Friends and Lovers

by Diana Palmer

  “I wish you’d see my doctor,” he said. “I’m not sure I trust the one you went to.”

  “He was your doctor!”

  “The company doctor,” he agreed, “not my personal physician.” He stared at her contemplatively. “Suppose I have them set up an appointment for you?”

  “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary,” she said quickly. “I’ll be just fine. See, I’m not even nauseated anymore,” she assured him as she tried to sit up.

  “Just stay where you are,” he shot back, holding her. His eyes were suddenly level with her own, and she could feel his warm, smoky breath. “It’s not that big a car. Suppose we had to pick up a stranded motorist or something—where would he sit if you moved and started taking up more space?”

  She tried to resist a smile. “He? It might be a gorgeous buxom blonde, and then what would you do?”

  He considered that, and the mustache twitched.

  “I guess she’d have to sit on Josito’s lap,” he laughed softly.

  She linked her hands around his neck. “Are you insinuating that I’m fat, Mr. Durango?” she murmured coyly.

  He chuckled down at her. “Oh, no. Not fat.” His hands found her thickening waist and pressed very gently, moving down to her hips and back up again, under the jogging shirt onto the bare skin of her back. “Not fat at all, Miss Vigny,” he murmured, rubbing his nose provocatively against hers, the mustache almost touching her lips. “Just deliciously voluptuous.”

  “John, you promised,” she reminded him as her pulse pounded wildly.

  He grimaced, his hands stilling on her shoulder blades. “I guess I did,” he admitted reluctantly. He brushed his mouth against her nose and then released her, easing her down to a sitting position beside him. “Feel better?”

  “Yes and no,” she murmured provocatively.

  “You’d better stop right there, Satin, before you get in over your head,” he told her. His eyes ran over her possessively. “God, you’re lovely! You were always a knockout, but lately you’re staggering.”

  She dropped her eyes to his open-necked shirt. “How you do go on, Mister John,” she drawled, blinking her long eyelashes at him.

  He smiled at her. “I guess I do.” Then his expression became completely serious. “Honey, why won’t you marry me? Won’t you even think about it?”

  She gazed up into his eyes and nodded slowly. “I—I’ll think about it. But no more pressure tactics. Please. I have to make up my own mind about this. And I need a little time.”

  “Whatever you say, Satin,” he murmured, drawing her close. “Whatever you say.”

  ***

  If only it had been that easy, she sighed, staring around her at the forest of roses. The scent was overpowering, and despite John’s promise to stop pressuring her, they kept on coming every day.

  She knew he thought he was giving her the time she’d asked for, so she made no protest. She couldn’t expect him to change his ways overnight. But when she discovered that he was turning up in all the places she frequented, she put her foot down.

  “You’re following me,” she accused late the next week when she “accidentally” bumped into him at a liquor store in one of the malls.

  He drew her aside, away from the man behind the counter and his three customers, into an aisle stocked with wines. “What are you doing here?” he asked her, his voice lowered. “You shouldn’t be drinking. I thought the virus gave you nausea?”

  God alone knew of a virus that could last for weeks, but apparently John wasn’t even suspicious about it, thank goodness.

  “I’m not buying something to drink,” she whispered. “I am getting a small bottle of rum with which to make a rum cake. I know how you like rum cakes, and they don’t taste the same with artificial flavor.”

  He frowned thoughtfully down at her. “Well, I suppose most of the alcohol does evaporate—but get some coconut rum,” he added. “If you use half that and half dark rum, you get an unforgettable cake.”

  She gasped. “How ever did you learn that?” she asked in her slowest drawl. “You don’t know how to cook!”

  “Josito told me,” he said.

  “Well, I won’t argue with Josito,” she said. “Coconut rum it is. Now why are you following me? You were at the grocery store—the grocery store, for Pete’s sake!—and then yesterday you were at the pharmacy. Today you’re here…. John, I’m better, honestly I am.”

