P.s. Love You Madly. Bethany Campbell

Wrong, said something deep and unexpected within her. It signifies him. Why does that make my heart rattle like a trapped thing shaking the bars of a cage?

      She shook her head to clear it, but his image wouldn’t go away.

      Emerald sat in the armchair watching her closely. “You certainly fussed over him,” she accused. “Was it because he’s handsome?”

      Darcy turned from the mirror with an innocent air. “Handsome? Was he? I didn’t notice.”

      “Ha,” sneered Emerald, polishing the studs on her gloves. “He’s handsome and you noticed. But you’d better remember—he’s the enemy.”

      “He’s not ‘the enemy.’ Don’t be melodramatic.”

      “I don’t have to,” Emerald said with a superior look. “He was melodramatic enough for everybody. He roars up to the door like a fire-breathing dragon. He rants. He raves. And then he falls over.”

      “He wasn’t himself,” Darcy said defensively. “He was ill. I don’t think he knew how sick he was. His fever affected his judgment.”

      “It was kind of cool how he keeled over that way,” Emerald said, pulling on her leather glove and admiring it. “Like he had the plague or something. I wonder if that’s how they did it during the Black Death.”

      “Oh, really,” said Darcy, turning from her in irritation.

      She picked the bookworm up from the floor. She set him on the worktable and adjusted his antennae.

      “Anyway, you have to call Mother,” nagged Emerald. “That man’s in the hospital—somebody’s got to tell his family. She’s the only one who knows anybody, so you’ve got to. Unless you want his people to just get a cold, soulless call from the police.”

      “I thought you considered them the enemy,” countered Darcy. “Why all this tender concern?”

      “Well—” Emerald shrugged “—I have taken a vow of chivalry and courtesy and all that. Besides, it sounds like some of them might be on our side.”

      Our side. Their side. Darcy fought not to flinch. She didn’t want her mother hurt by a frivolous and possibly dangerous romance, but neither did she want battle lines drawn.

      Nor did she relish being the bearer of bad news. When she called her mother, she would deliver bad news not once, but three times over.

      First, she and Emerald had learned of Olivia’s headlong affair, something Olivia had obviously wished kept secret, at least for now. Second, BanditKing’s family was also upset about the romance, sufficiently so to send Sloan English. And third, Sloan had been carried off to the hospital—and who knew how sick he was?

      “Of course,” said Emerald, “I could ask Rose Alice to call. She wouldn’t be scared. She doesn’t mince words.”

      Darcy wheeled to face her sister. “I’m not scared. It’s just that this is—a delicate matter. I have to think how to do it.”

      “Just spit it out the way you usually do,” Emerald said. “You’ve always been mother’s daughter in that.”

      “All right, fine,” Darcy grumbled, hooking her thumbs in the back pockets of her jeans. “I’ll call. But I want some privacy. Go take a walk by the lake or something.”

      “She’s my mother, too,” Emerald said, her chin high. “I have a right to stay and listen.”

      Darcy drilled her with a look that would have made Attila the Hun obey. “Out,” she ordered.

      With a resentful expression, Emerald went.

      Darcy watched her leave. Then she gritted her teeth in uneasy anticipation and reached for the receiver.

      OLIVIA FERRAR was a tall woman, slender and straight-backed, with her hair swept back in a chignon. Her face was still lovely, though not unmarked by time. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of her blue eyes and bracketed her mouth.

      The mouth itself was usually set at an amused angle, and the eyes had a cool, irreverent twinkle. She was dressed in a cream-colored caftan that emphasized her graceful carriage, and the diamonds in her ears and on her fingers were tastefully understated.

      Her condo overlooked a craggy strip of dark shore and a foaming sea. Spread on its rented sofa were wallpaper samples, fabric swatches and paint chips.

      The smell of fresh paint hung heavily in the air. The old carpeting had just been, as her decorator said, “terminated with extreme hostility.” Olivia felt as if she were living in a five-room war zone.

      But she had created a fragile island of peace in the front bedroom. She headed for it now, leaving the disordered living room. She was unusually pensive this afternoon, wondering how long she had before she heard from her daughters.

      For she would hear from them. Of this there was no doubt.

      They had been fine when dealing with a mother who had forsworn men. She doubted they’d be nearly so accepting now that she was having a passionate affair. Emerald, especially, would not.

      For weeks now Olivia had come into the refuge of the bedroom with pleasure and excitement. It was where she usually communicated with her darling John.

      She’d put a simple TV table next to the windows overlooking the harbor. On the table she’d set up the new computer, as if she were placing it on a shrine.

      She did not, of course, think of the computer as a god. But it was as if she had miraculously been given a servant with magical powers—a benevolent troll, for instance. It existed to do her bidding, and at any time of the day or night, it fetched and sent love letters with breathtaking speed.

      But today for the first time, the troll had whipped off its friendly mask and shown its ugly side. Its benevolence vanished in a twinkling—and it gave Olivia a frightening glimpse of its infinite capacity for mischief.

      Olivia stared at the shiny little box squatting so proudly on her table. “Trickster,” she muttered. “Electronic toad. Traitor.”

      She sighed and turned away, knowing the computer hadn’t betrayed her secret to her family. The fault was hers. Yet how was a woman to know that a machine so small would have so many confusing features? And that a simple tap of the keys could accidentally send one’s most private thoughts zipping around the stratosphere?

      What made her feel worst was her fear of how the wayward e-mail message would upset her daughters. She loved her girls deeply and worried about them more than they knew. The last thing she wished to do was to worry them in return—especially Emerald.

      Emerald had always needed the safety of her family, and until recently she’d needed it too much. The only friends she had were those in the Medieval Society, and the only time she seemed comfortable was playing a role. A senior at the University of Texas, she’d been offered dozens of scholarships, some quite wonderful. But Olivia knew Emerald would probably reject the best; the thought of going very far from Austin filled the girl with anxiety. For all her flamboyance, she was secretly shy.

      Darcy, in contrast, was independent to a fault. She was talented, she was successful—but she seemed not to care a bit for money. She waved away fat contracts and sweetheart deals, determined to follow her own, often peculiar, interests.

      Darcy was self-sufficient in other, more disturbing ways, as well. Men were interested in her, but she was seldom interested in return, at least not deeply or for long. She claimed she would never encumber herself with a husband. Lately Olivia had been beset by a nagging wish for grandchildren, but she was beginning to fear she would never have them. Perhaps both her daughters were too unconventional for marriage.

      The phone rang, and she knew who it would be. Not John, who would be at work at this time of day. No. It would be her offspring, demanding to know if she’d lost her marbles.

      The phone rang again, and Olivia squared her shoulders. She did not like confrontation, but after twenty years