Friends and Lovers

by Diana Palmer

  The band was playing one of those lazy two-steps, a sweetly sentimental tune that made Madeline want to bolt and run. Why couldn’t it have been a nice bouncy tune?

  “I’m very sorry that you got landed with me,” she said tautly, standing rigid as he drew her into the conventionally proper pose.

  “You looked as if you’d have preferred running out the door,” he replied. “But that would never have done, would it? Making a scene, God forbid!”

  She flushed uncomfortably, letting her eyes go no higher than his tanned throat, above his black tie. “I come from a long line of conventional people,” she reminded him.

  “With the exception of your late Great-Aunt Jessie,” he murmured with a reluctant smile.

  She smiled stiffly. “With that exception,” she murmured.

  He drew in a long, harsh breath. His hand at her back spread against the silky material of the black dress. Unconsciously he drew her closer until she could feel his powerful thighs brushing against hers as they moved to the sensuous rhythm of the music.

  His warm, strong hand made her tingle all over. The fingers holding her hand suddenly shifted, tangling with her fingers sensuously, easing between them in a tantalizingly slow rhythm.

  His breath was coming hard now, like hers, and she felt it warm and smoky against her forehead.

  “Relax against me,” he whispered unsteadily, “just for a minute. Let me feel…all of you…this once.”

  She shouldn’t have done it, but she couldn’t resist him, not after the anguish she’d suffered in the weeks they’d been apart. She let her body ease against his, letting him take its full weight. His arms slid around her, supporting, clinging to every soft inch of her as his cheek slid against her temple, the mustache tickling a little when his lips touched her skin.

  His fingers bit into her and she didn’t even murmur, so lost was she in the pleasure of contact. Her eyes closed and her arms reached up around his neck to hold him while the music drifted around them and his thighs slid sensuously against hers through the layers of clothing.

  His arms contracted as they turned and she moaned softly at the hard contact with his body, the ache, the pulsing hunger it fostered. Her face nuzzled into his warm throat and she drank in the woodsy smell of his cologne. “John…” she whispered achingly.

  “Closer?” he whispered. “Like this?” He shifted his arms, lowering them, pressing her body into intimate contact with his, and she felt a sudden tremor in his big arms.

  She caught her breath, her face contorting in anguish as she clung. “Oh, don’t,” she whispered miserably, “please don’t, I can’t…bear it!”

  “You still want me,” he growled. “I can feel it.”

  “No!” She drew away from him, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she looked up into his fiery eyes. “It’s all over, you said so.” A single tear escaped from her eye and rolled down her flushed cheek as she remembered. “You said…you didn’t want me anymore.”

  She jerked away from him, turning to walk quickly off the dance floor. He caught up with her as she made it to the door and started out into the night, his arm sliding around her smoothly to draw her into the shadows near one of the tall pillars at the front entrance.

  “Not yet, you don’t,” he growled, holding her against him. “You’re driving me out of my mind!”

  “Wrong girl,” she pointed out, wiping angrily at the tears. “Haven’t you forgotten your little blond friend?”

  He drew an angry breath, shaking her gently. “Forget Melody!”

  “But John, she’s so sweet, so willing, so young!” she reminded him, struggling against the crush of his body.

  “Stop that,” he said in an odd, taut voice, catching her hips to hold her still.

  She leaned her head back to see his strained, hard face. “What’s the matter, John, do I disturb you?” she laughed bitterly.

  “My God, what a question,” he ground out. His eyes were frightening. He studied her face quietly for a long time. “Tell me what my cousin was doing in your room that night.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  He lifted his head, staring down at her. “I’m willing to listen to an explanation, if you have one.”

  “Why, John, how generous of you!” she exclaimed. “What a pity that I’ve decided I don’t owe you one.”

  His hands on her hips tightened. “You’re as hungry for me as I am for you,” he ground out, bending. “And you’ll tell me what I want to know…one way or another.”

