by Sandra Brown
“What?”
Over Van’s shoulder Avery had spotted a patrolman approaching them on foot.
* * *
“Okay, what is it?” Tate asked his brother irritably.
Jack closed the door to his hotel room and shrugged out of his formal jacket. “Drink?”
“No thanks. What’s up?”
The moment they entered the lobby of the Adolphus, Jack had cupped Tate’s elbow and whispered that he needed to see him alone.
“What, now?”
“Now.”
Tate didn’t feel like holding a closed-door session with his brother tonight. The only one he wanted to speak with privately was his wife, who had been behaving strangely since their arrival at Southfork. Before that, she had been fine.
Over dinner, she had mentioned a gray-haired man—obviously someone from her past who had inconveniently showed up at the banquet. Whoever he was, he must have confronted her when she had gone to the ladies’ room, because she had returned to the head table looking pale and shaken.
She’d been as jumpy as a cat for the remainder of the evening. Several times he had caught her nervously gnawing on her lower lip. When she did smile, it was phony as hell. He hadn’t had an opportunity to get to the bottom of it. He wanted to now—right now.
But for the sake of harmony within the camp, he decided to humor Jack first. While they were waiting for an elevator, he had turned to her and said, “Jack wants to see me for five minutes.” He shot his brother a meaningful glance that said, “No more than five minutes.”
“Oh, now?” she had asked. “In that case, I’m going back to the concierge and ask for some brochures and, uh, hotel stationery to take to Mandy. I won’t be long. I’ll see you in the room.”
The elevator had arrived. She’d dashed off. He’d gone up with Jack and Eddy. Eddy had said good night and gone to his own room, leaving the two brothers alone.
Tate waited expectantly as Jack withdrew a white envelope from the breast pocket of his tux and passed it to him. It had his name handwritten on it. He slid his index finger beneath the flap and ripped it open. After reading the message twice, he looked up at his brother from beneath his brows.
“Who gave you this?”
Jack was pouring himself a nightcap from a bottle of brandy. “Remember the lady—woman—in blue at the luncheon this afternoon? Front row.”
Tate hitched his chin toward the liquor bottle. “I changed my mind.” Jack handed him a drink. Tate held the note at arm’s length and reread it as he polished off the brandy in one long swallow.
“Why’d she ask you to deliver it?” he asked his brother.
“I guess she didn’t think it would be proper for her to deliver it herself.”
“Proper?” Tate scoffed, glancing again at the brazen wording of the note.
Not even attempting to conceal his amusement, Jack asked, “May I hazard a guess what it’s about?”
“Bingo.”
“May I offer a suggestion?”
“No.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to accept her invitation. In fact, it might help.”
“Has it escaped your attention that I’m married?”
“No. It also hasn’t escaped my attention that your marriage isn’t worth shit right now, but you wouldn’t welcome my comments about either your wife or your marriage.”
“That’s right. I wouldn’t.”
“Don’t get defensive, Tate. I’ve got your interests at heart. You know that. Take advantage of this invitation. I don’t know what’s going on between Carole and you.” He lowered one eyelid shrewdly. “But I know what isn’t. You’re not sleeping together and haven’t since long before the crash. There’s not a man alive, not even you, who can function at his optimum best if his dick’s unhappy.”
“Speaking from experience?”
Jack lowered his head and concentrated on the swirling contents of his glass. Tate raked his fingers through his hair, wincing when it pulled against the sutured gash on his temple. “Sorry. That was uncalled for. Forgive me, Jack. It’s just that I resent everybody meddling in my business.”
“Comes with the territory, little brother.”
“But I’m sick of it.”
“It’s only started. It won’t end when you get into office.”
Tate propped his hips against the dresser. “No, I guess not.” Silently, he studied the nap of the carpet. After a moment, a small laugh started in his chest and gradually worked its way out.
“What?” Jack failed to see the humor in their conversation.
