Friends and Lovers (10 page)

So it had been Donald’s garage apartment or a motel. And there was no way she was going to give John that kind of satisfaction. He didn’t own her, not even after a night like the one they’d just shared. She wasn’t about to be added to his list of possessions, as she’d already told him.

***

The garage apartment was only a stone’s throw from the rear entrance of Donald’s sprawling brick home, just the right size for a single tenant. It consisted of a large, studio-type living room with a foldout bed, a full bath and a combination kitchen-dining room. The living room was rather cluttered with paints and easels but Madeline didn’t mind. She expected to be doing too much writing to worry about the decor.

She unpacked the suitcase Donald had filled, groaning at the obvious omissions. He’d put in slacks, blouses and even a couple of wrinkle-free dresses—but no underthings. Just like a bachelor, she thought amusedly, not to consider what went under clothes. As soon as she had transportation, she’d have to rectify that problem. And she’d just noticed that Donald hadn’t remembered her typewriter, either. That did it. She had to have a car so she could get around on her own.

She changed into her jeans and a blue T-shirt and, after pausing to make a few phone calls, went next door to see Donald.

“May I use one of your cars for a little while?” she asked without preamble, her face worried. “I’ve got to start looking for a replacement for my Volkswagen.”

“What’s the rush?” Donald asked. “You can borrow the Lincoln as long as you’re staying here.”

“Too big,” she sighed, shaking her head, but the real reason for her refusal was a reluctance to depend on anyone other than herself. “Look, I’ve got to have transportation. How about going car shopping with me—if you can spare the time?”

“For you, anything.” He stopped long enough to tell his housekeeper where he’d be, and escorted Madeline out to the big Lincoln. “Hop in,” he said gaily. “What kind of car did you have in mind—a Fiat, a Ferrari…”

“A VW,” she said firmly.

He stared at her across the seat. “You’re not an impoverished writer on a budget these days, you know,” he teased.

“I like VWs,” she replied. “They’re good on gas, they have good acceleration and they’re cute.”

“God deliver me, the last thing I look for in a car is cuteness.”

“I think Lincolns are cute,” she informed him.

He started the car. “Let’s go, for heaven’s sake, before you start talking to it.”

She finally found what she wanted on the sixth car lot Donald drove her to—a little yellow VW that was almost a dead ringer for the one she’d lost; except that it was five years younger and didn’t have dents in the rear fenders.

“This?”
Donald exclaimed, scowling at it.

“Don’t insult my new car,” she defended, patting its little roof. “Isn’t it cute?”

Donald just shook his head. “Have you called the insurance people about your old one?” he asked.

“Of course. I called the repair people, too, they should already be out there.”

“Excuse me for prying into your business, but didn’t you think about getting some estimates first?” he asked.

“I’ve known Bill Gonnells most of my life,” she laughed. “We went to school together. He’s a building contractor. And fortunately he could do it.”

“I know Bill, too, he’s responsible for that garage apartment you’re living in right now,” he told her with a smile. “How about the tree?”

“The Civil Defense people have to get it off the power lines it dragged down,” she said. “They’re going to take the lumber and raffle it off for firewood to buy a Hurst Tool for the emergency unit.”

“Son of a gun,” he murmured. “You are efficient, aren’t you?”

“Well, I didn’t need the wood,” she said. “And it’s for a worthy cause—and I promised to do the press release.”

“You and your causes,” he sighed.

“Old reporters never get out of the habit,” she told him. “I have the greatest kind of respect for volunteer firemen, policemen and rescue service workers. They train on their own time, buy their own equipment and are on call twenty-four hours a day. The paid workers are just as dedicated, too.”

“Do you often tilt at windmills?” he teased.

“Only once a day,” she said. “I’m getting older, you know.”

She went by the house to pick up her typewriter and notes, weaving her way through disaster crews and the contracting crew with a grateful smile. Her little yellow Volkswagen, the old one, had been uncovered, its pitiful roof like a crushed melon. It would have to be towed away and junked, and it was like losing an old friend.

