Friends and Lovers (6 page)

“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 unique. 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.

But all the while, her rebellious mind was on John and the feel of his arms crushing her against his powerful body, and the taste of his hard mouth on hers. She walked around aching, wondering how it would have been if she’d opened his shirt and touched him the way she’d wanted to, if she’d given in completely and kissed him back. She still didn’t understand what was happening to her, but it was slowly sapping her strength, her pride, her willpower.

Friday rolled around and she glared at the telephone on her desk, hating it because it hadn’t rung. Perhaps John was out of town. Or, worse, perhaps he didn’t plan to call her. She’d said she didn’t want to see him again. Surely he hadn’t taken her seriously?

She chewed on her lower lip, her eyes riveted to the phone. After a minute, she picked up the receiver and began to dial John’s number, hating her own weakness. But she had to find out if they were on speaking terms.

Josito answered. “Why, hello,
señorita
,” he said, his voice surprised.

“Hello, Josito. Uh, is John around?”

“Sí
,
”
he said, still uncertain.

“He, uh, hasn’t been out of town or anything?”

“No,
señorita
, he is here at the ranch. Surely he has phoned you?”

“No,” she grumbled, “he hasn’t. Where is he?”

He laughed amusedly. “You will not believe it.”

“That bad, huh? Where is he? Come on, Josito, if you tell me, I’ll tell you who’s going to get the knife in the sequel to
The Grinding Tower
,” she added temptingly, knowing the diminutive man’s passion for her work.

“You will?” She could almost see his face lighting up. He laughed. “All right, then. He is helping the men hay the Johnson bottoms.”

“John?” she burst out. “But he hates haying—he’d rather dig post holes.” She frowned. “Why is he helping? With that baler-loader of his, all it takes is a couple of men.”

“The machine, it is not working,” came the amused reply.

She sighed. “Again, huh? I’ll bet the mechanics have run out of words to call it by now. Well, what is he doing, rolling it into big round bales?”

Josito sighed. “He is doing it the old way, as usual,” he said.

“This I’ve got to see. The Johnson bottoms?”

“
Sí, señorita.
And now,” he said sternly, “who gets the knife?”

“Raggins,” she replied, laughing at his intake of breath. “Well, the old devil deserves it, don’t you think?”

“Oh,
sí!
Most definitely!”

“I hate the silly man, too,” she admitted. “Imagine enjoying a murder. There’s something wrong with a world that makes entertainment out of tragedy, don’t you think?”

“That is for the philosophers,
señorita.
” Josito laughed. “Not for me.”

“Well, I’m going to see John. Uh, he isn’t in a bad mood or anything?” she fished.

“Black,” he said. “Absolutely black,
señorita.
One hopes that his mood will improve someday. It is discouraging to spend hours creating the perfect soufflé, only to have it flung into the soup because it was creased.”

“He didn’t!”

“
Sí.
That was just before he poured the coffee into the rubber tree plant because it was too weak.”

“Oh, the poor rubber tree,” she moaned.

“Poor me,” he corrected. “Señorita Vigny, if you need a victim for your next book…” he suggested hopefully.

“You wouldn’t want me to knock off my friend, would you?” she teased.

“He is nobody’s friend in this mood,” he muttered. “Business must be indeed wearing to make him so unpleasant.”

“I’ll see if I can cheer him up for you,” she promised, more nervous than ever. “Thanks, Josito.”

She stopped by a package store on the way and got a twelve-pack of beer. It was blazing hot, almost summer, and the sun was high. Presumably John wouldn’t be alone, and if she remembered the old-fashioned way of haying, they’d all appreciate something cool to drink. After the hay baler made neat work of the yellow green hay, it was left in long rows in the field. A platform truck would drive along between the rows, the men walking alongside heaving the bales up onto the slow-moving truck. It was a long, arduous process, much harder than haying with a unit that baled and stacked all in one. Of course, John had one of those units. But it was ten years old and ready to junk, and he wouldn’t replace it because the mechanics could still fix it.

When she got to the Johnson bottoms, near the river, there were two men attacking the broken-down machine with tools, red-faced and cursing, while John and half the ranch hands walked alongside two huge platform trucks and tossed bales onto them. There were storm clouds looming on the horizon, and Madeline suddenly understood why so many workers had been turned loose on this one field. The hay had to be in before the rain.

Madeline parked the little yellow Volkswagen at the beginning of a row and cut the engine, counting heads. There would be just enough beer to go around.

It took John a minute to see her, but when he did, he made a beeline in her direction. He was bare to the waist, his hair-matted chest and flat stomach like polished bronze, slick with sweat; his battered black hat jammed down over his eyes. He was peeling off the thick work gloves as he came, his face as dark as the storm clouds gathering in the distance.

He opened the passenger door and eased his jean-clad legs inside the small car. The scent of hay and pure man filled the car as he turned, an arm over the back of the seat, to stare at her.

