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However, the doctors had cautioned her against becoming alarmed with the assurance that her voice would be restored gradually. They told her that the first few times she tried to speak she probably wouldn't be able to make herself understood, but that this was normal, considering the damage done to her vocal cords by the smoke she had inhaled.

Beyond that, she was virtually hairless, toothless, and caking liquid nourishment through a straw. Overall, she was still a mess.

"'What do you think about that?" Tate asked her. "Do you reel up to having a visit with Mandy?"

He smiled, but Avery could tell his heart wasn't in it. She pitied him. He tried so valiantly to be cheerful and optimistic. Her earliest postoperative recollections were of him speaking soft words of encouragement. He had told her then and continued to tell her daily that the surgery had gone splendidly. Dr. Sawyer and all the nurses on the floor continued to commend her on her rapid progress and good disposition.

In her situation, what other kind of disposition could one have? She could cope with a broken leg if her hands could handle crutches, which they couldn't. She was still a prisoner to the hospital bed. Good disposition be damned. How did they know that she wasn't raging on the inside? She wasn't, but only because it wouldn't do any good. The damage had already been done. Avery Daniels' face had been replaced by someone else's. That recurring thought brought scalding tears to her eyes.

Tate misinterpreted them. "I promise not to keep Mandy here long, but I believe even a short visit with you would do her good. She's home now, you know. Everybody's pampering her, even Fancy. But she's still having a tough go of it at night. Seeing you might reassure her. Maybe she thinks we're lying to her when we say that you're coming back. Maybe she thinks you're really dead. She hasn't said so, but then, she doesn't say much of anything."

Dejectedly, he bent his head down and studied his hands. Avery stared at the crown of his head. His hair grew around a whorl that was slightly off-center. She enjoyed looking at him. More than her gifted surgeon, or the hospital's capable nursing staff, Tate Rutledge had become the center of her small universe.

As promised, sight in her left eye had been restored once the shelf to support her eyeball had been rebuilt. Three days following her surgery, the sutures on her eyelids had been taken out. She'd been promised that the packs inside her nose and the splint covering it would be removed tomorrow.

Tate had had fresh flowers delivered to her private room every day, as though to mark each tiny step toward full restoration. He was always smiling when he came in. He never failed to dispense a small bit of flattery.

Avery felt sorry for him. Though he tried to pretend otherwise, she could tell that these visits to her room were taxing. Yet if he stopped coming to see her, she thought she would die.

There were no mirrors in the room—nothing in fact that would reflect an image. She was sure that was by design. She longed to know what she looked like. Was her ghastly appearance the reason for the aversion that Tate tried so hard to conceal?

Like anyone with a physical disability, her senses had become keener. She had developed an acute perception into what people were thinking and feeling. Tate was being kind and considerate to his "wife." Common decency demanded it. There was, however, a discernible distance between them that Avery didn't understand.

"Should I bring her or not?"

He was sitting on the edge of her bed, being careful of her broken leg, which was elevated. It must be a cold day out, she reasoned, because he was wearing a suede jacket over his casual shirt. But the sun was shining. He'd been wearing sunglasses when he had come in. He had taken them off and slipped them into his breast pocket. His eyes were gray-green, straightforward, disarming. He was an extremely attractive man, she thought, mustering what objectivity she could.

How could she refuse to grant his request? He'd been so kind to her. Even though the little girl wasn't her daughter, if it would make Tate happier, she would pretend to be Mandy's mother just this once.

She nodded yes, something she'd been able to do since her surgery.

"Good." His sudden bright smile was sincere. "I checked with the head nurse and she said you could start wearing your own things if you wanted to. I took the liberty of packing some nightgowns and robes. It might be better for Mandy if you're wearing something familiar."

Again Avery nodded.

Motion at the door drew her eyes toward it. She recognized the man and woman as Tate's parents. Nelson and Zinnia, or Zee, as everybody called her.

"Well, looky here." Nelson crossed the room ahead of his wife and came to stand at the foot of Avery's bed. "You're looking fine, just fine, isn't she, Zee?"

