by Diana Palmer
“Like that icicle you used in The Grinding Tower?” he asked with a chuckle.
“It was a big icicle,” she reminded him. She grinned devilishly. “And impossible to trace, except for the huge patch of wetness on the victim’s shirt, remember?”
“Which your dauntless detective, Matt McDuncan, spotted at the onset. When he found a water spot on the suspect’s jacket sleeve, he knew immediately who the perpetrator was!”
She laughed delightedly. “I was afraid that was going to be terribly obvious, but the readers swallowed it.”
“Fans are always loyal,” he reminded her. His eyes narrowed. “I even forgave you for that rotten crack about McDuncan using the typewriter even with five keys missing because ‘he never used those particular letters, anyway.’“
She followed him out to the Ferrari, hurrying as a few large raindrops spattered down, and let him put her in the passenger seat, still laughing. “Sorry about that,” she murmured. “But John, you do push equipment to the absolute limit.”
He got in beside her, started the big engine and pulled out into traffic with the smooth motions of an old race car driver—a sport which John had dabbled in years ago.
“Old habits die hard, honey,” he reminded her. “When I went to live with my father and we started drilling for oil, we had to jury rig equipment to keep going financially. We could hold a car together with baling wire and hairpins.”
“And now you can afford a Ferrari and a Rolls,” she smiled. “And I’ll bet part of you misses those old days.”
He lit a cigarette. “Most of me misses them,” he admitted. He leaned back against the seat, weaving in and out of traffic lazily. “I used to have time to go riding early in the mornings every day—the way we did last week,” he added, glancing at her quietly.
She stared out at the night-lights of Houston glowing through the rain-streaked windshield. “And direct misguided tourists to snake-filled bunkhouses?” she said, trying to make a joke of it.
He laughed shortly. “Not exactly. I had her going for a little bit.”
“Until you mentioned that part about the ten-foot snakes,” she teased. “And the houseful of illegitimate daughters…”
“I used to have women running in and out of my house,” he admitted, his face thoughtful. “Before I married Ellen.”
She shifted restlessly in the seat. “And since?” She didn’t like hearing about his wife.
“I’ll be forty years old in September, Madeline,” he said, his tone strangely subdued, solemn. “The business takes up practically every waking hour, and I have to sleep sometimes. That’s what I meant, about missing the old days. I didn’t have a lot of money, but I had a lot of time.”
“You make yourself sound like Methuselah,” she grumbled. Her eyes traced his big body. “My gosh, you could run circles around most of your vice-presidents.”
“You’ve got that backward,” he said. “Most of them have kids. They stay active by playing with them.”
There was a bitterness in his tone, and she turned in the seat to look at his hard profile. “You want children, don’t you?” she asked, faintly shocked at the realization.
“Who am I going to leave Big Sabine and Durango Oil to when I die?” he asked quietly, turning into the parking lot under the building that housed his Houston apartment. “My cousin?” he added with a vicious glare in her direction.
She averted her eyes. “Then all you have to do is get married,” she said. The thought made her sick. John, married, with children.
He laughed shortly. “What a novel idea,” he said gruffly. “I can have it drawn up into a contract, can’t I? X number of dollars in exchange for a woman’s body and one male child.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said, torn up inside at the cynicism in his voice. “You make it sound so cold-blooded.”
“It would be,” he replied as he eased the car into a parking spot and cut the engine. His face, in the dim lights of the parking garage, was harder than ever. “If I’m cynical, it’s because life’s made me that way.” He caught a strand of her loosened red gold hair and tugged at it idly. “I told you once that I didn’t mind paying for what I wanted. That’s true, within limits. But I’m not paying any woman for a son. Children should be born out of love, not business.”
“You old romantic, you,” she said with a faint smile.
He frowned at her. “Haven’t you ever wanted children?”
She averted her face. That was a question so deeply personal, she almost resented it.
“I’m too old for that,” she said coolly.
“At twenty-seven?” he burst out. “My God, women are having babies in their forties!” He scowled.
“It’s the commitment, isn’t it?” he said speculatively. “You might be able to manage a loose commitment to a man someday, but there’s no walking away from a child.”
She smiled self-consciously. “You know me pretty well.”
“Not as well as I’d like to,” he said flatly, his eyes suddenly smoldering. “And not in the sense I want to.”
“What sense?” she blurted out before she thought.
But he turned away to get out of the car without answering her.
“Are you really afraid of sex?” he asked as they walked toward the elevator, not looking at her.
The question, coming out of the blue, shocked her. She stared up at him, almost stumbling. “Afraid?” She flexed her shoulders under the cobwebby gold shawl she was wearing over her dress. “I don’t know. I only tried it once, you know, and it was a pretty brutal introduction.”
“He must have hurt you a lot,” he said curtly.
“He didn’t know I was a virgin until he was past the point of caring,” she said, hating the memory. She drew the shawl closer. “I was madly in love, for the first time in my life. Or thought I was. I’ll never be vulnerable again, thanks to Allen. He did that much for me.”
“He did nothing for you,” he countered, his eyes blazing. He glared down at her as they entered the elevator and he punched a button with a vicious jab. “Are you planning to live the rest of your life the way you are?”
