by Sandra Brown
“I see.”
Even though he was making an attempt at normal conversation, his eyes hadn’t left her. It was agony to be this close to a friend and not be able to behave normally. She had a million and one questions to ask him, but settled for the one that Carole would logically ask next.
“If you’re here representing the television station, shouldn’t you have cleared it first with Mr. Paschal, my husband’s campaign manager?”
“He knows I’m coming. The production company sent me over.”
“Production company?”
“I’m shooting a TV commercial here next Wednesday. I came today to scout my locations. Didn’t anybody tell you I was coming?”
“I—”
“Carole?”
Nelson moved into the hallway, subjecting Van to a glare of stern disapproval. Nelson was always military neat. He never had a wrinkle in his clothing or a single gray hair out of place.
Van was the antithesis. His dingy T-shirt had come from a Cajun restaurant that specialized in oysters on the half shell. The lewdly suggestive slogan on the shirt read, “Shuck me, suck me, eat me raw.” His jeans had gone beyond being fashionably ragged to downright threadbare. There were no laces in his scuffed jogging shoes. Avery doubted he owned a pair of socks because he always went without.
He looked unhealthy and underfed to the point of emaciation. Sharp shoulder blades poked against the T-shirt. If he had stood up straight, each rib would have been delineated. As it was, his back bowed over a concave torso.
Avery knew that those nicotine-stained hands with the chipped and dirty fingernails were gifted in handling a video camera. His vacuous eyes were capable of incredible artistic insight. All Nelson could see, however, was an eternal hippie, a wasted life. Van’s talent was as well disguised as her real identity.
“Nelson, this is Mr. Lovejoy. Mr. Lovejoy, Colonel Rutledge.” Nelson seemed reluctant to shake hands with Van and made short business of it. “He’s here to look over the house in preparation for the television commercial they’re taping next week.”
“You work for MB Productions?” Nelson asked stiffly.
“I freelance for them sometimes. When they want the best.”
“Hmm. They said somebody would be out today.” Apparently, Van wasn’t what Nelson had expected. “I’ll show you around. What do you want to see—indoors or out?”
“Both. Any place that Rutledge, his wife, and his kid might spend an average day. Folksy is what they said they wanted. Sentimental crap.”
“You can see all of the house you want, but you’ll have no access to my family, Mr. Lovejoy. My wife would be affronted by the crude wording on your shirt.”
“She’s not wearing it, so why the fuck should she care?”
Nelson’s blue eyes turned arctic. He was accustomed to being treated with more deference by anyone he considered of inferior rank. Avery wouldn’t have been surprised if Nelson had grabbed him by the seat of his pants and the scruff of his neck and thrown him out. If Van’s business hadn’t dealt directly with Tate’s campaign, he probably would have.
As it was, he said, “Carole, I apologize for what you just heard. You’ll excuse us?”
Van turned back to her. “See you around, Mrs. Rutledge. Sorry I stared, but you look so much like—”
“I’m used to people staring at my face now,” she interrupted quickly. “Everyone’s naturally curious about it.”
Nelson impatiently inclined his head. “This way, Lovejoy.”
Van gave one last puzzled shake of his head before ambling off down the hallway behind Nelson. Avery retreated to her room, leaning against the door after she had closed it behind her. She breathed deeply and blinked back tears of nervousness and remorse.
She had wanted to grab Van’s skinny arm and, after a jubilant reunion, pump him for information. How was Irish? Was he still grieving over her death? Was he taking care of himself? What had become of the new weatherman? Had he been canned or had he left of his own volition? Had the pregnant secretary delivered a boy or a girl? What was the latest gossip from the sales department? Was the general manager still cheating on his wife with the socialite?
She realized, however, that Van might not be as glad to see her as she was to see him. Oh, he’d be thrilled that she was alive, but once he’d recovered from the shock, she could almost hear him saying, “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Frequently, she had been asking herself that same question. She wanted the story, yes, but her motivation wasn’t entirely self-fulfilling.
