Friends and Lovers

by Diana Palmer

  His hands were jammed deep in his pockets, his eyes glaring at her. “Talk to me, damn it! What was there to be ashamed of?”

  She stared down at the carpet, hating herself, hating him. “We had something rare,” she managed. “And it all fell apart. Why did you do it?” Her voice broke. “Why did you have to spoil it!”

  “I didn’t rape you,” he reminded her, his voice icy.

  Her eyes closed. “No,” she admitted, “you didn’t. You just took advantage of what I felt for you. You’re just like every other man, John Durango, you only care about what you can get! I’m surprised that you had the patience to wait two years for me, when there were so many Melodys around, just dying to give out!”

  His face paled under its tan. His big body tensed. “Was that all it meant to you?”

  She laughed mirthlessly. “What else?” she asked, although it tore her heart open to dismiss that devastating beauty in two contemptuous words. She couldn’t let him see how vulnerable she was, she couldn’t wind up as just another conquest to be enjoyed for a little while, and then tossed aside. He’d said for years that he’d never marry again. Not that she wanted to marry him, she told herself stubbornly.

  “How did you wind up here?” he asked after a minute, glaring at the surroundings. “Was he sitting on the porch waiting for you?”

  She sighed wearily. “I got home to find my car crushed and a tree in the middle of my living room. You were on your way to Denver and Donald was sitting on Miss Rose’s porch waiting for me. He offered me a home; what could I say?”

  “How about ‘no, thanks’?” he suggested coldly. “You’ve flaunted your relationship with my cousin ever since you first met him. I’ve tolerated it because of our friendship. But living on his doorstep is something else. I can’t take that.”

  “Your trust is overwhelming,” she ground out.

  “It isn’t a question of trust,” he said, and he sounded bone tired. “I thought we had something more permanent going for us than a casual night together. But you quite obviously don’t share that opinion. You know what my cousin is, and how he feels about you. If you’re willing to live this close to him, you must share those feelings. I’ve tried not to believe it, but it’s too obvious now to ignore.”

  “I don’t have buried desires for Donald!” she threw back.

  “Prove it,” he challenged. “Move in with me.”

  She lifted her head proudly. “No.”

  “And that says it all, doesn’t it?” His eyes glittered at her, smoldering with anger barely held in check. “You’ve chosen him over me.”

  “That’s not true!” she cried, standing up. “John, it isn’t that kind of arrangement. I’m not sleeping with him, I’m not!”

  His angry gaze went up and down her with a contempt that made her want to go through the floor. “You, and my cousin…” he grated venomously.

  “Donald,” she corrected. “His name is Donald, why won’t you ever use it…?”

  “Did I hear my name called?” Donald paused in the doorway, wearing a dressing gown over his pajamas; he had a bottle of champagne and two glasses in his hands, a wicked grin on his face. “Sorry I took so long, darling….”

  John seemed to explode. His fist shot out and Donald went flying to land heavily in the middle of the carpet. The glasses crashed around him, followed by the thud of the champagne bottle which, miraculously, remained unbroken.

  “Now, Cousin John, was that polite?” Donald groaned, rubbing his jaw.

  John didn’t even answer him. His accusing gaze was on Madeline’s white, disbelieving face. There was a contempt in his face she’d never seen as his eyes made an insulting sweep of her body in the towel, then darted back to Donald. Without a word, he turned and went out the door.

  Madeline clutched her towel, her eyes accusing as they lit on Donald.

  “What possessed you?” she asked coldly, indicating the mess around him.

  “I heard him asking Maisie where you were, and I thought it would be nice to make friendly overtures,” he said, grinning.

  “Toward whom?” she countered.

  “Don’t be cross, sweet, it was one of those impulses I get occasionally to needle old Cousin John.” He chuckled. “Did you see his face? Whew! I feel fortunate to have come away with only a few loosened teeth and a dislocated jaw.”

  “Would you mind taking the remains of your vulgar impulse out of my room?” she asked quietly. She felt as numb as if she’d died.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “We could still drink the champagne. Or, if you’d rather,” he added with a strange leer, “we could bathe in it together.”

  She walked to the closet and pulled on a robe over her towel. “Good night, Donald.”

  He picked up the champagne bottle with a sigh, his expression regretful. “I’ll have the mess cleaned up in the morning. Mind the glass. Good night.”

  But she didn’t reply. When he was gone, she climbed into bed in her robe and lay there with hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Why hadn’t she realized when she gave in to John that night that it would ruin what they’d had?

  No more lazy days riding horseback with him. No more evenings at the ballet, or watching that television star who looked like him once a week. No more telephone calls late at night just because he was lonely and needed to talk. It was like giving up part of her life, a part that had come to mean everything to her, she realized.

  Would it have been so terrible to live with him, on his terms? To spend every night in his warm, protective arms? To share everything with him?

  She buried her face in the pillow. Well, it was too late now, her pride had seen to that. Rather than admit that she was in love with him, she’d forced him out of her life, and John wasn’t the kind of man to come running back. He was too proud.

  Love. Four letters, one word that had managed to change the world and everything in it. She loved John. Why, oh, why hadn’t she known that before she let him carry her to bed? Why hadn’t she seen it coming?