Her green eyes widened. “Like I am?” she prodded.
“Alone,” he said.
She leaned back against the wall as the elevator hummed and began to move. “You’re alone,” she said.
“Not all the time,” he said meaningfully.
She glared at him. “I don’t believe in casual affairs,” she said shortly. “I could never be promiscuous, or give myself out of a purely physical urge.”
“And if it was with someone you cared about, who cared about you?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes searched his. “I don’t know.”
“What about if it was with me?” he asked in a deep, velvety tone.
She looked at him as if he’d just suggested that they catch a bellhop and barbecue him over a fire in the lobby. The expression on her face brought a reluctant smile to his dark face, and a twinkle to his eyes.
“What…are we having for supper?” she asked evasively, her face almost the shade of the red highlights in her hair.
He laughed softly. “Wait and see.”
***
Josito served them a delicious meal of beef burgundy with a crisp chef’s salad and homemade rolls, accompanied by a rich port wine with a cheese flan for dessert. John ate his with obvious relish, while Madeline only picked at hers, looking distractedly out the window where flashes of lightning illuminated the jagged shape of the city skyline. What he’d said in the elevator disturbed her. Despite the hunger she had discovered for him, and his equally obvious hunger for her, she’d never consciously let herself think of John as a lover. Now she was forced to think of him in that role, and her own reaction to the idea surprised her.
Her eyes involuntarily skimmed over his hard face, the mouth that had possessed hers so thoroughly. She could almost picture him in bed, his bronzed skin under her hands, that demanding mouth against every inch of her body,
his hands touching her intimately.
“Not hungry?” he asked suddenly, leaning back with his second cup of coffee in his hand.
“Uh, not really, no,” she said uneasily.
“You look embarrassed.” He cocked his head at her, his eyes narrow, searching. “Was it what I asked you in the elevator—if you’d ever thought about making love with me?”
She dropped the coffee cup. The hot liquid splattered all over the linen tablecloth, drenching the remains of her dessert, her napkin, and spilling into her plate. She gasped and jerked back just in time to save her dress.
“Well, that answers that question,” John said with a wicked chuckle. “Josito!” he called.
The little white-coated man came running, assuring Madeline that he could save the tablecloth from being stained, and shooed them off into the living room while he cleaned up.
John was still laughing as he sprawled in his big easy chair and shed his jacket and tie. “My God, what a reaction,” he murmured as he opened the top few buttons of his ruffled shirt.
“My hand slipped,” she said stubbornly. She kicked off her shoes and curled up on the sofa, glaring across at him.
“Sure.” He lit a cigarette and drew up a hassock for his elegantly booted feet.
Madeline stared at the hands folded in her lap. “All right, I wasn’t expecting to be propositioned by you.”
Both heavy eyebrows went up. “I wasn’t aware that I’d propositioned you,” he said with that silky note in his voice that spelled trouble.
“What would you call it?” she asked, starting slightly as a clash of thunder reverberated through the room.
“A straight-out, honest question,” he replied. He took a deep draw from the cigarette. “I want to know if you’ve ever thought of me as a lover.”
“Why?” she countered.
He leaned over and crushed out the barely touched cigarette with a vicious motion. “Because we can’t go back,” he said shortly. “I told you that earlier, and I meant it. Now that I’ve had a taste of you, I’m going to want more.” He met her eyes levelly. “That’s human nature, honey, and you aren’t any more immune to me than I am to you.”
“Don’t rush me….”
“Rush you, for God’s sake!” he growled, getting to his feet to tower over her—big and masculine and sensuous with his shirt half unbuttoned over that bronzed, massive chest. “You’ve had two years!”
“I won’t be added to the Ferrari and the ranch and the oil corporation!” she flung at him.
He sighed angrily. “What makes you think you would be?”
“You’re so overwhelming, John,” she ground out, avoiding his penetrating gaze. “You…possess things.”
“I’d like to possess you, all right,” he said in a voice she’d never heard before. “All of you, right down to your dainty little feet.”
“Hush!” she whispered, glancing toward the kitchen. “Josito will hear you!”
“Josito won’t hear anything over this thunder,” he informed her. “But if it bothers you…” He stalked off toward the kitchen. There were muffled voices, a pause, and then John came striding back out with Josito right behind him.
“Good night, señorita,” the little man told Madeline with a mischievous grin, his jacket over his arm. “I will see you later, Señor Durango,” he added before he went out the door, closing it firmly behind him.
“Oh, now look what you’ve done,” Madeline wailed, sitting up straighter. “He’ll think you’re planning to seduce me!”
“I am,” he said matter-of-factly.
“That’s what you think!” she returned, searching the floor for her shoes. “I’m going home!”
He caught her by the shoulders as she stood up, and held her just in front of him to study her with quiet, searching eyes.
“I know,” he said with a sigh. “I’m going too fast.”
She looked up at him, feeling dwarfed without her high heels. His hands on her bare shoulders were warm and strangely comforting.
She laughed suddenly, nervously, and dropped her eyes to the wide expanse of chest visible where his elegant shirt was unbuttoned. Its stark whiteness only emphasized his dark tan.
