Friends and Lovers (11 page)

“Live with me,” he whispered. He bent, touching his hard mouth to hers, kissing it softly while she struggled to maintain any sanity at all.

“I can’t,” she breathed.

“You want to,” he countered. “Don’t you?” He lifted her in his big arms while his mouth nibbled at her parted lips, his teeth nipping them gently, his smoky breath mingling with hers as he walked toward the bed. “Do you remember how it was, Madeline?” he whispered sensuously. “You begged me…”

“No!” She struggled with him, hating her own weakness, hating his easy victory. All he had to do was touch her and she capitulated!

“Yes,” he ground out against her mouth. She felt the bed under her back, John’s huge body pressing her deep into the mattress as his hungry mouth invaded hers and knocked the resistance right out of her.

She felt herself go deliciously limp as his hands smoothed away the towel and made slow, sweet patterns against her bare back, her hips, her thighs.

“You’re…heavy,” she whispered shakily when he finally lifted his mouth from her swollen lips.

“It’s all these damned clothes,” he murmured with a faint smile, “not me.” He kissed her closed eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth. “You smell of wildflowers,” he whispered. “And you taste like honey.” His breathing quickened as he shifted, letting his lips wander down her throat, over her collarbone, onto the silken skin of her shoulders and lower, to softly rounded flesh that tautened traitorously under the caress. “Help me undress,” he whispered sensuously.

Her fingers reached up to hold his face so that she could see his eyes. They were dark with desire, smoldering.

“We’ve got to talk,” she said in a trembling voice, her body tingling, aching, from the total contact with his.

“We can do a better job of it without words,” he murmured gruffly. His long forefinger traced the soft line of her mouth, his eyes studying it intently. “Oh, God, I missed you! All I could think about the whole time was how it was between us, the feel of your skin against mine, those sweet, wild little cries….”

“Don’t!” she groaned, turning her face away as the memory made her want to cry.

He tautened above her, then forced her to look at him again. “You’re ashamed of it,” he whispered incredulously.

Her eyes closed. Her mouth trembled. “Yes, I’m ashamed,” she ground out. “Let me go, John. Please.”

Without another word, he rolled away and got to his feet with the grace of a big cat. He stared at her as she rewrapped the towel and sat up, her face the shade of dawn roses.

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?”