  “I know that,” he grumbled. “You even look better. But those damned things hang on. You might feel dizzy again, and who’d look after you?”

  “Nobody would do it the way you do, and that’s a fact,” she sighed, half-amused, half-flattered. “I know you want to give me the time I asked for, so you’re watching over me without actually making contact. But you really don’t have to go to these lengths, you see. You could call me once in a while, you could have dinner with me….”

  “When?” he shot back. “Tonight? What shall I bring?”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “All right, tonight will be fine. You can bring a bottle of port to go with the spaghetti and garlic bread.”

  “Are you going home now?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir, just as soon as I buy my rum,” she agreed smartly.

  “See that you do,” he said, turning away.

  She stuck out her tongue at his departing back.

  ***

  Actually, she had good intentions about going home. But she hadn’t banked on having a flat tire on the way.

  “How could you do this to me?” she asked the little yellow car as she stared helplessly at its flat rear tire. “I rescued you from months of having to listen to that grinning salesman tell lies about you, from having total strangers feeling your upholstery. And you do this to me!”

  She opened the hood with a sigh and got out the lug wrench and jack, and proceeded to try to figure out how to get the car off the ground. She actually had the jack put together and was sliding it under the little car when there was a screeching of brakes.

  She knew before she turned who it was. Sure enough, the Ferrari was parked across the street and John was walking toward her as she straightened from her task.

  “What the hell are you doing?” John bellowed at her, his good intentions apparently forgotten.

  “I’m changing a tire, of course, what does it look like?” she asked haughtily, annoyed at his autocratic manner. “Do you suppose I like standing here looking like a fool?”

  “I don’t know, do you?” he countered, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. “Get out of the way. This is man’s work.”

  “How dare you!” she burst out, flattening herself against the side of the car to prevent him from getting the jack. “This is not the Victorian age, mister, and you may own an oil company, but you don’t own this car or me!”

  “I’m going to,” he said calmly. “Get out of the way.”

  “You are not!”

  “You’re going to marry me,” he informed her. “And soon. I’ve had about as much of this waiting as I can stand. My nerves are raw from trying to watch out for you while you make up your mind.”

  “And what do you mean by that?” she demanded.

  Across the street a crowd was gathering to watch the show.

  “I mean you’re driving me nuts, does that make it any clearer?”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Who, me?”

  “You!” His face hardened. “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t even do the job the stockholders expect me to do. My whole life is devoted to making sure you don’t kill yourself!”

  “How can jogging down a quiet street and buying a bottle of rum constitute suicide?” she asked with biting sarcasm.

  “What would you call trying to change a flat tire in your condition!” he flung back, his eyes fiercely accusing.

  She felt the blood slowly leaving her face. “What do you mean, my condition?”

  He drew a deep breath, started to speak, and changed his mind. “I mean, my dear, you ar
e just recovering from the flu,” he ground out. “You don’t have any business overexerting in this damned heat!”

  She cocked her head at him, studying the hard, poker face that gave nothing away under its deep tan.

  He sighed disgustedly. “Will you please move, your ladyship, or do I have to lift you out of the way?”

  “I’d like to see you try,” she challenged, knowing immediately that in his present state of mind it wasn’t the thing to say.

  He bent, lifting her before she had time to react, and cradled her against his chest as he crossed the street to where the Ferrari was parked.

  “John Cameron Durango…!” she began.

  He stopped at the passenger door of the sleek black car and bent his dark head to kiss the breath out of her, ignoring the small crowd of amused onlookers.

  She didn’t even struggle. The touch of his mouth was new, exciting, and she loved the feel of it against her own. The slow, sweet pressure drugged her senseless as the sun beat down on them.

  He drew back a breath. “Still want to argue with me?” he whispered unsteadily.

  “More than ever, if that’s my punishment,” she whispered back, parting her lips invitingly.

