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.
Eight
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, quietly 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.
"No, you didn't, did you?" she asked bitterly. "You
wanted to take the hide off Lida, but she wasn't here and I was.
Maybe things will look up now, since she's coming back."
"Maggie, not like this, for God's sake!" he growled as she
started for the door. "I want to tell you…!" .
"The score's even, Clint, you said so," she told him from the
porch, her eyes accusing. "There's nothing more you can say
that I want to hear. You said it all last night."
His eyes narrowed as if in pain, his gaze searching, quiet, as
if he'd never seen her before and couldn't get enough of her face.
"No, honey," he said gently. "I didn't say enough. Maggie…"
A loud
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.
Eight
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, quietly 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.
"No, you didn't, did you?" she asked bitterly. "You
wanted to take the hide off Lida, but she wasn't here and I was.
Maybe things will look up now, since she's coming back."
"Maggie, not like this, for God's sake!" he growled as she
started for the door. "I want to tell you…!" .
"The score's even, Clint, you said so," she told him from the
porch, her eyes accusing. "There's nothing more you can say
that I want to hear. You said it all last night."
His eyes narrowed as if in pain, his gaze searching, quiet, as
if he'd never seen her before and couldn't get enough of her face.
"No, honey," he said gently. "I didn't say enough. Maggie…"
A loud
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