She paused to lay a hand on its crumpled fender, remembering her amusement the first time John had tried to drive it; and the day he was haying, when he’d climbed in beside her and kissed her so hungrily.

Frowning, she moved away into the house and made short work of gathering the things she needed. Minutes later, she was on her way.

Two days went by without a word from John, while Madeline sat at the typewriter and tried doggedly to work out character sketches and locations for the sequel to
The Grinding Tower.
Her schedule had been badly interrupted for over a week, and it was hellish going back to it.

In some ways it had been easier when she wrote at night, after she came home from the newspaper office. She’d budgeted her time more wisely then. After she had quit and come home to work on her novels full-time, she’d fallen into bad habits, the worst of which was driving to the post office early each morning to get the mail. That meant she didn’t get started until late morning, and the lunch break managed to play havoc with her concentration.

Memories were doing that, too. Memories of that long, stormy night in John Durango’s arms.

She leaned over the typewriter, her thoughts straying, her body tingling as she thought back. Even though she was inexperienced with men, she couldn’t help thinking that he’d been like a man who hadn’t had a woman in a very long time. He’d been tender and patient, keeping a tight rein on himself until he’d roused her—so that she held back nothing when they finally, slowly, merged together. But he’d been rigid with the force of holding himself in check; he’d been bathed in sweat. And the second time, he’d been reckless, passionate, totally out of control—he’d apologized for it, and she’d found that strange, too.

She hadn’t expected the wild, anguished pleasure he’d shown her. The memory of pain had been strong, and her faint fear of him had made her fight at first. But his voice had soothed her, his hands had gentled her, and with an expertise that still could take her breath, he’d stroked and touched and kissed her until she’d begged him to end the exquisite torment.

He hadn’t taunted her with her absolute surrender, either, or laughed at her for pleading with him. He’d cherished her like a priceless delicacy, nibbling and savoring her until dawn peeked through the curtains after the night of rain and wind and lightning.

He had barely an hour’s sleep before the alarm clock woke them with its urgent, shrill jangle, summoning John to his business meeting in Denver. Half-asleep, she’d watched him dress with swift, economical motions, too shy to climb out of the bed under his watchful eyes. He’d sensed that, and without a word, he’d left her alone to dress.

They’d barely exchanged ten words when he put her in a cab, and guilt and regret and a strange anxiety were all mirrored in his silver eyes as she left.

She shook her head, staring at the single paragraph that amounted to a morning’s work. He’d been so different the night before. So tender, so caring….

“Don’t let me hurt you,” he’d whispered, his voice taut with desire, his hands slow and gentle as they lifted her, guided her. “I want it to be perfect between us. Absolutely…perfect.”

“It’s beautiful,” she’d whispered back, her voice splintering with the force of her own emotions. Then new sensations had ripped into her with a pleasure bordering on madness.

She closed her eyes, shivering with the memory. She’d never dreamed it was possible to experience that kind of pleasure and live. For the first time in her life, she understood why the French called lovemaking the little death.

She got up and covered the typewriter. This was getting her nowhere. How was she going to write with John embedded in her mind?

She gave up and fixed herself a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee. Perhaps later she could recapture her muse.

But later and still later, she hadn’t gotten past that single paragraph. It was after nine o’clock. She covered the typewriter again and went to take a shower. She might as well have an early night and get some sleep.

The stinging shower spray felt good on her skin. She lathered herself with a floral soap and closed her eyes, feeling once again the long, slow caress of John’s hands, the sound of his deep voice whispering as he told her how exquisite she looked to those glittering, silver eyes in the soft glow of the bedside lamp they’d forgotten to turn off….

She rinsed herself irritably. She didn’t want to remember. Now that she’d given in once, he’d expect it as his due, and it was only one step from there to possession. She wouldn’t become his mistress, she wouldn’t! Despite the fact that she had little family left, there was a streak of old-fashioned morality in her that wouldn’t let her accept such a relationship with him. It had been bad enough to give in to those raging fires he’d kindled. She wouldn’t flaunt her weakness in front of all Houston.

