by Diana Palmer
“Was it?” He reached out, tucking a careless finger into the V-neck of her blouse to tug her gently toward him. But he didn’t release his hold on her. That long, maddening finger slowly traced the beginning slope of her breasts under the thin fabric. She was suddenly and shyly aware that she wasn’t wearing a bra. And judging by the look on his dark, taut face, he’d just discovered that as well.
The effect of the light, disturbing caress was beginning to be very visible, especially to the silver eyes that dropped pointedly to the thrust of her high, small breasts against the thin cotton.
His eyes moved back up to capture hers, to watch the nervous excitement sparkle in them. She tried to back away from that tantalizing finger, but he slid a rough hand around to her back and caught her, forcing her slender body against the long, powerful lines of his own.
“Oh, no, you don’t, honey,” he murmured, and his hand spread out at her throat, so big that it almost covered the tops of her breasts in a contact that wasn’t really intimate but had the full effect of intimacy.
“John, what are you doing?” she squeaked, her fingers clutching at his big arms to push him away.
“What do you think I’m doing?” he growled. “I’m making a pass at you. What does it feel like?”
She gaped up at him, fascinated, frightened, her body trembling as if he’d stripped her and was stroking her naked skin. “You’ve never touched me…” she whispered.
“You’ve never wanted me to,” he reminded her. His hands slid down her body to her buttocks, pressing her hips into his in an intimacy that she should have protested, but didn’t—couldn’t. “Until last night.”
“I didn’t,” she protested weakly.
“You were so jealous of Melody, you could hardly see straight,” he accused tautly. His hands pressed her closer to his blatant masculinity. “As if you had a damned thing to be jealous of…come here!”
Even as he spoke he bent his head and for the first time she felt the hard, warm crush of his mouth over hers. The mustache tickled and his lips were roughly insistent, forcing her mouth to open, to admit the sharp, deep penetration of his tongue. She felt it teasing hers as his hands moved up, sliding under the blouse to caress the softness of her bare back.
She gasped and a long, shuddering moan slipped from her throat as her fingernails involuntarily dug into his big arms. He smelled of smoke and saddle leather and expensive cologne, and his big body was damp where she was riveted to it. It was incredible, to be making love in broad daylight, to be kissed so passionately, held so intimately, by John….
“Kiss me back,” he ground out against her trembling lips. “You wanted to touch me earlier, do it now. Stop holding back, damn it!”
The words were like a dash of cold water, penetrating the fiery mist of passion. She looked up into a face hard with passion, into silvery eyes that glittered with new, barely leashed hunger.
She shook her head as if to clear it. “No,” she whispered, disbelieving. Her mouth hurt from the hungry pressure of his, her knees felt like rubber. “No, we’re…just friends….”
He took her hand and pressed it, palm flat against the furious shudder of his heart, breathing heavily as he watched her face. “Feel what you do to me,” he growled, “what you’ve always done to me. Just friends? Like sweet hell, we are!”
“No!” She dragged herself out of his arms, her eyes as wild as her hair as she moved out of his reach and stood trying to catch her breath. “I won’t let it happen, I won’t!”
“It already has,” he said curtly. His eyes slid over her rigid body, up over the pointed tautness of her breasts, taking in the accelerated breathing that caused her chest to rise and fall unevenly.
With a cry of mingled shock and outrage, she turned and ran for her horse. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be, not with John; not with the only man she trusted. What he was offering was too sudden, too unexpected.
“Madeline!” he shot at her.
She was already astride the little mare, her eyes wild as she looked at him.
“It’s too late to run from it,” he said quietly, his gaze dark and steady.
“Oh, no, it isn’t,” she said in a choked voice. “I won’t see you again, John.”
“You will,” he said softly. “Because what we just had wasn’t enough—for either of us.”