“I feel like a teenage girl on her first real date,” she admitted self-consciously. “And I suppose I’m acting like one. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been this close to any man.”
“And what’s been happening between us is pretty new,” he added with a faint smile.
She glanced up at him with the old sparkle in her green eyes. “I’ll bet this is a new twist for you,” she said with sudden realization.
He cocked a dark eyebrow. “What is?”
“Having potential conquests try to break down doors getting away from you.” She let her hands rest against his warm shirtfront, savoring the smooth feel of it. “I imagine you have to beat them off with sticks most of the time.”
“I’ve found a few hiding under the bed,” he chuckled. “But you don’t fall into the category of a ‘conquest.’ Or a one-night stand. Or a casual affair.”
She caught his silver eyes and searched them. “Then what am I?”
He drew in a deep, slow breath while his hands tightened, drawing her closer. “Something mighty special, if you must know. I trust you.”
She laughed. “I used to trust you,” she said with a wicked look.
“You liked kissing me,” he challenged, looking down at her arrogantly. The mustache curled. “That’s why you ran like hell. But you didn’t stay away long, did you?”
“No,” she admitted. She let her forehead rest against him, and it was like a homecoming. “I hate the way it’s been between us these past few weeks. The arguing, the remoteness…I thought about being without you forever, and I couldn’t bear it.” Her fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt and her eyes closed. “I had to know if you were mad at me.”
“So you came rushing over with a twelve-pack of beer in the middle of the day?”
“Something like that.” She sighed, and then smiled amusedly. “When I saw you coming, I wasn’t sure whether to give it to you or throw it at you. You looked dangerous.”
“I felt dangerous. Ask Josito how I’ve been this past week.”
“I hear the rubber tree’s made the endangered species list at your house,” she murmured.
“So has Josito, if he’s been crying on your shoulder,” he informed her.
“Don’t pick on him. He’s nice.”
“So am I, as long as you’re around,” he said.
She drew back to study his craggy face. “Not always,” she murmured, her eyes finding secrets hidden in his.
He touched her mouth with a long, gentle finger and traced its soft red contours, watching it intently. “Men are notoriously not nice when they’re aroused,” he murmured.
“I wouldn’t touch that line with insulated gloves,” she informed him. “Do I get a second cup of coffee, or had you planned to carry me off to your cave by the hair of my head?”
He laughed shortly. “I wouldn’t pull out a single hair if it cost me one of my prize bulls,” he said, reaching to bury his hands in it. “I love the feel of it, the wildflower smell of it.”
“Poetry?” she whispered.
His eyes met hers. He was so close that she could see the lines beside them, the thickness of his dark eyelashes. His chest rose and fell quickly, roughly where her hands rested. “The only lines that come to mind are about the Light Brigade—want to hear it? Or would you rather I make it up as I go along?”
The contact with his big, warm body was having its usual devastating effect on her. Her lips parted as she watched his head bend.
“It’s…like a drug, isn’t it?” she whispered as his mouth brushed against hers.
“What is?” he murmured, pressing his lips to her cheeks, her closed eyes, her nose.
“Kissing,” she replied. Her fingers brushed against the buttons on his shirt and she wanted suddenly to touch him with a hunger that
made her tingle all over.
“Ummmmm,” he replied, more interested in learning the contours of her face with his lips than in conversation. He bent suddenly and lifted her clear off the floor, moving toward the sofa with her.
“Go slow with me,” she whispered, burying her face in his warm throat. “It’s been a very long time.”
“For both of us,” he said enigmatically. He sat down, holding her across his lap, her cheek against his shoulder. “Would you like it blunt, with no dressing up? I’m half-exhausted. I did more work today than I’ve done in weeks, and I’m feeling it. And tomorrow morning I’ve got to be up at six to attend a business conference out of town. A little light lovemaking is all I’m up to—despite the fact that I want you like hell every time I touch you.”
She breathed a little easier, but her eyes remained troubled. “Where are we going together?” she asked uncertainly.
He brushed the hair away from her eyes gently, studying her like an exquisite painting. “To a new place,” he murmured. “Full of discovery and surprises. Don’t be afraid.”
“Of you?” She smiled up at him. “You’re my friend. I’d do anything for you.” The smile faded as she searched his darkening eyes. She reached up to touch his mouth, and the mustache was velvety against her fingertips. “Anything, John.”
She could feel the heavy, hard shudder of his heartbeat under her. His eyes were turbulent, his hands suddenly rough as they curled her body into his. Outside, the wind and rain raged unnoticed.
“I can’t go back to the way we were before,” he said quietly. “You do realize that? I won’t pressure you into something you don’t want, but a platonic relationship is out of the question now.”
She toyed with a pearly button on his shirt. “Yes, I know that,” she admitted. She let her head slide back against his hard-muscled arm, staring up at him lazily, unblinkingly. Her body felt strange, welcoming, her mind registered a new and urgent hunger. Unconsciously, she stretched like a kitten, the lines of her body fluid as it arched slightly, her breasts lifted to push against the clinging gold fabric of her gown.