  He chuckled softly. “Wait until I get you home, honey,” he murmured. He set her down and opened the door. “Get in. I’ll have someone come back for the VW.”

  “You’re going to just leave it there?” she asked.

  “Well, it isn’t going to drive itself away,” he pointed out.

  Her lips pursed mutinously. “You might at least get my purse for me,” she coaxed.

  He looked up at the sky, his eyes pleading for strength. “All right,” he muttered, starting back across the street.

  “Man’s work, is it?” she grumbled to herself, easing across the car into the driver’s seat. “Driving him nuts, am I?” She leaned out the window as she started the powerful engine. “I’ll leave your car in my driveway,” she called sweetly. “You can trade me the VW for it!” And she roared away, leaving behind a giggling bunch of spectators and a bitterly cursing John Durango.

  ***

  He knew. She was absolutely sure of it now. It explained his strange attitude recently, all the pampering, all the unexpected meetings. He knew about the baby, and that was why he was pressuring her to marry him. He wanted the child—and he wanted her, physically at least. No child of his was going to be born illegitimate, no sir. Damn the personal sacrifice. He had probably figured it was all his fault, anyway; he had that much of a sense of responsibility. He hadn’t taken precautions, so it was up to him to take the consequences along with her.

  She was crying bitterly when she got back to her house. She left the Ferrari in the driveway, with the keys in it, and ran inside and locked the door.

  It seemed like hours before the tears stopped. At about the same time there came a furious knock on the front door.

  She sat up on the sofa. “Go away!” she shouted tearfully.

  “Open it or I’ll break it down,” came the taciturn reply. “Your choice.”

  A premonition about the repair bill decided her in a flash. She got to her feet quickly and, drying the tears with the back of her hand, opened the door.

  John’s eyes were blazing, his face stormy, but when he looked down at her sad little face, he softened visibly.

  “I brought your car back.” He handed her the keys. “Are you all right?”

  That deep concern in his voice almost made her knees buckle, but she only nodded, determined to present a calm front. “Thank you.”

  He looked as if he wanted badly to say something but didn’t exactly know how to start. He made a strange little gesture with one big hand.

  “See you,” he bit off, turning.

  She stared tearfully at his broad back. He’d gone to all that trouble because he was worried about her, and she had repaid him by throwing pies in his face and leaving him to change a flat tire in the blazing sun. A sob worked its way out of her throat. He wasn’t even going to blow up at her.

  “John!”

  He froze in his tracks, without turning. “Well?” he asked testily.

  “Sup…supper’s at seven,” she blurted out.

  There was a long pause, and she was afraid he wasn’t even going to answer or, worse, refuse. “I’ll be here,” he said finally, and left without looking back at her.

  She went back inside and closed the door. This wouldn’t do. It just wouldn’t do. He was so obviously upset, and it was her fault as much as his. She couldn’t marry him. She couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to let him assume the burden of both her and the child just out of a misguided sense of responsibility. If he loved her, it would be different. Her eyes closed on a wave of anguish. If he loved her…!

  But that was like wishing that grass would turn to silver with diamond dewdrops. She’d wondered why he wanted to marry her—now she knew. John felt guilty, that was all. And he’d always been fond of her. He wanted her. But none of that added up to love. And Madeline couldn’t settle for anything less, not for a lifetime. A marriage that was entered into for any reason less than love on both sides automatically had two strikes against it. She worshipped the ground John Durango walked on, but unrequited love would eventually turn to ashes. The torment of loving and not being loved in return would kill her.

  There was no longer any need for time to make up her mind. She had made her decision. It was far better for her, and for John, if they stopped seeing each other, and if she left Houston. That was what she was going to tell him tonight.

  She spent the entire afternoon making a special spaghetti sauce, preparing a chef’s salad and homemade garlic bread to go with it. And for dessert she made John the rum cake he loved.