  His mouth crushed down against hers, and it was all of heaven. Try as she would, she couldn’t stand in his embrace and pretend to be calm. Her heart threatened to burst, her lungs seemed incapable of keeping up with the demand on them. Her nails bit into the fine cloth of his jacket, her mouth opening to his, her body trembling, and a long, sweet moan came from her throat.

  “Oh, God, I need you,” he whispered into her mouth, nipping at it with his teeth, tracing it with his tongue before he took it, roughly, again. “I need you!”

  She would have said the same thing, but her voice had long since deserted her. She locked her arms around him and yielded without a protest, letting him take what he wanted, giving back everything she had in the way of response.

  His mouth slid against her cheek finally, down into the soft waves at her ear, the harshness of his breathing and the heavy throb of his heartbeat telling her without words that he was as affected as she was.

  “Come home with me, Madeline,” he whispered gruffly, and a shudder of unbearable need went through his big body. His arms tightened, emphasizing the emotion in his voice as he let her feel the aching tautness of his body.

  She gathered herself together, and pushed gently against his chest. Surprisingly, he let her go without a protest.

  She turned away, clutching her purse, and tried to steady her breath. “No, John,” she said quietly.

  “Is he that good?” he growled harshly.

  She whirled, her face flaming at the insult, missing the frustrated pain in his eyes as she met his regard. “Damn you!” she threw at him.

  “Temper, temper,” he chided, eyeing her sparkling green eyes and wild hair with masculine appreciation. “God, you’re pretty when you want to bite!”

  “I’d like to bite you!” she ground out.

  He moved a step closer. “Come home with me, and I’ll let you.” His voice dropped caressingly. “You bit me that night, remember, Madeline?” he murmured.

  She did, and she flushed red. Before she could think up a good retort, he was so close she couldn’t think at all. Her heart pounded furiously and she knew she wanted to go with him. But she didn’t dare, not now….

  “Come home with me,” he murmured. “You know you want to.”

  She drew in a shaky breath and turned her face away. “I’ll admit that I owe you a lot,” she whispered, “for teaching me how to appreciate my body. But I really can’t leave Donald alone any longer. He’s waiting up for me.” She pulled away, but she couldn’t look at him after telling the blatant lie. Only by lying would she escape his bed.

  He went rigid; his eyes faded to ice. “Don’t let me keep you, then,” he said curtly. “After all, honey, one body’s as good as another.”

  She whirled on rubbery legs and walked quickly toward her car. Thank goodness she’d managed to get away before she gave in to him. Loving him, wanting him, she would have gone to the end of the world if he’d asked her to. And she couldn’t let that happen, not when he thought she was a tramp already. She couldn’t reinforce his opinion that she was…easy.

  Tears were rolling freely down her cheeks as she locked the car and started it. Life was beginning to be unbearable without John.

  Chapter Eight

  She lay awake for hours, agonizing over the lie she’d told John. In all their time together, she couldn’t remember ever lying to him before. Whatever he thought of her, even if he understood her vulnerability, she had to tell him she hadn’t gone home to Donald
’s bed.

  She reached for the receiver and lifted it. After all, what did she have to lose? Only her pride, her self-respect…

  The phone rang and rang, and her fingers trembled on the receiver. It was past midnight, but surely he hadn’t gone to bed already. Not John, who was a night owl of the first order. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Had he been as miserable as she? The way he’d reacted to her at the charity ball had proved one thing, that he still wanted her. Perhaps there was still time to patch things up, before the chasm between them got any wider.

  Finally the receiver at the other end was lifted. “Durango residence.” It was Josito’s voice, stiff and troubled.

  “Hello, Josito, it’s me,” she said hesitantly.

  There was a short pause. “It…it is good to hear your voice, señorita,” he said, his tone stilted. “May I be of service?”

  “May I speak to John?” she asked quickly, before she could change her mind.

  Josito cleared his throat. “Momentito,” he murmured. “Uh, Señor Durango, it is Miss Vigny….”

