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her electric typewriter looking at the splatters of rain that started to fall against the windowpanes.
    It had happened over two years ago. She’d met Allen at a writer’s club meeting. He was an architect who dreamed of writing a novel and Madeline had encouraged him. He hadn’t sold his book idea—sadly, he didn’t have the talent to back up his ambition. But while Madeline had been trying to help him, she’d also been falling in love. And
he’d
encouraged
her
, promising happiness, promising forever. His ardor had been demanding, persistent. In the end, he’d worn her down.
    The morning after she’d given in to him, she woke up with memories of more discomfort than pleasure but dreams of happier nights together. And then he’d dropped the bomb. He’d begun to tell her about his wife, about how trapped he was. There was a little boy. He begged her to forgive him, he must have been out of his mind, but he’d wanted her so much and he’d had no idea that she was a virgin….
    She got up from the typewriter and walked aimlessly around the room. The memory of that day was the blackest in her life. She’d almost gone over the deep edge. She could remember being very calm about it, ushering Allen to the door, closing it quietly behind him without a word. She’d made herself a pot of coffee and had gone to the typewriter to work with a fury all the rest of the day. Then she’d had a few drinks and decided to go for a walk in the rain—in the middle of the night. She wound up at the opera, which was miles away, and couldn’t even remember how she’d gotten there. But she started across the street in the driving downpour. And suddenly there had been the scream of brakes. A tall, furiously angry man in dark evening clothes and a white dress Stetson had climbed out of the white Rolls Royce and proceeded to give her hell.
    That had been her introduction to John Cameron Durango, who’d paused in the middle of his furious tirade to lift her gently into the front seat of the elegant car. He’d taken her home with him to the penthouse apartment where he stayed when he couldn’t get out to the ranch. John had given her dry clothes, plied her with good black coffee, walked her until her legs ached and put her to bed in his guest room. It was the beginning of a strange and beautiful friendship, and the instant rapport they’d established that night had never diminished. They’d found worlds of things they had in common, and had finally reached a point where he could start a sentence and she’d finish it. He seemed to actually read her mind.
    She went over last night and this morning again and again, wondering at her own odd behavior at the party. She had been jealous of that little blonde, and because of it she’d flirted harder than usual with John.
    Over the years she’d been curious about him more than once; she’d wondered how it would feel to be kissed by him. Now she knew. Oh, how she knew!
    Her own hungers shocked her. She’d promised herself that she’d never let another man get as close as Allen had, that she’d never let herself be hurt again. But she knew she was never going to be able to keep John Durango at arm’s length. He was as bullheaded as she was, and years more experienced—thirty-nine to her twenty-seven. He, too, had loved and lost, though Madeline hadn’t known him when his wife Ellen died. Since then he’d been seen with a trail of women, except for the past year or so.
    He’d been extremely selective recently, as if his playboy image had begun to bother him. The gossips had gone wild over that about-face, wondering if there was a special woman in his life. But John’s private life was exactly that, private, and he shared it with no one except Madeline. And there was a lot that he kept even from her. She’d been curious about his affairs with women, curious about his marriage, but she’d never asked. She wasn’t sure she would have liked the answers.
    The phone rang suddenly, and