you start back into the routine, little one. I don’t want you to have a relapse.”

  She rubbed her bruised arms and wrists gingerly, darting an accusing glance his way. “That concern is a little late, isn’t it?”

  He smiled rakishly. “Did I bruise you?” he asked without a trace of sympathy in his deep voice.

  “Yes!”

  “And you loved every second of it, you little hypocrite,” he taunted. “I’m almost sorry I stopped. Another few minutes and you’d have been clawing my back to ribbons.”

  She gasped at the insinuation. “How dare you!”

  “You sound like something out of a very old Victorian novel,” he observed, mischief in every line of his face. “Did it shock you that you could feel that kind of violent emotion with a man, Maggie—violent enough to make you bite and claw?”

  She dropped her eyes like hot irons, concentrating on the clasped hands on the bedcovers. “It wasn’t like that,” she whispered. “I was fighting you, not…”

  “I hope you’ll remember this the next time you decide to use those formidable young hands on me,” he remarked.

  “What do you mean?” she grumbled.

  He caught her eyes with a narrow, level gaze, and there was no humor in it. “I want you,” he said bluntly, with no warning. “I don’t take much encouragement, either, and that’s something you’d better remember. You’re not the little girl I used to carry around on my shoulders anymore. You’re a woman, and you feel like a woman, and, God, I like touching you!”

  She blushed to her toes. “If you think I’d let you…!”

  “You just did,” he countered.

  “You didn’t…touch me!” she flashed.

  “We both know I could have,” he said patiently. “You fought me like a tigress at first, I’ll give you that. But you didn’t stop me, did you?”

  She glared at him, but she didn’t deny it. She couldn’t.

  He took a long draw from his cigarette and studied her through narrowed eyes. “I never thought there was any danger of this happening, but I’ve just found out how wrong I was. Watch yourself, little girl. I know a hell of a lot more about it than you do, and I’m not above using every dirty trick in the book when I’m aroused. No man is.”

  She avoided his glance. “You always used to say I didn’t affect you like that,” she told the bedcovers.

  “Honey, you’re not any more shocked about it than I am,” he replied tightly. “I was just teasing you that day by the stream, the same way I’d been teasing you ever since you came here. But when I laid you down under that tree, and felt that soft mouth under mine for the first time…My God, Maggie,” he breathed, “if you hadn’t drawn your hand back when you did, if it hadn’t just happened to hit me the wrong way…” His eyes narrowed as he moved to stand beside the bed, looking down at her broodingly. “You little fool, couldn’t you feel my hands trembling, or did you just not know what it meant?”

  She ducked her head so that the cloud of dark hair hid her face from him. “I didn’t know what it meant,” she admitted miserably.

  “I’m not trying to embarrass you, little innocent,” he said gently. “I’m not trying to seduce you, either, but I’m not immune to you. Maggie, you’re not the kind of woman a man uses. You were meant for a white wedding and children—and those things have no place in my life. You know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “I’ve always known it, Clint,” she said quietly. “You’ve never made any secret of the way you felt about marriage.”

  “I don’t like being tied down,” he said harshly through a veil of smoke. “I can’t bear possession, Maggie. In plain language, I’ve never found a woman I wanted that much, and I’ve
never loved one. It isn’t in me.”

  Her eyes shot to his face. “I don’t remember proposing to you,” she said.

  He chuckled, the seriousness gone from his dark face. “It’s just as well, Irish. We’d kill each other the first week.”

  “Amen.” She traced the pattern on the bedspread. “For what it’s worth, I don’t like possession, either. Or being bullied,” she added impishly.

  He was quiet for a long moment. “Then why were you marrying Philip?”

  “He didn’t dominate me.”

  “Didn’t, or couldn’t?” he challenged. “Could you lead him around by the nose? Was that the attraction?”

  “You go to hell!” she told him.

  He only smiled, his lips mocking her. “You’re going to take a lot of taming,” he said speculatively. “I almost envy the man who’ll get to do it.”

  Only a man like Clint, though, would enjoy it, she thought, would look on it as a challenge and make of it a pleasure that even imagination couldn’t do justice to.

  “The right man wouldn’t have to fight me,” she murmured defensively.

  His face was quiet, solemn, as he searched hers. “What a waste,” he said gently. “I don’t like you submissive, Margaretta Leigh.”

  “How would you know?” she challenged. “You’ve never seen me that way!”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I’d want to,” he replied quietly. “You’re fierce when you fight, Irish. I think you’d love a man just as fiercely. Submission from you would be like possessing a wax doll.” His eyes dropped to her full lips. “I’d like to feel that soft mouth on fire with passion just one time.”

  Her eyes fought him. “You won’t,” she threw at him. “Not ever!”

  “Don’t bet on it,” he murmured softly, and she felt her heart stop at the look in his eyes when he said it. He turned and opened the door, glancing back at the picture she made. “Miss me.”

  “Please, hold your breath waiting for me to.” She smiled sarcastically.

  “Stay away from the horses while I’m gone,” he returned, and, with a wink, he went out, closing the door firmly behind him.

  With a cry of rage, she buried her face in the pillow.

  Seven

  Several days later—his few, plus some—she was back on her feet and too restless to sit still. Walking idly in the pecan grove under a spreading canopy of natural arches, she wondered how it was possible to miss a man so much. Most of her life had been spent away from Clint, but it had never hurt like this. Perhaps, she admitted quietly, because it had only been infatuation before. A wanting that had nothing to do with reality, but had sprung from her girlish daydreams about him. Daydreams that had gone up in smoke at the first touch of his mouth.

  It wasn’t infatuation anymore. She wanted him in a way that terrified her. Not just to sit and hero-worship, but to fight with, and work with, and love with for the rest of her life.

  Her pale green eyes sought the horizon far in the distance. Where was he now? Who was he with? Was there a woman somewhere who could reach that proud, stubborn heart of his and make it throb with longing? She sighed, remembering the sultry look in his eyes when she’d yielded to him. She’d never seen that look on his face before, that dark, masculine triumph mingled with a hunger that was just as exciting in memory as it had been in reality. Clint had wanted her. But wanting wasn’t loving. And she wondered miserably if Clint even knew the definition of love.

  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, unexpectedly, 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 sensuous, 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?”