Zee's eyes connected with Avery's. Kindly she replied, "Much better than yesterday even."

"Maybe that doctor is worth his fancy fee after all," Nelson remarked, laughing. "I never put much stock in plastic surgery. Always thought it was something vain, rich women threw away their husbands' money on. But this," he said, lifting his hand and indicating Avery's face, "this is going to be worth every penny."

Avery resented their hearty compliments when she knew she still looked every bit the victim of a plane crash.

Apparently Tate sensed that she was uncomfortable because he changed the subject. "She's agreed to let Mandy come see her tomorrow."

Zee's head snapped toward her son. Her hands met at her waist, where she clasped them tightly. "Are you sure that's wise, Tate? For Carole's sake, as well as Mandy's?"

"No, I'm not sure. I'm flying by the seat of my pants."

"What does Mandy's psychologist say?"

"Who the hell cares what she says?" Nelson asked crossly. "How could a shrink know more what's good for a kid than the kid's own daddy?" He clapped Tate on the shoulder. "I believe you're right. I think it'll do Mandy a world of good to see her mother."

"I hope you're right."

Zee didn't sound convinced, Avery noticed. She shared Zee's concern, but was powerless to express it. She only hoped that the benevolent gesture she was making for Tate's sake wouldn't backfire and do his emotionally fragile daughter more harm than good.

Zee went around the bright room watering the plants and flowers Avery had received, not only from Tate, but from people she didn't even know. Since no mention had ever been made of Carole's family, she deduced that she didn't have one. Her in-laws were her family.

Nelson and Tate were discussing the campaign, a topic that seemed never to be far from their minds. When they referred to Eddy, she mentally matched the name with a smooth-shaven face and impeccable clothing. He had come to see her on two occasions, accompanied by Tate each time. He seemed a pleasant chap, sort of the cheerleader of the group.

Tate's brother was named Jack. He was older and had a much more nervous nature than Tate. Or perhaps it just seemed so since during most of the time he'd been in her room, he had stammered apologies because his wife and daughter hadn't come to see her along with him.

Avery had gathered that Dorothy Rae, Jack's wife, was permanently indisposed by some sort of malady, though no one had referred to a debilitating illness. Fancy was obviously a bone of contention to everyone in the family. Avery had pieced together from their remarks that she was old enough to drive, but not old enough to live alone. They all lived together somewhere within an hour's drive of San Antonio. She vaguely recalled references to a ranch in the news stories about Tate. The family evidently had money and the prestige and power that accompanied it.

They were all friendly and cheerful when speaking to her. They chose their words carefully, so as not to alarm or distress her. What they didn't say interested her more than what they did.

She studied their expressions, which were generally guarded. Their smiles were tentative or strained. Tate's family treated his wife courteously, but there were undercurrents of dislike.

"This is a lovely gown," Zee said, drawing Avery's thoughts back into the room. She was unpacking the things that Tate had brought from home and hanging them in the narrow closet. "Maybe you should wear this tomorrow for Mandy's visit."

Avery gave her a slight nod.

"Are you about finished there, Mom? I think she's getting tired." Tate moved closer to the bed and looked deeply into her eyes. "You'll have a full day tomorrow. We'd better let you get some rest."

"Don't worry about a thing," Nelson said to her. "You're getting along fine, just like we knew you would. Come on, Zee, let's give them a minute alone." "Good-bye, Carole," Zee said.

They slipped out. Tate lowered himself to the edge of her bed again. He looked weary. She wished she had the courage to reach out and touch him, but she didn't. He'd never touched her with anything except consolation—certainly not affection.

"We'll come in the middle of the afternoon, after Mandy's nap." He paused inquiringly; she nodded. "Look for us around three o'clock. I think it would be best if Mandy and I came alone—without anybody else."

He glanced away, and drew a hesitant breath. "I have no idea how she'll respond, Carole, but take into account all that she's been through. I know you've been through a lot, too—a hell of a lot—but you're an adult. You've got more power to cope than she does."