Saving Tate’s life had been her ultimate reason for taking the place of his late wife. But was that still operative? Where was the threat that was supposed to exist?
Since coming home, she had been a curious observer. There was some discord between Jack and Dorothy Rae. Fancy could provoke a saint. Nelson was autocratic. Zee was aloof. Eddy was competent to a fault. But none had exhibited anything but adoration and love toward Tate. She wanted to rout out a potential killer, and get the story that would win back the respect and credibility that had been so stupidly sacrificed to poor judgment. Seeing Van had served as a reminder of that.
He’d brought with him the realization that she wasn’t concentrating as much on the incredible story as she was on the people living it. That wasn’t surprising. Detachment had always been the most difficult aspect of her career. It was the only essential element of journalism that had escaped her.
She had inherited journalistic interest and skill from her father. But his ability to discount the human factor hadn’t been part of his legacy. She tried to develop objectivity but so far she had failed. She feared that she wasn’t going to learn it by becoming involved with the Rutledges.
But she could not leave now. The biggest flaw in her carefully laid plan was that she hadn’t left herself an escape route. Short of ripping the whole thing wide open, she had no choice but to stay and take things as they came—even surprise visits from old friends.
* * *
Friday arrived. Avery whiled away the long hours of the afternoon by playing with Mandy in her room after she woke up from her nap. Seated at a small table, they made clay dinosaurs until Mandy got hungry and was turned over to Mona.
At five o’clock Avery bathed. While she applied her evening makeup, she nibbled from a snack plate that Mona had brought her.
She styled her hair with mousse. It was still short and chic, but not as severe as it had been. The top had grown out long enough for her to creatively style it. She accented the smart, sexy, final results with a lavish pair of diamond earrings.
By quarter of seven, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, she was ready. She was in her bathroom, dabbing fragrance behind her ears, when Tate suddenly strode in.
His unheralded and unprecedented appearance stunned her. He slept on the convertible sofa in the study/parlor next to her room. There was a connecting door between them, but it was always kept shut and locked from his side.
The study was decorated in subdued, masculine tones resembling a gentleman’s club. It had a small adjoining bathroom. The sink was no bigger than a dentist’s basin, the shower barely large enough to accommodate an adult. Yet Tate preferred those cramped facilities to sharing his wife’s spacious bedroom and bathroom, which had two large dressing areas connected by a wall of mirrors, a marble Roman tub with a skylight overhead, and yards of plush carpeting.
Avery’s first sinking thought when he barged in was that he had changed his mind and had come to tell her that she couldn’t go with him. He didn’t appear angry, however, only harassed. He was brought up short when he spied her image in the mirror.
Gratified to know that her efforts had paid off, Avery turned to face him and held her arms out to her sides. “Like it?”
“The dress? The dress is great.”
“Our Frost Brothers bill will reflect just how great.”
She knew it was a terrific dress. Black illusion, irregularly sprinkled with sequins, covered
her chest, shoulders, upper back, and arms, down to the wrists. From the first suggestion of cleavage, the knee-length sheath was lined with black silk. The dress was further enhanced by bands of black iridescent sequins at her neck and around her wrists.
It was a sexy dress, but in a respectable way, reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn. She hadn’t splurged on it for selfish reasons. She hadn’t wanted to wear anything belonging to Carole tonight. She had wanted to be new for Tate, different, unlike Carole had ever been.
Besides, all Carole’s formal dresses had been low-cut and flamboyant, not to Avery’s liking. She had needed something seasonably lightweight, but with long sleeves. She was very conscientious about revealing too much skin, which might give her false identity away. This dress had offered it all.
“Money well spent,” Tate muttered reluctantly.
“Did you want something in particular? Or did you come to see if I was running late?”
“I’m the one who’s late, I’m afraid. I can’t find my studs. Have you seen them?”