With a muffled curse, she whirled the mare and urged her quickly into a gallop, the wind tearing through her hair. Never, she thought wildly, never, John Durango! She closed her eyes against the memory of his hard, expert mouth, against remembered pleasure. The horrible thing was that he was right, it hadn’t been enough….
Chapter Four
Madeline walked around in a daze for the rest of the morning, wondering at the lightning change in her relationship with John. She was confused by her own reaction to him, by the vague hungers he’d created. She thought she was frigid after her brief, disastrous relationship with Allen. She’d thought she was immune.
Allen. She hadn’t thought about him in a long time, but the hurt came back with diminished force as she sat over her electric typewriter looking at the splatters of rain that started to fall against the windowpanes.
It had happened over two years ago. She’d met Allen at a writer’s club meeting. He was an architect who dreamed of writing a novel and Madeline had encouraged him. He hadn’t sold his book idea—sadly, he didn’t have the talent to back up his ambition. But while Madeline had been trying to help him, she’d also been falling in love. And he’d encouraged her, promising happiness, promising forever. His ardor had been demanding, persistent. In the end, he’d worn her down.
The morning after she’d given in to him, she woke up with memories of more discomfort than pleasure but dreams of happier nights together. And then he’d dropped the bomb. He’d begun to tell her about his wife, about how trapped he was. There was a little boy. He begged her to forgive him, he must have been out of his mind, but he’d wanted her so much and he’d had no idea that she was a virgin….
She got up from the typewriter and walked aimlessly around the room. The memory of that day was the blackest in her life. She’d almost gone over the deep edge. She could remember being very calm about it, ushering Allen to the door, closing it quietly behind him without a word. She’d made herself a pot of coffee and had gone to the typewriter to work with a fury all the rest of the day. Then she’d had a few drinks and decided to go for a walk in the rain—in the middle of the night. She wound up at the opera, which was miles away, and couldn’t even remember how she’d gotten there. But she started across the street in the driving downpour. And suddenly there had been the scream of brakes. A tall, furiously angry man in dark evening clothes and a white dress Stetson had climbed out of the white Rolls Royce and proceeded to give her hell.
That had been her introduction to John Cameron Durango, who’d paused in the middle of his furious tirade to lift her gently into the front seat of the elegant car. He’d taken her home with him to the penthouse apartment where he stayed when he couldn’t get out to the ranch. John had given her dry clothes, plied her with good black coffee, walked her until her legs ached and put her to bed in his guest room. It was the beginning of a strange and beautiful friendship, and the instant rapport they’d established that night had never diminished. They’d found worlds of things they had in common, and had finally reached a point where he could start a sentence and she’d finish it. He seemed to actually read her mind.
She went over last night and this morning again and again, wondering at her own odd behavior at the party. She had been jealous of that little blonde, and because of it she’d flirted harder than usual with John.
Over the years she’d been curious about him more than once; she’d wondered how it would feel to be kissed by him. Now she knew. Oh, how she knew!
Her own hungers shocked her. She’d promised herself that she’d never let another man get as close as Allen had, that she’d never let herself be hurt again. But she knew she
was never going to be able to keep John Durango at arm’s length. He was as bullheaded as she was, and years more experienced—thirty-nine to her twenty-seven. He, too, had loved and lost, though Madeline hadn’t known him when his wife Ellen died. Since then he’d been seen with a trail of women, except for the past year or so.
He’d been extremely selective recently, as if his playboy image had begun to bother him. The gossips had gone wild over that about-face, wondering if there was a special woman in his life. But John’s private life was exactly that, private, and he shared it with no one except Madeline. And there was a lot that he kept even from her. She’d been curious about his affairs with women, curious about his marriage, but she’d never asked. She wasn’t sure she would have liked the answers.
The phone rang suddenly, and she jumped. She ran to answer it, vaguely hoping that it might be John. Was he going to pursue her so quickly?
She grabbed the receiver with trembling hands, her heart slamming wildly in her chest as all kinds of pictures flashed across her mind.
“Hello?” she whispered.