  Well, it was too late now. John thought she was two-timing him with his despised cousin, and he’d never forgive her. So she had her precious freedom, her independence. And it was as empty as her life was going to be without John Durango in it.

  ***

  She got up the next morning and dressed mechanically in a white sheath dress to meet her policeman friend. She looked ghostly, her face pale, her eyes dull, but skillfully applied makeup restored the bloom to her complexion.

  On her way to the little yellow Volkswagen, she met Donald, who had obviously come out of the house to intercept her.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Sorry about last night. Are you okay?”

  She couldn’t resist that smile, even though she’d wanted to kill him hours before. “Yes, I’m okay,” she replied. “It’s just as well, I suppose. John and I weren’t seeing eye to eye anyway lately.”

  “That’s my girl. Where are you off to?”

  “Reno’s,” she replied, naming a downtown restaurant in Houston’s vast office plaza with its avenue of shops and underground garage. “I’m doing research on the next book.”

  He frowned slightly. “I suppose you know that’s one of Cousin John’s watering holes?” he asked quietly.

  She blanched. The last thing in the world she wanted was to run into John now. But it was too late to call Sergeant Mulligan and change the meeting place; she was due there in just ten minutes. She’d have to chance it.

  “My, what a thoughtful expression,” he mused.

  She laughed mirthlessly. “I’m not thinking, I’m praying. How was the champagne, by the way?”

  “Delicious. The whole bottle. Well, good luck.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured. “I may need it.”

  ***

  Madeline had met Sergeant Jack Mulligan during her stint as a reporter, and he’d been an invaluable source of information ever since. He worked in the homicide investigation department and he’d forgotten more about police work than most
rookies had learned. Except for confidential information or current cases, he didn’t mind sharing what he knew.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” Madeline told him over a plate of spaghetti, after an hour of intense questions about a particular case she was interested in. “Especially on your day off.”

  Mulligan only smiled, his grizzled face hard from all the sights and sounds that the public rarely witnessed. He smoothed back his silver hair. “My pleasure. I’ve never forgotten that book you dedicated to me. My wife drags it out every time we have a visitor.”

  “That was the least I could do.” She sipped her coffee, her eyes surveying the restaurant every time someone new walked in.

  “Anything else you need?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact,” she murmured, smiling, “I could use some information on drug dealing in the city. I’m using a drug ring as background, and I want to be as accurate as possible. I’ve had a lot of cooperation from the Drug Enforcement Administration on it—they’ve been great. But I need some more detailed information on the local scene. I want to know what it’s like for a policeman who goes undercover.”

  “Simple,” he said. “First he stops shaving and bathing, then he adopts a glazed expression and learns how to fake toking on a reefer.”

  She blinked at him, her fork poised in midair over the plate of barely touched spaghetti in its rich, thick red sauce. “I beg your pardon?”

  He put down his fork. “Okay, madam detective, this is how it goes….”

  He slowly went through the structure of the narcotics organization—right down to the types of marijuana, where they came from, how they were imported, who sold the drug, who bought it and how to smoke it. Madeline feverishly jotted down the information in her black notebook, hoping that she’d be able to decipher the scribbles later. It was too involved to memorize.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” he asked finally. “It still fascinates me, and I’ve worked the streets for twenty years. It’s a dirty business, and the dirtiest part is when you realize how many fine, upstanding citizens are financing it. The roots of corruption are thick and deep, and it’s a constant battle trying to clip them. The tragedy is that most of the pushers are well known to police—even some of the sources. But you can’t arrest a man without evidence, and getting it is an uphill battle.”

  “Getting an indictment isn’t too difficult, is it?” she asked.

  “Nope. But getting a conviction is,” he said with a world-weary smile. “You can spend weeks building a chain of evidence to arrest a pusher, have him arraigned and brought to trial—only to have a sympathetic jury turn him loose on some technicality.”

  “Which is why policemen cry in their beer?” she murmured.

  “Not exactly. We just work harder.” He sipped his coffee. “That reminds me, the rescue boys were really tickled about that wood you donated for their firewood raffle.”

  “I hope it goes over. A firewood raffle in late spring…”

  “Oh, they won’t hold the raffle until fall,” he corrected. He grinned. “They’ll stack up that firewood and let it age through the summer.”

  She laughed. “I should have known.” The smile faded as she looked up straight into the flashing eyes of the big, craggy-faced man in a pale gray vested suit and matching Stetson, who was just walking in the door with three other businessmen.

  “Uh-oh,” she whispered.

  Sergeant Mulligan followed her stare. “Friend of yours?” he asked.

  “Good question,” she replied.

  John Durango excused himself from his companions and strode toward Madeline’s table, hat in hand. He looked like impending doom, and she braced herself for trouble. Surely he wouldn’t make a scene!

  “What the hell kind of games are you playing?” he asked without preamble, glancing only momentarily at her companion. “I told you it was over, why are you deliberately following me?”

  She gasped. “Following you?”

  “How else can you explain your presence in my favorite restaurant?” he growled, and his eyes were contemptuous.

