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, Mar-garetta 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?"
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. "Mas-terson 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 a
fraid 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 have twisted 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 deja 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.
Books By Diana Palmer Page 50