“Not too long ago, Eddy offered to find me a woman to work my frustrations out on. Where were the two of you when I was young and single and could have used a couple of good pimps?”
Jack smiled wryly. “I guess I deserve that. It’s just that you’ve been so uptight lately, I thought a harmless roll in the hay with a lusty, willing broad would do you good.”
“It probably would, but no thanks.” Tate moved toward the door. “Thanks for the drink, too.” With his hand on the doorknob, he asked as an afterthought, “Talked with your family recently?”
“Speaking of ‘drink,’ hey?”
“It just came out that way,” Tate replied, looking chagrined.
“Don’t worry about it. Yes, I talked to Dorothy Rae today. She said everything was fine. She can tell that Fancy’s up to mischief, but doesn’t yet know what it is.”
“God only knows.”
“Maybe God knows. Sure as hell nobody else does.”
“Good night, Jack.”
“Uh, Tate?” He turned back. “Since you’re not interested…” Tate followed his brother’s gaze down to the note he still held in his hand. Jack shrugged. “She might be willing to settle for second best.”
Tate balled up the paper and tossed it to his brother, who caught it with one hand. “Good luck.”
Tate had already removed his jacket, tie, and cummerbund by the time he opened the door to his room. “Carole? I know that took longer than five minutes, but… Carole?”
She wasn’t there.
* * *
When she saw the policeman, Avery averted her head. The sequin trim on her dress seemed to glitter as brilliantly as the golden arches outside the restaurant. “For heaven’s sake, put out that cigarette,” she said to Van. “He’ll think…”
“Forget it,” her friend interrupted, smiling crookedly. “If you were a whore, I couldn’t afford you.” He pinched out the burning tip of the joint and dropped it back into his shirt pocket.
While the policeman was busy breaking up the shouting match at the corner, Avery indicated with her head that they should slip around the corner and head back toward the Adolphus. With his slouching gait, Van fell into step beside her.
“Van, I need your promise that you won’t reveal my identity to anyone. One night next week, when we’re back home, I’ll arrange a meeting between Irish, you, and me. He’ll want to hear about my trip anyway. I’ll fill in the blanks then.”
“What do you think Dekker would pay for this information?”
Avery came to an abrupt halt. She roughly grabbed Van’s arm. “You can’t! Van, please. My God, you can’t.”
“Until you make me a better offer, I might.” He threw off her hand and turned away, calling back, “See ya, Avery.”
They were even with the hotel now, but across the street. She trotted after him and caught his arm again, swinging him around. “You don’t know how high the stakes are, Van. I’m begging you, as my friend.”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“Please don’t do anything until I’ve had a chance to explain the circumstances.”
He pulled his arm free again. “I’ll think about it. But your explanation better be damn good, or I’m cashing in.”
She watched his sauntering retreat down the sidewalk. He seemed not to have a care in the world. Her world, by contrast, had caved in. Van was holding all the aces and he knew it.
Feeling like she’d just been blu
dgeoned, she crossed the street toward the hotel. Just before she reached the opposite curb, she raised her head.
Tate was standing in the porte cochere, glaring at her.
Thirty-One
His expression was murderous. After a few faltering steps, Avery moved toward him with the undaunted carriage of a criminal who knows the jig is up but is still unwilling to confess.
“There she is, Mr. Rutledge,” the doorman said cheerfully. “I told you she would probably be back any second.”
For the doorman’s benefit, Tate kept his voice light. “I was getting worried, Carole.” His fingers wrapped around her upper arm with the strength of a python.
He “escorted” her through the lobby. In the elevator, they faced forward, saying nothing, while anger arced between them. He unlocked the door to their room and let her precede him inside.
The security lock had a final, metallic sound when he flipped it forward. Neither reached for a light. Neither thought to. For illumination, they relied solely on the weak night-light burning in the bathroom behind a faux nautilus shell.
“Where the hell did you go?” Tate demanded without preamble.