She stepped out of the shower and dried herself on the fluffy blue towel, removing the frilly shower cap to let her red gold hair flow in waves around her white shoulders.

Part of her was still wondering how she was going to explain her residence here to John when he got home from Denver. Knowing how he felt about Donald, even if she didn’t completely understand why, she was going to find it difficult to justify her actions. Of course, she reasoned, she was a big girl now. And despite her growing…fondness…for John, he didn’t own her. She wasn’t going to let that happen.

Fondness. She stood, the towel held loosely in her hands, pondering that word. It didn’t have a lot to do with her gnawing hunger to please him, to give, to share with him. What she felt was something she’d never experienced, something nameless.

She shook back her long hair with a frown. This was getting her nowhere.

Still brooding, she walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom/living room stark naked, the towel trailing listlessly from one hand. There was suddenly a loud slam, footsteps, and before the thought really registered that she had company, the apartment door was flung open and John Durango walked in, fury in every hard line of his face.

Chapter Seven

M
adeline gaped at him, oblivious for a split second to her state of undress.

“Expecting my cousin?” he demanded coldly, and his silver eyes touched every inch of her in expert appraisal.

Belatedly, she fumbled the towel around her with cold, trembling fingers.

“I…I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she said nervously.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he wanted to know, his tone the same one he probably used at board meetings when he was cutting up a subordinate.

She drew herself up proudly, her hair falling in waves around her bare shoulders, her eyes a vivid green in her flushed face. “What the hell business is it of yours?” she replied.

“You can ask me that, after what we shared?” he breathed furiously.

The flush grew hotter and she averted her eyes.

“Did you think you’d own me after one night?” she asked harshly.

“Stop answering questions with questions,” he growled. He made a rough gesture with one big hand, reached for a cigarette, found his pocket empty and mumbled something she was glad she didn’t understand.

“Have you been by my house?” she asked, clutching the towel closer. “Do you know what happened?”

“Yes, I’ve been by your house,” he muttered, and for the first time she noticed that he looked strangely pale. “You might have left a note on the door,” he added tautly. “I had to drag Miss Rose out of bed to find out if you were alive. Which shocked her,” he continued angrily, “because she seemed to have the distinct impression that we were planning to elope.”

She avoided his eyes. “Miss Rose is a hopeless romantic,” she faltered. The tone of his voice had hurt, as if marriage to her was unthinkable.

“Couldn’t you have managed a minute to call and tell Josito?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, subdued. “I’ve been too upset to do much thinking. I had to buy another car, and arrange for repairs…and someplace to live,” she added, lifting her eyes to his. “A tree went through the roof!”

“There was no tree through the roof when I drove buy,” he countered.

“Of course not, the rescue people have removed it!”

“You aren’t making a hell of a lot of sense,” he observed. “And you still haven’t told me why you’re here!”

“Why should I?” she shot back. “I’m free, single and over twenty-one, and nobody, but
nobody
, tells me what to do anymore!”

“Think so?” he replied, smiling coolly.

“I know so!” She shifted uncomfortably. “John, I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Are you living with him?” he asked.

Her temper went wild. “I most certainly am not! For heaven’s sake, what would people think…!”

“They’re already thinking it,” he informed her coldly. “Or did you imagine no one would notice?”

Her eyes closed on a wave of embarrassment. “I had to have someplace to live,” she muttered.

“What was wrong with Miss Rose’s house?”

“The War Widows Historical Society, that’s what!”

“You could move in with me,” he returned.

She went pale at the thought. Living with him, being with him, sitting down to meals with him, watching him around the house, sharing his life…

He moved closer, his face still hard, although his eyes softened just a little. His big, warm hands caught her bare shoulders and held her just in front of him while he studied her.

“Don’t…do that,” she whispered unsteadily. His callused hands made magic where they touched.