  It was nerve-wracking; she dreaded telling him her decision. But it would be for the best. She repeated that like a litany while she showered and rifled the closet for something to wear. The black dress was definitely out, unless she could slit it all the way down one side from breast to toe, and she hadn’t bought another evening gown. So she decided to be casual and dressed in powder blue slacks with a pale blue patterned flowing cotton blouse. She left her hair long, because he liked it that way. Then she sat down and tried to find something to keep her busy until he arrived.

  Time dragged horribly, and her own thoughts tormented her. These past weeks had taught her how much a part of her life John was. They’d taught her one more thing—that living without him was going to be nothing more than existing. The baby would compensate, of course. Her hands touched the slight swell of her stomach and she smiled. Oh, yes, the baby would compensate. She drifted off into a lazy daydream about John holding their soft little baby in his big arms.

  She got out of the chair and went to make tea. That kind of thinking would get her nowhere. She had to be strong.

  She opened the door at seven sharp, and found John on the doorstep with a bouquet of yellow and white daisies. Like Madeline, he’d opted for a casual suit of denim, expertly cut, with an open-necked, blue-patterned shirt.

  “Read my mind, did you?” he asked, indicating her own casual outfit in a complementary shade of blue.

  She laughed softly. “Looks like it, all right. What’s the matter, did the florist run out of roses?” she asked, tongue-in-cheek, as he handed her the daisies.

  He looked briefly uncomfortable. “Well, you said you were tired of them, didn’t you?”

  “I was. Thank you, John. I love daisies, too.”

  He lifted his head as he removed the Stetson and scowled. “What do I smell besides coconut?”

  “Roses,” she sighed, indicating the living room, which was a fragrant riot of vivid color.

  He chuckled. “Overdid it, didn’t I?” he asked.

  She shook her head as she went off to find a container of some sort for the daisies. “A little. But I really did love them.” In desperation, she pulled out a small vase and made a flower arrangement out of the daisies while he stood in the doorway and watched.

>   “Spaghetti, I believe you said?” he remarked. “Do I get to eat it this time, or are you planning to pour it in my lap again?”

  “Just be thankful that you aren’t getting a cream pie for dessert,” she pointed out.

  “Oh, hell, I forgot the wine,” he said abruptly. “Want me to go out and get some?”

  “No, that’s all right,” she said quickly, turning. “I’d just as soon have milk, myself, if you’ll settle for coffee or iced tea.”

  “Suppose we both have milk?” he asked.

  She eyed him coquettishly. “What a comedown.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, watching her intently as she moved around the kitchen, setting the small table, laying out trivets, moving the spaghetti to the table, pouring the sauce.

  “Be sure you don’t miss anything,” she chided gently. “Want to count my teeth?”

  One corner of his mustache went up. “I like looking at you. Do you mind?”

  She flushed like a young girl and bent to retrieve the garlic bread from the oven. When she had finished pouring milk into the glasses, she gestured for him to sit down.

  “We could eat in the dining room, but it’s so cluttered right now with my notes and drafts….”

  “I kind of like the kitchen better,” he admitted, seating her before he pulled out a chair and sat down next to her.

  They ate in a strained silence. It wasn’t like old times, when John would be telling stories about the oil company’s early days, or about some of the places he visited on business. Or when she’d try out new plots and characters on him, to get his reaction. Now they seemed to have nothing to say; it was as if the pain of memory was lying heavily on them both.

  When they finished—neither of them had shown any real appetite—Madeline led the way into the living room, leaving John to carry the coffee service on a tray. He set it down on the coffee table and plopped down next to Madeline on the sofa.

  “Is this where you tell me you’re leaving Houston?” he asked matter-of-factly, staying her hand as she reached for a cup.

  She gaped at him. Her mouth fell open and she gasped at the unexpected question.

  “That’s what I thought,” he sighed bitterly. “All this special treatment, right down to my favorite dessert…. Why the hell didn’t you just come out with it? No guts?” he added with a cold smile.