Friends and Lovers by Diana Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

admitted. “Imagine enjoying a murder. There’s something wrong with a world that makes entertainment out of tragedy, don’t you think?”
    “That is for the philosophers,
señorita.
” Josito laughed. “Not for me.”
    “Well, I’m going to see John. Uh, he isn’t in a bad mood or anything?” she fished.
    “Black,” he said. “Absolutely black,
señorita.
One hopes that his mood will improve someday. It is discouraging to spend hours creating the perfect soufflé, only to have it flung into the soup because it was creased.”
    “He didn’t!”
    “
Sí.
That was just before he poured the coffee into the rubber tree plant because it was too weak.”
    “Oh, the poor rubber tree,” she moaned.
    “Poor me,” he corrected. “Señorita Vigny, if you need a victim for your next book…” he suggested hopefully.
    “You wouldn’t want me to knock off my friend, would you?” she teased.
    “He is nobody’s friend in this mood,” he muttered. “Business must be indeed wearing to make him so unpleasant.”
    “I’ll see if I can cheer him up for you,” she promised, more nervous than ever. “Thanks, Josito.”
    She stopped by a package store on the way and got a twelve-pack of beer. It was blazing hot, almost summer, and the sun was high. Presumably John wouldn’t be alone, and if she remembered the old-fashioned way of haying, they’d all appreciate something cool to drink. After the hay baler made neat work of the yellow green hay, it was left in long rows in the field. A platform truck would drive along between the rows, the men walking alongside heaving the bales up onto the slow-moving truck. It was a long, arduous process, much harder than haying with a unit that baled and stacked all in one. Of course, John had one of those units. But it was ten years old and ready to junk, and he wouldn’t replace it because the mechanics could still fix it.
    When she got to the Johnson bottoms, near the river, there were two men attacking the broken-down machine with tools, red-faced and cursing, while John and half the ranch hands walked alongside two huge platform trucks and tossed bales onto them. There were storm clouds looming on the horizon, and Madeline suddenly understood why so many workers had been turned loose on this one field. The hay had to be in before the rain.
    Madeline parked the little yellow Volkswagen at the beginning of a row and cut the engine, counting heads. There would be just enough beer to go around.
    It took John a minute to see her, but when he did, he made a beeline in her direction. He was bare to the waist, his hair-matted chest and flat stomach like polished bronze, slick with sweat; his battered black hat jammed down over his eyes. He was peeling off the thick work gloves as he came, his face as dark as the storm clouds gathering in the distance.
    He opened the passenger door and eased his jean-clad legs inside the small car. The scent of hay and pure man filled the car as he turned, an arm over the back of the seat, to stare at her.
    “Hi,” she said nervously, shy with him as she’d never been before.
    “Hi, yourself,” he said curtly. “What are you doing here?”
    She stared into his hard face, remembering vividly the feel of his mouth on hers, the brush of the mustache on her sensitive skin, the blaze of desire in his silver eyes.
    “Uh, research for my next book,” she said, indicating the cans of beer. “Poisoned beer. I’m looking for volunteers so I can see the grisly effects.”
    The mustache twitched involuntarily, and he studied her smiling face as if he hadn’t seen it for years.
    “I think I can find you a couple,” he murmured. He drew in a deep, slow breath and removed the hat, wiping his forearm over his brow. “God, it’s hot out there.”
    “Don’t you want a beer?” she asked, reaching for a frosty tall can.
    He caught her wrist gently, and the smile faded as he looked straight into her eyes.
    “No, I don’t want a beer,” he said softly.