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—cowboy, Andrea thought as she walked into Dare MacLendon's office Monday morning. A damn cowboy. Her shoulders ached miserably, perfectly in tune with her mood. She still felt as if most of her energy had slipped down a black hole somewhere. Anger sustained her and drove her in to work, determined to show that damn cowboy just what he deserved for toying with her like that. She was going to—

—freeze him, Dare realized when his gaze met hers across the conference table that morning. The little minx gave him a look glacial enough to cause frostbite. While the other officers wandered into the room and poured themselves coffee, he met her stare for stare and allowed himself to imagine her lying naked and trembling on his bed, reaching out for him—

—touching his chest, Andrea thought, stroking her hands downward to grasp his buttocks and pull him—

—into her, Dare imagined, ... and reality returned with a crash. Major Francis was pulling out his chair at the far end of the table, the last one to arrive. Dare glanced around, taking attendance mentally. No one missing. "Good morning, people."

In this case, Lee is very successful at relating the two points of view while keeping them distinct and clear. By using this device, she also moves her story along rapidly, far more quickly than she could have using separate scenes from each main character's POV

However, this example is an exception; the dual POV is seldom the best way to tell a story. When you rapidly switch back and forth from one character's POV to another's, the readers may feel like they're watching a tennis match, looking tjuickly from one player to the other and unable to concentrate on either. When readers are deluged with thoughts and feelings from both sides, it's harder for them to empathize with either character. Unless you are very skillful and careful, the readers may even be confused as to whose thoughts they're getting at any particular moment.

If you feel you cannot limit yourself to one POV character per scene, then you should switch from one to the other only when it's absolutely necessary to provide immediate access to the second character's thoughts. Such changes should not be frequent and should be made deliberately, not out of laziness or carelessness.

In this example from her romantic suspense novella Capsized, author Sharon Sala starts with the hero's POV then switches—clearly and strongly—to the heroine's, at the point where the heroine regains consciousness:

The woman was still shivering, despite the pile of covers Quinn had put over her. He knew he needed to get her warm, and the quickest way he knew how to do that was a hot bath. He ran the tub full of water, keeping it as hot as he dared. Hesitating only briefly, he slipped the T-shirt over her head, then carried her into the bathroom. Gently, he began lowering her into the tub, unprepared for any kind of protest. But when the water reached her knees, it obviously triggered a memory she would rather forget. She bucked in his arms, then began to thrash and moan. Before he knew it, she'd swung a fist in his direction. He ducked as she cursed and then swung again. ...

"Lady ... lady ... it's okay. I'm trying to help you, remember? You're freezing cold. You need to get warm."

She swung at him again and slung a long, shapely leg over the side of the tub, still trying to get out.

"Christ almighty!" Quinn said and, in disgust, just let her go. Unprepared for the sudden freedom, Kelly slipped and then sank beneath the water before coming up sputtering, still ready to fight. Only there was no one trying to push her head beneath the water or stick a knife to her throat—just a wet and rather disgusted looking man watching her from the doorway. ...

And then Kelly remembered—everything from the knife sinking into Ortega's chest to the stranger on the shore. He'd probably saved her life.

Sala couldn't start with the heroine's POV because she was unconscious; yet Kelly's thoughts and fears when she does rouse are so important