Friends and Lovers. Diana Palmer

He’d won that proxy fight by a staggering majority, and the sword had been drawn between the two cousins ever since. Donald never missed the smallest opportunity to needle John, right down to cultivating Madeline’s friendship.

      “Care to hang around with me for the rest of the evening?” Donald asked with a grin. “I’ll save you from the lecherous advances and false praise.”

      “And who’ll save me from you?” she countered with a meaningful smile. Her eyes had drifted back to John and Melody and she was scowling again. “If that girl gets any closer, she’s going to melt all over his suit,” she murmured.

      “Rich bachelors aren’t that thick on the ground these days,” he offered. “And she is an eyeful.”

      Madeline barely heard him. She wanted to take the punch bowl and dump its red contents right on top of that bleached blond head.

      “I’ve got to save him,” she murmured. “It’s my duty as a former Girl Scout to rescue your cousin from the lecherous clutches of that money-hungry blonde.”

      Without another word, she started toward the two of them. As luck would have it, Melody must have asked for something to drink because at that moment, with a smile and a wink, John left her and headed for the punch bowl. Madeline, seeing her chance, waylaid him there.

      “Are we speaking?” Madeline asked, peering up at him deadpan. “If not, just nod your head and I’ll slink away into a corner and pretend I don’t know you.”

      Once that would have made him laugh. But his face didn’t soften at all, and his eyes were cold, like iced silver.

      “I’m amazed that you could tear yourself away from my cousin,” he said in a deep, cool drawl.

      “His name is Donald,” she reminded him, looking up. Despite her above average height and spiked heels, he still towered over her. “I’ve never heard you call him by name, but that’s what it is. And I don’t make a habit of ignoring people when they speak to me. You didn’t even bother,” she added venomously.

      He looked down his straight, arrogant nose at her; the thick black mustache made him look mature and virile. Which he was, of course.

      “That works both ways,” he reminded her. “I don’t run after women. I don’t have to,” he added with faint malice and a glance toward Melody.

      That made her furious, but Madeline clenched the brandy snifter and tried not to show it. “She has quite a reputation, you know,” she told him. “She’s just been jilted by her latest conquest, and I hear she’s looking for a greener wallet.”

      He was watching her intently, a slight frown creasing the forehead over his deep-set eyes. “I don’t mind paying for what I want,” he said quietly. “I can afford it.”

      The cynicism in that statement made her want to cry. He’d never believed that a woman could want him for himself; he seemed completely unaware of his own attractions. But Madeline, watching him, wasn’t. She studied his face as if she’d never seen it before: the thick, dark eyebrows, the silver eyes, the craggy contours, the hard yet sensuous mouth under its neat, bushy mustache…his mouth…Her lips parted involuntarily as she stared up at it unconsciously, and she wondered with a curiosity that shocked her how it would feel if she let him kiss her….

      “You’re looking hard, Satin,” he said quietly. “Searching for chinks in my armor? You won’t find any.”

      “Are you sure?” She deliberately moved closer, toying with a pearly shirt button. Under the thin, white silk, she could see the dark shadow of the mat of black hair that covered his massive chest and flat stomach, feel the warmth of his flesh. The sheer masculinity of him made her knees weak, and her own new reactions to him were staggering. Lately she’d wanted to touch him with a hunger that was totally unexpected. And it was increasingly obvious that he didn’t want her touching him in any way.

      Even now, he caught her fingers and moved them gently away from his body. “Flirting with me?” he murmured shortly.

      “Who, me?” She wrapped both hands around the snifter. “I don’t have a suicidal bone in my body.”

      “Don’t worry, I won’t take you up on it,” he said in a deep, angry tone. “I’ve had two years of practice of keeping my distance.”

      She met his cold eyes and felt the words go through her like needles. “You know how I feel….”

      He drew an impatient breath. “My God, one bad experience isn’t any excuse for becoming a nun,” he growled.

      She stiffened. Her full lower lip pouted at him. “You’re like a bear with a sore head lately, John Durango,” she glowered. “If you’re hungry, take a bit of the hors d’oeuvres; I don’t feel like being nibbled on tonight.”

      She turned and started to walk away, but he caught her arm. As usual, the touch of his warm, strong fingers on her bare skin caused her heart to race, her breath to catch. It was a faintly alarming reaction, but she’d never dared wonder why he could cause it when no other man ever had.

      “Don’t run from me,” he said at her ear. He was so close that she could feel the heat and power of his big body against the length of her back.

      “I don’t know what else to do,” she said miserably. “You’re ice cold with me, you act as if you can’t bear to be around me and draw back every time I touch you….” Her troubled eyes met his. “I thought we were friends.”

      His eyes wandered over her face. “We are. Bear with me.”

      She saw the rigid lines in his face, the turbulence in his silver eyes, and she relented.

      “I care about you,” she said gently. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Something’s bothering you. Can’t you tell me what it is?”

      “You, least of all, my dear,” he said curtly. He reached out a careless hand and touched a wispy strand of reddish gold hair that had escaped her high coiffure. “Why do you twist your hair up like that? I hate it.”

      “I’m not a gypsy,” she reminded him. “Long hair goes with bare feet, and our hostess would be shocked.”

      “Shock her,” he murmured, and the mustache curled for the first time that night. “I dare you.”

      “The last time you dared me to do anything, I jumped in the river fully clothed and astounded a carload of tourists,” she reminded him. She laughed softly. “Besides,” she added with a sigh, touching her temple, “I don’t feel like doing shocking things tonight. My head hurts; I’m so tired I can hardly stand, and all I want is to go home and go to sleep.”

      “Then why don’t you?” he asked.

      “Walk out on my own party when I’ve been here for less than an hour?” she asked. “Now wouldn’t that be polite, and after Elise has gone to so much trouble, too.”

      “To hell with diplomacy,” he murmured curtly. His eyes searched her wan face. “I’ll drive you home.”

      “And leave your conquest smoldering?” she asked with a pointed glance toward Melody, who was openly glaring at both of them while a man twenty years John’s junior was trying to get her attention. “No thanks. I’ll get Donald to take me.”

      It was the wrong thing to say—she saw that at once. His eyes went from silver to slate in seconds. “Like sweet hell you will,” he growled.

      Suddenly he bent and swung her easily up into his hard arms, a move so unexpected that she gasped.

      “Close your eyes and moan,” he said curtly. His tone was so commanding that she forgot her independence for once and did as he told her. She felt his big arms around her, smelled the soap and cologne that clung to him, felt the warmth and strength of his magnificent body and wondered at the tiny little tremor that worked its way down to her toes.

      “Why, John, what’s wrong with