He met her eyes again. "She's just a little girl. Remember that." Then he straightened and smiled briefly. "But, hey, I'm sure the visit will go well."

He stood to go. As usual when he was about to leave, Avery experienced a flurry of panic. He was the only link she had with the world. He was her only reality. When he left, he took her courage with him, leaving her to feel alone, afraid, and alienated.

"Have a restful evening and get a good night's sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

In farewell, he brushed her fingertips with his own, but he didn't kiss her. He never kissed her. There wasn't too much of her that was accessible to kiss, but Avery thought that a husband would have found a way to kiss his wife if he had really wanted to.

She watched his retreating back until it disappeared through the door of her room. Loneliness crept in from all sides to smother her. The only way she could combat it was to think. She spent her waking hours planning how she was going to tell Tate Rutledge the heartbreaking news that she wasn't who he thought she was. His Carole was no doubt buried in a grave marked Avery Daniels. How would she tell him that?

How could she tell him that somebody close to him wanted him dead?

At least a thousand times during the past week, she had tried convincing herself that her ghostly visitor had been a nightmare. Any one of a number of contributing factors could have made her hallucinate. It was easier to believe that the speaker of those malevolent words had been a delusion.

But she knew better. He had been real. In her mind, his words were as clear as a tropical lagoon. She had memorized them. The sinister tone and inflection were indelibly recorded on her brain. He had meant what he had said. There was no mistaking that.

He had to have been someone in the Rudedge family because only immediate family was allowed in the intensive care unit. But who? None seemed to show any malice toward Tate; quite the contrary, everyone seemed to adore him.

She considered each of them: His father? Unthinkable. It was evident that both parents doted on him. Jack? He didn't appear to harbor any grudges toward his younger brother. Though Eddy wasn't a blood relation, he was treated like a member of the family, and the camaraderie between Tate and his best friend was plain to see. She had yet to hear Dorothy Rae or Fancy speak, but she was fairly certain the voice she had heard had been masculine.

None of the voices she had heard recently belonged to her visitor. But how could a stranger have sneaked into her room? The man had been no stranger to Carole; he had spoken to her as a confidante and coconspirator.

Did Tate realize that his wife was conspiring to have him killed? Did he guess she meant him harm? Was that why he administered comfort and encouragement from behind an invisible barrier? Avery knew he gave her what he was expected to give, but nothing more.

Lord, she wished she could sit down with Irish and lay out all the components of this tangle, as she often did before tackling a complex story. They would try to piece together the missing elements. Irish possessed almost supernatural insight into human behavior, and she valued his opinion above all others.

Thinking about the Rutledges had given Avery a splitting headache, so she welcomed the sedative that was injected into her IV that evening to help her sleep. Unlike the constant brilliance of the ICU, only one small night-light was left burning in her room every night.

Wavering between sleep and consciousness, Avery allowed herself to wonder what would happen if she assumed the role of Carole Rutledge indefinitely. It would postpone Tate's becoming a widower. Mandy would have a mother's support during her emotional recuperation. Avery Daniels could perhaps expose an attempted assassin and be hailed a heroine.

In her mind, she laughed. Irish would think she had gone crazy for sure. He would rant and rave and probably threaten to bend her over his knee and spank her for even thinking up such a preposterous idea.

Still, it was a provocative one. What a story she would have when the charade was over—politics, human relationships, and intrigue.

The fantasy lulled her to sleep.

EIGHT

She was more nervous than she had been before her first television audition at that dumpy little TV station in Arkansas eight years earlier. With damp palms and a dry throat, she had stood ankle deep in mud and swill, gripping the microphone with bloodless fingers and bluffing her way through an on-location story about a parasite currently affecting swine farmers. Afterward, the news director had drolly reminded her that the disease was affecting the swine-,notthe farmers. But he had given her the job of field reporter anyway.

This was an audition, too. Would Mandy detect what no one else had been able to—that the woman behind the battered face was not Carole Rutledge?