  There was a pause and a burst of profanity, followed by staccato commands too sharp and muffled to be understood. Madeline felt her heart stop in her chest as she waited.

  Josito cleared his throat again. “Uh, señorita,” he began, his voice rigid, “he say…”

  “Tell her, damn you!” she heard John bellow from nearby.

  “I am sorry, señorita,” Josito continued in a slow, pained voice, “but he say he does not want to speak with you and he…he say…”

  “Will you tell her, damn you!” John ground out over Josito’s voice.

  Josito took a deep breath. “He say…he never want…to see you or speak with you…again, and not to…to bother him anymore.”

  Her eyes closed. She didn’t even try to answer. She laid the phone gently back in the cradle and tears bled down her cheeks, into her mouth. She’d never been one to cry, not unless it was something momentous—but then, this was. This was as close to mourning for a living person as she’d ever come. It was as if John had just declared her dead, and was burying her alive. Because without him, that was what life was going to amount to.

  The rest of the weekend went by in a painful haze. Then, Monday morning brought a glimmer of pleasure. Bill Gonnells called to tell Madeline that her house was ready to be occupied.

  She started evacuating the garage apartment immediately, tossing clothes into little heaps into the back of the yellow VW while Donald watched, his hands in his pockets, his eyes wistful. He’d been different lately—more relaxed, happier.

  “I’ve enjoyed having you here,” he said with a smile. “And not just because it annoyed John.”

  She smiled back. “I’ve enjoyed being here. That’s a favor I owe you.”

  His eyebrows went up. “You mean, if my roof ever caves in, you’ll let me stay in the tree house out behind your house?”

  “It doesn’t have a roof, or walls,” she pointed out.

  His chin lifted. “I was a Boy Scout!”

  She shrugged. “Then, it’s yours in an emergency. Donald, I really do appreciate the loan of the apartment,” she added seriously.

  “It was my pleasure.” He eyed her closely. “You’re awfully pale these days. Maybe you ought to see a doctor….”

  She turned away. “I’m just living on nerves, that’s all,” she said doggedly. “Besides, I can’t be sick, I’m gaining weight.” She tugged at the waistband of her slacks. They were unbuttoned because she couldn’t make the button and buttonhole stay together.

  “You still worry me.”

  “How kind,” she murmured, batting her long eyelashes at him. “Now, you will forward any phone calls?” she asked.

  He eyed her closely. “From John, you mean?”

  She flushed. “From anybody.”

  “Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, would you like me to tell him the truth about that night with the champagne?”

  “No,” she said. “Because then I’d have to tell him the truth about the charity ball—I sort of let him think that you were waiting up for me,” she confessed.

  His eyebrows arched. “Why?”

  She grimaced. “That’s a long story. It did the trick very well, unfortunately. And when I tried to call him back and tell him the truth, he wouldn’t talk to me. He said for me not to ever ‘bother’ him again.”

  “Maybe he was just out of sorts and didn’t mean it,” Donald suggested. “He does have a nasty temper.”

  “Maybe,” she sighed. “I’ll just have to wait and see.”

  It didn’t take long. Late that afternoon, the Rolls purred to a stop in her driveway. She watched out the window, heart racing, only to be swamped with disappointment when she realized that it was Josito, not John. He was carrying a small box, and he looked like doomsday.

  She opened the door before he could ring the bell. “Well?” she asked hopefully. Maybe it was a peace offering.

  He placed the cardboard box in her hands. In it were little odds and ends that she’d left at John’s house over the years, including some snapshots he’d taken of her during that time. She wanted to cry as she stared down at the memorabilia.

  “I am sorry,” Josito groaned. “He is like a wounded animal, I cannot even speak with him. What he made me say to you on the phone…I am so sorry, señorita, but he would not even let me call and apologize, he said he would fire me. And he meant it.”