  “I am having lunch with a friend,” she said coldly. “Not chasing after you. I do not chase after conceited men who think they are God’s gift to women.”

  “You’re not very selective, are you?” he asked, glaring at Mulligan. “Isn’t he a little old for you?”

  “Don’t let the gray hair fool you, son, I just graduated from high school,” Mulligan said dryly.

  John wasn’t amused. At that moment he looked as if he hadn’t smiled in his life. He glared at Madeline.

  “Since you were desperate enough to come looking for me, we might as well talk.” He pulled up a chair and sat down, tossing his Stetson on the empty seat next to Madeline. “Get rid of your friend, and we’ll discuss it.”

  “I will not, and there’s nothing to discuss,” she shot at him, hurting deep inside at his coldness. Once, John wouldn’t have dreamed of speaking to her like that, or suspecting her of being promiscuous. Now he was looking at her as if she’d opened up shop as a hooker.

  “No?” John sized up Mulligan. “Are you another one of those underworld characters she pumps for information?”

  “He is not!” Madeline gasped, glaring at him. “I don’t know any underworld characters!”

  “Oh, no? What about that retired smuggler you used to write to?”

  “Will you shut up?” she squeaked, glancing apprehensively at Mulligan, who was trying to smother a grin.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if you had a hit man somewhere in your retinue of acquaintances—” John glared at her. “You know the worst kind of rabble!”

  “Well, your friends aren’t the cream of society either,” she threw back. “What about that evil-smelling drunk who came to my dinner party with you at Christmas?”

  “He was my father’s first rigger, and what you smelled was some cologne of mine he borrowed!” He drew in an angry breath. “And he was not drunk!”

  “What would you call it?” she asked hotly, glowering. “He tried to feed liver pâté to my Norfolk Island pine!”

  “He was trying to dispose of the damned stuff so he wouldn’t have to eat it,” he informed her.

  “You ate yours!”

  “Like hell I did, I stuffed it in my pocket,” he grumbled.

  She gasped. “I spent hours making it!”

  “Josito spend hours trying to get it out of my coat pocket,” he informed her.

  She glared across at him, her eyes sparking. She hated his arrogance, hated his impeccable neatness. Not a hair out of place, as usual, and two women at a nearby table were openly leering at him.

  “This is getting us nowhere,” he said after a minute, his tone curt. “Have lunch with me and let’s talk about last night.”

  “I don’t want to have lunch with you,” she informed him.

  “But you’re going to,” he said in his usual commanding way.

  She smiled tightly. “If you insist. Here, I’ll let you share mine.”

  And, still smiling, she picked up her plateful of spaghetti and poured it slowly into his lap, watching the red tomato sauce ooze down over the pale fabric of his expensive suit pants.

  Jack Mulligan was still laughing when they got to the parking lot underneath the restaurant, tears of mirth in his eyes.

  “I’ll never forget the look on Durango’s face,” he managed. “Remind me never to upset you, lady.”

  She laughed, too, now that it was over. “I don’t know which was worse, the spaghetti sauce or finding out what you did for a living after those nasty remarks he made. And I don’t know any hit men,” she added with a quick, sideways glance.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he chuckled. “Sorry about your lunch. Would you like to go somewhere else and try again?”

  She shook her head. “Thanks anyway, but my appetite’s gone. I really appreciate what you’ve done for me, Jack. If I can ever do anything for you…”

  “You already did,”
he grinned. “I haven’t laughed so much in months.”

  Later, transcribing her notes in the garage apartment, she wondered if it had been such a good idea to ignore John’s overtures. Perhaps he’d meant to apologize for his accusations. Perhaps he’d wanted to make up.

  Or maybe he’d just wanted to get her back to bed. That was what hurt the most, the thought that she might be nothing more than another woman to him: one he was temporarily, but not permanently, interested in. He’d asked her to live with him, of course, but not as his wife. And she’d slowly arrived at the conclusion that what she wanted most in the world was to share her life with John; to bear his children, to love him as long as she was alive. But she didn’t want to be relegated to a hidden corner, like some shameful habit that he didn’t want openly acknowledged. She couldn’t survive being his mistress, not feeling this way about him.

  With a heavy sigh, she got up from her makeshift desk and stared out the window at Donald’s house next door. At this rate, John would finish her off before she finished the book. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when things had looked so dark, so empty. All she could foresee for herself now was loneliness.

  That depression lasted for days, and it took all her willpower not to call Josito and find out if John was in town. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; he wasn’t going to call her. He’d made that perfectly obvious. Probably, she thought miserably, he was escorting Melody around town and hadn’t even minded that Madeline was out of his life for good. After all, there were plenty of women trying to get into his bed. Now she’d joined those ranks herself, and he had only contempt for the easy way she’d given in to him. Probably he’d lost every bit of respect he ever had for her.

  Friday night, Donald, clearly seeing the desperation in her troubled eyes, invited her to go to a disco with him.

  “You’ll love it,” he promised. “They serve a great steak supper, and the music’s loud enough to make you forget your name. It’s brand new and a favorite hangout for the young crowd.”

  She eyed him. “How young?”

  He looked briefly uncomfortable. “If we wear the right clothes, no one will even notice.”