“To the McDonald’s on the corner. Remember, I didn’t eat much dinner at the banquet. I was hungry. As long as you were with Jack, I thought—”
“Who was the guy?”
She started to play dumb, but thought better of it. He had obviously seen her with Van, but hadn’t recognized him. While she was deliberating on whether to shoot straight or lie, he advanced on her. “Was he a dealer?”
Her jaw went slack with astonishment. “A drug dealer?”
“I know that on occasion you and Fancy have smoked pot. I hope to God that’s all you’ve done, but a senatorial candidate’s wife doesn’t buy grass off the street from an unknown pusher, Carole. For God’s sake, he could have been an undercover—”
“That was Van Lovejoy!” she shouted angrily. Obviously the name didn’t ring any bells. He gave her a blank stare. “The cameraman from KTEX. He shot the video for your TV commercial. Remember?”
She knocked him aside and swept past him, moved to the dresser and began removing her jewelry, dropping the pieces onto the surface with little regard for their value or delicacy.
“What were you doing with him?”
“Walking,” she said flippantly, addressing his reflection behind her own in the mirror. In the dim light he appeared dark and intimidating. She refused to be cowed. “I ran into him at McDonald’s. He and the station’s reporter are staying at the Holiday Inn, I believe he said.” Lying was becoming easier. She was getting lots of practice. “Anyway, he chided me for walking alone and insisted on seeing me back to the hotel.”
“Smart fellow. A hell of a lot smarter than you. What the hell were you thinking of to go out alone at this time of night?”
“I was hungry,” she said, raising her voice.
“Ever think of room service?”
“I needed air.”
“So open a window.”
“What does it matter to you if I went out? You were with Jack. Jack and Eddy. Laurel and Hardy. Tweedledee and Tweedledum.” She wagged her head from side to side in time to her words. “If it’s not one who has something urgent to discuss with you, it’s the other. One of them is always knocking on your door.”
“Don’t get off the subject. We’re talking about you, not Jack or Eddy.”
“What about me?”
“What made you so nervous tonight?”
“I wasn’t nervous.”
She tried to sidestep him again, but he wouldn’t have it. He blocked her path and caught her by the shoulders. “Something’s wrong. I know there is. What have you done this time? You’d better tell me before I find out from somebody else.”
“What makes you think I’ve done something?”
“Because you won’t look me in the eye.”
“I’m avoiding you, yes. But only because I’m mad, not because I’ve committed what you would consider a transgression.”
“That’s been your routine in the past, Carole.”
“Don’t call me—” Avery caught herself just in time.
“Don’t call you what?”
“Nothing.” She hated having him address her as Carole. “Don’t call me a liar,” she amended. Defiantly, she flung her head back. “And just so you’ll know from me before you hear it from somebody else, Van Lovejoy was smoking a joint. He even offered it to me. I refused. Now, do I pass muster, Mr. Senator?”
Tate was furiously rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Don’t wander off by yourself like that again.”
“Don’t put me on a short leash.”
“I don’t care what you do, dammit,” he growled, gripping her shoulders harder. “It’s just not safe for you to be alone.”
“Alone?” she repeated in a harsh, mirthless tone. “Alone? We’re never alone.”
“We’re alone right now.”
It occurred to them simultaneously that they were standing chest to chest. One was breathing with as much agitation as the other. Their blood was running hot and their tempers were high. Avery felt her nerves sizzle like fallen hot wires that snaked across a rain-slick street.
His arms went around her, met at the center of her back, and jerked her against him. Avery went limp with desire. Then, moving as one, their mouths came together in a ravenous kiss. She folded her arms around his neck and provocatively arched her body into his. His hands slid over her derriere and roughly drew her up high and hard against the front of his body.
Their breathing was loud. So was the rustle of their evening clothes. Their mouths twisted against each other; their tongues were too greedy to exercise finesse.