  “Fire you?” she gasped. “But you’ve been with him for…”

  “Sí, that is so,” Josito agreed. He shrugged his shoulders, looking just a bit taller in the dark suit he was wearing. “But he has no qualms about firing people these days. He was always a stern man, but lately he is hard like a brick wall. The night you called, he took a bottle of whiskey to his room and could not lift his head yesterday morning. It is the first time since Mrs. Durango died that I have known him to drink like that.” He shook his head. “When he had sobered up, he made me go through the house and find every single thing of yours and bring it here—that is, to Señor Donald’s house. He told me that you had left.” He sighed. “What can I say?” he asked, spreading his hands. “He flings mashed potatoes on his plate because they are too creamy, he makes me say terrible things to his old friend, you, on the phone. But last week he did the strangest thing—that TV show he watched with you all the time? It came on and he picked up that big pot of African violets on the coffee table and smashed the TV screen with it!”

  She lowered her eyes to the box, although she could barely see it anymore.

  “He’s really had it with me, hasn’t he, Josito?” she asked in a painful, husky voice. She laughed softly. “It’s my own fault, I suppose. I lied to him….” She shook her head to clear her vision. “You’d better get back while you still have a job, and I’ve got work to do, too. Thanks, anyway, Josito.”

  “Sí, señorita. Lo siento mucho…”

  “I’m sorry, too, old friend,” she said gently. “Josito, take care of him. He pushes himself so hard.”

  He nodded. “I will always do that. Even though,” he added darkly, “at this moment it would give me such great pleasure to back one of his cars over him two or three times.”

  “Shame on you,” she chided. “You know how expensive tires are!”

  He sighed. “You do have a point.”

  “Josito…” She avoided his eyes. “Is he, uh, still seeing Melody? She mentioned one night that he was taking her to Nassau for a weekend.”

  “Melody?” He frowned. “Señorita, he has spent most of his nights at the office working himself into an early grave. And when he was not there, he was causing his cowboys to start attending church services.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Preaching to them…?”

  “Oh, no, señorita, they go to church to pray to God to deliver them from him,” he replied solemnly. “Adios, señorita.”

  ***

  The next morning she couldn’t lift her head for a bout of nausea that all
but knocked her to her knees. Overreaction, she convinced herself, just emotional shock from John’s treatment of her.

  But as the days turned into weeks and the nausea didn’t improve, she began to worry. Perhaps it was overwork. She got into bed and stayed there for two days, surprised when Donald showed up one morning with a small canvas under his arm.

  She answered the door in her burgundy velour robe, her hair wild, her face pale.

  “Hi,” she said weakly.

  He gaped at her, his face expressive. “My God, what’s the matter with you?” he burst out.

  “Just a virus,” she promised him. “What’s that?” she added, nodding toward his package.

  He held up a painting of her small house with the little VW parked beside it, and grinned. “Housewarming present,” he murmured. “I thought it might cheer you up.”

  She hated the tears that rushed to her eyes. She’d been horribly emotional lately, so much so that she’d stopped watching sentimental old movies on TV. “Oh, thank you. How very thoughtful, Donald!”

  He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I didn’t have anything better to do….” He eyed her up and down. “Seen John lately?” he asked quietly.

  She shook her head with a pale smile. “That’s all over, you know.”

  He grimaced. “Think you’ll ever forgive me?” he asked.

  She touched his arm gently. “It would have happened eventually, anyway,” she assured him. “Donald, I really have to lie down again,” she added with a smile. “I’m pretty sick.”

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Want me to call the doctor?”

  She shook her head. “It’s just one of those nagging things that comes and goes,” she said vaguely. “But it’s sure the devil to get rid of. It’s sapping my energy. I’ve had to take the typewriter to bed with me,” she sighed.

  “Well, if you need anything, call me, okay?” he asked.

  “You’re a love, Donald. Thank you.”

  He nodded, making a helpless gesture as he turned and went down the steps.

  She turned back into the house and closed the door. If only she could get back on her feet, she groaned silently. Perhaps she just needed to push herself a little harder. It could be just laziness, or emotional depression. She’d spend one more day in bed, and then she’d get up and get back to work.