It hadn’t escaped her notice that he was only partially dressed. There was a speck of fresh blood on his chin, attesting to a quick, close shave. He was still barefoot, his hair was still damp and uncombed after a haphazard towel drying, and his starched, pleated shirt was unbuttoned. The long shirttail hung over his dark tuxedo trousers.
The sight of his hairy, bare chest made her mouth water. His belly was as tight and flat as a drum. Since he hadn’t yet fastened the fly to his trousers, she had an unrestricted view all the way down, past his navel, to the white elastic waistband of his briefs.
Reflexively, she moistened her lips. Her heart was beating so hard she could actually feel the fabric of her dress moving against her skin. “Studs?” she asked faintly.
“I thought I might have left them in here.”
“Feel free to look.” She gestured toward the dressing area, where she had discovered a cache of masculine toiletries and grooming utensils during one of her explorations.
He rifled through two drawers before finding the black jewelry box with the flip-top lid. A set of onyx studs and a pair of matching cuff links were inside. “Do you need help?”
“No.”
“Yes.” She moved to block his exit from the room.
“I can do it.”
“And wrinkle your shirt while wrestling with them. Let me.” Waving away his protests and his hands, she inserted the first stud. Her knuckles brushed against the dense hair on his chest. It was soft, damp. She wanted to bury her face in it.
“What’s all that?” She glanced up at him, then followed his indicating chin. “Oh. Mandy’s artwork.” There were several scribbled pictures attached to her mirror with strips of Scotch tape. “Didn’t she give you some?”
“Sure. I just didn’t expect yours to be so prominently displayed. You used to say you couldn’t stand the clutter. Finished?” He bent his head down to check her slow progress. They almost bumped heads.
“One more. Stand still. Is that your stomach growling? Help yourself to a snack.”
He paused for a moment, then reached toward the snack plate for an apple slice and a chunk of cheese. His teeth crunched into the apple. The sound of his munching was wildly erotic.
“Cuff links?”
He passed them to her and extended his left arm. She speared the cuff link through the holes, then flipped it open so it would hold. She patted it into place. “Next?” He gave her his right arm. After it was done, she declined to put distance between them. Instead, she angled her head back and looked up at him from close range.
“What about your bow tie?”
He swallowed the food. “In my room.”
“Can you handle it?”
“I’ll manage. Thanks.”
“Any time.”
Then, when he could leave, he didn’t. He stayed for several moments longer, staring down at her, with the lingering mist of her long bath and the smell of her perfume swirling around them.
Finally, he stepped back and moved toward the door. “I’ll be out in five minutes.”
* * *
Tate felt like he had just made a narrow escape when he reentered the room he slept in. His shower must have been too hot. Why else couldn’t he cool down? He blamed his clumsiness on necessary haste and the important evening facing him.
He bungled tying his tie several times before getting it right; he couldn’t find matching socks; it took him ten minutes to finish dressing. However, when his wife emerged from her bedroom after his soft tap on her door, she didn’t remark on the delay.
Together they went into the living room, where Zee was reading Mandy a story. Nelson was watching his favorite TV detective chase down the bad guys and bring them to justice.
He glanced up when they walked in and gave a long wolf whistle. “You two look like the bride and groom on the wedding cake.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Tate answered for both of them.
“She hardly looks like a bride in that black dress, Nelson.”
Tate was sure his mother hadn’t meant for her comment to be insulting, but that’s how it sounded. It was followed by an awkward pause that was finally broken when Zee added, “But you do look very nice, Carole.”
“Thank you,” she replied in a subdued voice.
From the day they were introduced, Zee had been reserved in her relationship with Carole. She would have preferred that their love affair had died before it had come to marriage, though she would never have said so.
She had warmed up to Carole while she was carrying Mandy, but that maternal affection soon cooled. For months prior to the plane crash, Zee had been more openly critical than before. Tate knew why, of course. Neither of his parents was stupid or blind, and they had always disparaged anything that hurt Jack or him.