“Hi,” she said nervously, shy with him as she’d never been before.

“Hi, yourself,” he said curtly. “What are you doing here?”

She stared into his hard face, remembering vividly the feel of his mouth on hers, the brush of the mustache on her sensitive skin, the blaze of desire in his silver eyes.

“Uh, research for my next book,” she said, indicating the cans of beer. “Poisoned beer. I’m looking for volunteers so I can see the grisly effects.”

The mustache twitched involuntarily, and he studied her smiling face as if he hadn’t seen it for years.

“I think I can find you a couple,” he murmured. He drew in a deep, slow breath and removed the hat, wiping his forearm over his brow. “God, it’s hot out there.”

“Don’t you want a beer?” she asked, reaching for a frosty tall can.

He caught her wrist gently, and the smile faded as he looked straight into her eyes.

“No, I don’t want a beer,” he said softly. “Not just yet. You don’t like the taste of it, do you?”

She shook her head, feeling oddly breathless at the growing darkness in his eyes.

He dropped his hat onto the floorboard and leaned toward her, his eyes lowering to her full, parted lips. “I’m going to kiss you first,” he breathed, his hand going to her throat to ease her head back against the seat as he bent closer. “It’s all I’ve thought about for days!”

Her fingers went up to tangle in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, drawing him near, her eyes on his hard, sensuous mouth. “I was afraid…you’d be angry,” she whispered shakily.

“Don’t talk. Open your mouth for me,” he said huskily, his lips parting to take hers.

She felt the kiss like a volt of electricity shattering her body. She gasped involuntarily, clinging to him, her half-opened eyes looking straight into his.

“My God, you wanted it as much as I did, didn’t you?” he whispered gruffly.

He crushed her mouth under his, his tongue darting possessively into her mouth, his body pressing hers back against the seat. She moaned at the hunger he was creating, feeling the abrasive softness of the mustache as his mouth moved with expert sureness against hers. His tongue traced the inner softness of her lips, easing past her teeth to move slowly, suggestively, inside her mouth until she moaned sharply.

His fingers trailed down from her throat to her breasts, outlined by the yellow sundress she was wearing. He traced its low neckline with a caressing touch that caused her fingernails to bite into him.

His mouth bit at hers softly, brushing, teasing. His knuckles skimmed maddeningly over the soft skin left bare by the dipping neckline, barely touching, tormenting her until she arched toward them involuntarily with a faint cry that was muffled under his hungry mouth.

“I can’t touch you like this,” he whispered against her bruised lips, “in front of half my cowboys. Is that what you want, Satin, to feel my hands on you under the dress, against your bare skin?”

“John…!” she cried out, burying her face in his throat while tears dampened her eyes from the intense emotion he’d aroused. Her hands moved down to his chest, helplessly touching him, savoring the hair-roughened feel of his skin under her fingers, the strength in the hard muscles.

His big arms swallowed her, holding her hard and close while she clung to him, trying desperately to get her own shattered emotions back under control. She felt an ache that seemed to go all the way to her soul, an unfamiliar ache that she barely understood.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered in her ear. “We were both too hungry for it.”

She drew back a little, her eyes wet with tears as they searched his. “I feel strange,” she whispered.

“So do I,” he said quietly. “I hurt in a way I haven’t since I was fifteen. You weren’t the only one who caught fire.”

She stared into the fiery gray depths of his eyes helplessly. “I missed you,” she said without meaning to.

“I know. I missed you, too.” He brushed the unruly hair away from her cheeks with a tender hand. “I thought I’d frightened you away for good, and I didn’t know what in hell to do about it.”

She reached up to touch his mouth, the hard curve of his chiseled lips under the smooth, furry mustache. It was exciting to be able to touch him, without having him push her away or get angry.

“I’ll shave it off, if you want me to,” he said against her fingers.

She shook her head, smiling. “I like it.” The smile became mischievous. “In fact, I think I might get one for myself. A handlebar mustache…I could wear it on special occasions.”

“Not around me,” he said firmly. “I don’t much like you in trousers, Satin.”

“You old-fashioned male chauvinist pig,” she said in her haughtiest tone, teasing him and loving every second of it. All the brittle tension between them seemed to have melted away in that one, hungry kiss.

“You’ve got gorgeous legs,” he continued, unabashed, his eyes traveling down the skirt of the dress to her bare calves.

“So have you,” she said with a grin.

He chuckled. “Remember that from sponging me down, do you?”

She laughed up at him. “Hairy, but gorgeous,” she amended. “No, really, most men don’t have nice legs. They have pale, skinny ones. Yours are nice and tan and masculine.”

He smiled at her. “What an admission,” he murmured with a twinkle in his silver eyes. “I didn’t think you’d ever noticed that I had a body.”