A chuckle came over the line—a voice not as deep as John’s—and Madeline’s heart sank. “My goodness, who were you expecting?” Donald Durango laughed. “I’ll have to tell Cousin John that he’s got competition.”
“Oh, hi, Donald,” Madeline said, recovering quickly. “How are you this morning?”
“Just fine. You left so suddenly last night, I never got a chance to issue my invitation to supper tonight,” Donald said. “How about it? I’ll have Maisie fix pepper steak and peach cobbler,” he added temptingly.
She glanced out the window at the rain which was now streaming down the windowpanes and frowned. “I don’t know. It looks pretty awful outside, and they’re predicting heavy thunderstorms….”
“Are you sure that’s the reason?” Donald teased. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Big John would explode if he knew you were spending the evening with me?”
“Don’t be silly,” she chided. “I’m not afraid of John, and he doesn’t tell me with whom I can associate.”
“He’d like to, especially where I’m concerned,” he reminded her.
“John has a blind spot about you,” she told him with a laugh. “He just doesn’t appreciate your great intelligence and charm the way I do, though heaven knows I’ve tried to help him.”
Donald sighed. “It’s my own fault in a way. If I hadn’t been with Ellen so much…He hasn’t been the same since she died. Well, how about supper?” he asked gruffly.
That bit about Ellen hurt unexpectedly. Of course John had loved his wife, they’d been childhood sweethearts, and the wedding had had a Cinderella quality about it. Madeline had read about John Durango years before she met him. He was a legend in Texas politics as well as business.
“Supper?” she murmured absently. “Well, I suppose I could.”
“I’ll come after you,” he assured her. “About five-thirty?”
“That sounds fine. See you.” She hung up, staring at the receiver.
It wasn’t going to please John that she was having a meal with his cousin, but then, she’d never knuckled under like most women he knew. She lived her own life in her own way.
She stared at the typewriter keys blankly. It still seemed like a dream. Her whole body tingled with the memory of John’s hungry ardor, the feel of his hands touching her.
“Go away, John, and let me work!” she muttered aloud. Even when he was out of sight, he haunted her. Was this what she could expect from now on?
***
The skies were dark and the rain was violent, when Donald came by for her.
“I’m glad you came after me,” Madeline told the blond-headed man at the wheel of the big Lincoln.
Donald tossed a blue-eyed glance in her direction and grinned boyishly. “No doubt. It’s not the best time to drive around for fun.”
She leaned back against the seat, and the action made her slinky black pantsuit cling even closer to her slender body. She sighed. “Funny, you driving a Lincoln,” she murmured, “and John driving a Ferrari. Personality-wise, it’s odd. You really ought to switch cars.”
“John only looks conservative, darling,” he chuckled. “I am conservative. The cars match us exactly. It’s just that you don’t know Cousin John quite as well as you think.”
“What an understatement,” she murmured, remembering his kiss with a vividness that destroyed her peace of mind.
“Your trouble, little lady,” he said conversationally, “is that you’re repressed. What you need is a man.”
She blinked at him. “Stuffed or mounted?” she asked politely.
He laughed delightedly, guiding the big car around a deep puddle of water in the middle of the lane. “Writers,” he murmured.
“Artists,” she murmured back with a laughing, sideways glance. “What are you doing these days?”
“Getting ready for an exhibit, as usual,” he informed her. “Which is why I wanted you over for supper—you can help me pick the twenty best canvases. I’ve already brought my favorites down from the garage apartment where I usually work and arranged them all around the living room for your inspection.”
“I’m flattered.”
He glanced at her. “You ought to be. I’m particular about letting people see my work before it’s on display.”
She smiled. “I’ve never understood why you work so hard at painting. Granted, you’re very talented; but you’re filthy rich.”
“I scratch where it itches,” he replied nonchalantly. “And it makes John mad as hell when I exhibit in the bank where he’s a major stockholder,” he added with a grin.