Tonight, however, he had hoped that everything would go smoothly. It already promised to be a strained evening. While his mother’s thoughtless comment hadn’t ruined it entirely, it certainly hadn’t helped relieve any tension.
Mandy revived the festive mood somewhat when she slid from her grandmother’s lap and shyly approached them. He knelt down. “Come give me a big hug.” Mandy placed her arms around him and buried her face in his neck.
To his surprise, Carole crouched down beside them. “I’ll come kiss you when we get home. Okay?”
Mandy raised her head and nodded solemnly. “Okay, Mommy.”
“Be a good girl for Grandma and Grandpa.”
Mandy nodded again, then removed her arms from Tate’s neck and hugged Carole. “Bye-bye.”
“Bye-bye. Give me good night sugars.”
“Do I have to go to bed now?”
“No, but I want my sugars ahead of time.”
Mandy kissed Carole’s mouth noisily, then scampered back to her grandmother. Ordinarily, Carole complained when Mandy ruined her makeup or mussed her clothing. All she did now was lightly dab at her lips with a Kleenex.
He couldn’t figure it, except that she was playing the good-mother role to the hilt. God only knew what her motive was. This newfound affection for Mandy was probably phony as hell. No doubt she had picked up pointers from talk shows and magazine articles during her convalescence.
He placed his hand beneath her elbow and guided her toward the front door. “It might be late before we’re back.”
“Drive carefully,” Zee called after them.
Nelson left his detective with gun drawn and followed them to the door. “If this was a beauty contest and ballots were handed out tonight, y’all would win. Can’t tell you how proud and pleased I am to see the two of you stepping out with each other all dressed up.”
Was his father suggesting that whatever had come between them should be forgiven and forgotten? Tate appreciated his concern; he just didn’t think he could oblige him. Forgive? He’d always found that hard to do. Forget? It just wasn’t in his nature.
But as he seated Carole in the silver leather interior of his car, he wished he could. If he cou
ld erase all the anger, pain, and contempt, and start over with this woman tonight, would he want to?
Tate had always been as scrupulously honest with himself as he was with everyone. Looking and behaving as Carole did tonight, yes, he told himself, he would want to make a new start.
Plainly, he wanted her. He liked her when she was like this, soft-spoken and even-tempered and sexy. He didn’t expect her to be a doormat. She had too much vivacity and intelligence to be a silent, submissive partner. He didn’t want her to be. He liked sparks—of anger, of humor. Without them, a relationship was as bland as unseasoned food.
She smiled at him as he slid behind the wheel. “Nelson’s right. You look very nice tonight, Tate.”
“Thanks.” And just because he was weary of being scornful all the time, he added, “So do you.”
She dazzled him with a smile. In the old days, he would have said, “Screw being late, I’m going to make love to my wife,” and taken her right there in the car.
A fantasy of doing that flashed into his mind: nuzzling her flushed breasts; sinking into her deep, wet heat; hearing her gasps of pleasure when she came.
He groaned, quickly covering it with a cough.
He missed the spontaneity, the fun of having hot sex with someone he loved.
To conceal the fierce light in his eyes, which she would instantly recognize as arousal, he slid on his sunglasses, even though the sun had already set.
Driving away from the house, he admitted that he missed what they had had, but he didn’t miss her. Because while the sex had been hot and good and frequent, there had been little real intimacy. That cerebral exchange and spiritual bonding had been lacking in their marriage from the very beginning, though he hadn’t put a name to the missing component until much later.
He couldn’t miss what he’d never had, but he still yearned for it. Winning the Senate seat was going to be sweet. It would mark the beginning of what he hoped would be a lifetime career in public service. But the victory would be tainted by his marital unhappiness.
It would be much sweeter, and his political future would look much brighter, if he could share it with a loving, supportive wife.