Tate walked her backward into the wall, which then served the original purpose of his hands by keeping her middle cemented to him. His fingers curved tightly around her head and held it in place while he gave her a hungry kiss.
The kiss was carnal. It had a dark soul. It touched off elemental sparks that were as exciting to Avery as the first tongues of flame were to primal man. It conveyed that much heat, that much promise.
She attacked the studs on his pleated shirt. One by one they landed soundlessly in the carpeting. She peeled the shirt wide and bared his chest. Her open mouth found the very center of it. He swore with pleasure and reached behind her for the fastenings on her dress.
They eluded his fumbling fingers. Fabric was ripped. Beads scattered. Sequins rained down. Neither was mindful of the damage. He worked the dress down her shoulders and planted a fervent kiss on the upper curve of her breast, then reached for the clasp of her strapless brassiere.
Avery panicked when it fell open. He would know! But his eyes were closed. His lips were his sensors, not his eyes. He kissed her breasts, stroking the tips with his tongue, drawing them into his mouth.
He needed her. She wanted him to need her. She couldn’t give enough.
She tugged his cuffs over his hands without even unhooking his cuff links. He flapped his arms until he was entirely free of his shirt, then slipped his hands beneath the hem of her dress. They smoothed up her thighs, caught the elastic of her underwear, and worked it down. Then his palm was on her, his fingers inside her, and she was gasping hoarse, whimpering, wanting sounds.
“You’re my wife,” he said thickly. “You deserve a little better than to be banged against the wall.”
He released her and stepped away. In seconds he was out of his shoes and socks, leaving his trousers in a heap on the carpet.
Avery shimmied out of her dress, kicked off her shoes, and quickly moved to the bed. The housekeeper had already turned it down. She brushed the chocolate mints off the pillow and slid between the sheets. The lacy black garter belt came off with a snap. Her stockings had barely cleared her toes when Tate reached for her.
She went willingly as he pulled her against his warm, hairy nakedness. Their mouths met for another deep, wet kiss. His sex was hard and smooth. It probed the s
oftness of her belly, nestled in the vee of dark curls.
He cupped her breast, lifted it, ran this thumb lightly back and forth over her nipple, and applied his tongue to it. With no resistance from her, he separated her thighs. The cleft between them was soft and sensitive and creamy. She gasped several short, choppy breaths as his fingers played over her.
Then he rolled her to her back and guided his rigid erection into the moist, oval opening. Her body received him coyly because he was very large and hard and she was very small and soft. Man and woman. As it should be. His power was reduced to weakness; her vulnerability was made strong.
She marveled at the absoluteness of his possession. It was invasive but sweet, unencumbered yet yearning. Her back and throat arched in total surrender. He went farther, touched deeper, reached higher than she believed possible.
Above her, he was straining to withhold his climax, to sustain the pleasure, but that was asking too much of his body, which had been imprisoned by self-imposed abstinence for so long.
He sank into her only a few times before he climaxed.
* * *
The room was so silent she could hear the ticking of his wristwatch where his hand lay beside her head on the pillow. She didn’t dare look at him. Touching him wasn’t even a remote possibility. She lay there and listened as his breathing returned to normal. Except for the rising and falling of his chest, he lay motionless.
It was over.
Eventually she rolled to her side, facing away from him. She tucked the pillow beneath her cheek and drew her knees against her chest. She was hurting, but she couldn’t specify how or where or why.
Several minutes elapsed. When she first felt the stroking movement of his hand on her waist, she thought it was because she had wished it so badly that her imagination had made her feel it.
His hand settled in the curve of her waist and applied enough pressure to bring her over to her back again. She gazed up into his face, her eyes large and inquisitive and brimming with misgiving.
“I’ve always been fair,” he whispered.
He drew his knuckles across her cheek, then over her lips. They’d been scraped by his beard stubble. At his tender touch, Avery swallowed emotionally. Her lips parted, but she couldn’t speak aloud what she felt in her heart.