“You aren’t!” she burst out.
He tossed her a triumphant smile. “Oh, yes, indeed.”
Madeline laughed in spite of herself. She could see John turning the air blue. It wasn’t so much that he disliked art as that he disliked being put in a position where he had to be courteous to his hated cousin. Even the head of Durango Oil couldn’t raise hell in the lobby of a very conservative bank—it wouldn’t be good for business. And it might give the edge to the competition—where Donald was the major stockholder.
“You and John are worse than the business rivals in that TV series we all watch and love,” she accused him. “Are you sure you haven’t been taking lessons?”
He scratched his blond head. “Now that you mention it, I did just happen to jot down a note or two.”
She leaned back with a sigh. “Looks like I may have to take one or two of my own—from that nice lady who always separates the bad guys.”
“You do that, sugar,” he teased. “But don’t stand in the middle.”
“Never,” she promised. Her eyes followed a thin streak of lightning down to the horizon. “Whew, it’s getting rough out here!” she said. “The last time we had electrical storms like this, we had a tornado or two.”
“Never happen,” he assured her. “It’s just a little lightning. Relax.”
He turned the corner and pulled the car in between the two stone pillars that marked the long driveway to his suburban house. Parking the car up in front of the sprawling brick house, he cut the engine. “Want me to fetch you an umbrella, or will you risk that elaborate hairdo under your cute little hat?”
She touched the brim of the beige rain hat that matched her coat and smiled. “I’ll make a mad dash for the door, if you don’t mind. I tend to trip over umbrellas and have them open unexpectedly in cars.”
“Suit yourself. Here goes!”
***
Dinner was delicious. Maisie, plump and petite, hovered over them—setting food on the table, refilling coffee cups, taking away empty dishes—so unobtrusively that she didn’t interrupt the lazy flow of conversation.
Afterward, Madeline followed Donald around the living room, frowning over the delightful landscapes that were his specialty. With their delicate pastels and misty settings, they had a fairyland quality, an elusiveness that was uni
que. Madeline had one of Donald’s paintings herself. It occupied a place of honor over her mantel, and when she was particularly troubled she sometimes felt as if she could walk into the tranquil scene.
“Odd,” she murmured, studying a painting of a gazebo in a rose garden, “how tranquil your paintings are, when you aren’t tranquil at all.”
“We all need bits of peace at times,” he murmured.
She lifted the canvas. “Definitely this one, and…oh!”
She jumped at the sudden flash that was immediately followed by darkness and a thunderclap that shook the whole house. She almost dropped the painting from the shock. The room was pitch-black.
“What happened?” she gasped.
“Power lines are down somewhere,” he muttered. There were odd noises, like canvases falling, easels being displaced, chairs being knocked over, accompanied by muffled curses. “I’ve got a flashlight around here somewhere. Aha, here it is! I’ll just turn it on and…damn!” There was a rattling, a metallic sound. “No batteries,” he sighed, and there was a thud.
“How about a candle?” she suggested.
“Oh, I’ve got two of those, right here beside me.”
“Well, light one!” she called. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling chilled and a little frightened in the darkness.
“With what?” he asked politely.
“A match, stupid!”
“I don’t smoke!” he shot back.
“Then rub two of your easels together and make a fire,” she grumbled. “Be resourceful!”
“Come over here and kiss me,” he said with a gleeful theatrical laugh, “and we’ll set the place aflame!”
She laughed defeatedly. “Well, then…ah!” The lights came back on and she slumped with relief.
“Fast work,” Donald muttered, rubbing his knee.
“I hate Houston in the spring,” she said, leaning against the table for a minute. “The humidity and the rain are bad enough, but the thunderstorms are truly awful.”
“Amen. Now, back to the job at hand, my dear….”
***
A week went by, a slow miserable week during which she made a stab at beginning the research on her latest book and set up an appointment with a friend in the police department, to learn something more about murder, drugs and drug dealing.
