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Leaving her gasping for breath, he angled his head the opposite way and tormented her with quick, deft flicks of his tongue across her lips and barely inside them. Her hands moved to his cheeks. She laid her palms against them and ran her fingertips across his cheekbones as she gave herself totally to his kiss.

He fumbled with her clothing, thrusting his hand beneath her skirt, into her underpants, and filling it with soft woman flesh. She moaned pleasurably when he tilted her middle up against his swollen pelvis and ground it against her cleft.

Avery felt fluid and feverish. Her sex was wet and warm. Her breasts ached. The nipples tingled.

Then she was abruptly deserted.

She blinked her eyes into focus. Her head landed hard against the wall behind her. She flattened her hands against it to keep herself from sliding to the floor.

"I'll grant you that it's a polished act," he said woodenly. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were dilated. His breathing was rapid and shallow. "You're not as blatant as you used to be, but classier. Different, but just as sexy. Maybe even sexier."

She looked down at the distended fly of his jeans, a look that made words superfluous.

"Okay, I'm hard," he admitted with an angry growl. "But I'll die of it before I'll sleep with you again."

He walked out. He didn't slam the door behind him, but left it standing open, more of an insult than if he had stormed out. Heartsick and wounded, Avery was left alone in Carole's room, with Carole's chintz, Carole's mess.

Everyone in the family had noticed the puzzling inconsistencies in Carole's personality, but her odd behavior was keeping one person in particular awake at night. After hours of prowling the grounds surrounding the house, looking for answers in the darkness, the insomniac posed a question to the moon.

What is the bitch up to?

No radical changes in her could be pinpointed. The differences in her face were subtle, the result of the reconstructive surgery. Shorter hair made her look different, but that was inconsequential. She had lost a few pounds, making her appear slimmer than before, but it was certainly no drastic weight loss. Physically, she was virtually the same as before the crash. It was the nonphysical changes that were noticeable and so damned baffling.

What is the bitch up to?

Judging by her behavior since the crash, one would think her brush with death had given her a conscience. But that couldn't be. She didn't know the meaning of the word. Although for all the goodwill she was dispensing, that's apparently what she wanted everybody to believe.

Could Carole Rutledge have had a change of heart? Could she be seeking her husband's approval? Could she ever be a loving, attentive mother?

Don't make me laugh.

She was stupid to switch tactics now. She'd been doing fine at what she'd been hired to do: destroy Tate Rutledge's soul, so that by the time that bullet exploded in his head, it would almost be a blessing to him.

Carole Navarro had been perfect for the job. Oh, she'd had to be scrubbed down, tidied up, dressed correctly, and taught not to spike her speech with four-letter words. But by the time the overhaul had been completed, she had been a stunning package of wit, intellect, sophistication, and sexiness that Tate hadn't been able to resist.

He hadn't known that her wit had been cleansed of all ribaldry, that her intellect was only refined street smarts, her sophistication acquired, and her sexiness tempered with false morality. Just as planned, he'd fallen for the package, because it had promised everything he had been looking for in a wife.

Carole had perpetuated the myth until after Mandy was born—that had also been according to plan. It had been a relief for her to put phase two into action and start having affairs. The shackles of respectability had been chafing her for a long time. Her patience had worn thin. Once let loose, she performed beautifully.

God, it had been marvelous fun to witness Tate in his misery!

Except for that indiscreet visit in the hospital ICU, there'd been no mention made of their secret alliance since she was introduced to Tate four years ago. Neither by word or deed had they given away the pact they had made when she had been recruited for the job.

But since the crash, she'd been even more evasive than usual. She bore watching—closely. She was doing some strange and unusual things, even for Carole. The whole family was noticing the unfamiliar personality traits.

Maybe she was acting strange for the hell of it. That would be like her. She enjoyed being perverse for perversity's sake alone. That wasn't serious, but it rankled that she had seized the initiative to change the game plan without prior consultation.

Perhaps she hadn't had an opportunity to consult yet. Perhaps she knew something about Tate that no one else was privy to and which needed to be acted upon immediately.

Or perhaps the bitch—and this was the most likely possibility—had decided that being a senator's wife was worth more to her than the payoff she was due to receive the day Tate was laid in a casket. After all, her metamorphosis had coincided with the primary election.

Whatever her motive, this new behavior pattern was as annoying as hell. She'd better watch herself, or she'd be cut out. At this point, it could all go down with or without her participation. Didn't the stupid bitch realize that?

Or had she finally realized that a second bullet was destined for her?

SEVENTEEN

"Mrs. Rutledge, what a surprise."

The secretary stood up to greet Avery as she entered the anteroom of the law office Tate shared with his brother. To learn where it was, she had had to look up the address in the telephone directory.

"Hello. How are you?" She didn't address the secretary by name. The nameplate on the desk read "Mary Crawford," but she was taking no chances.

"I'm fine, but you look fabulous."

"Thank you."

"Tate told me that you were prettier than ever, but seeing is believing."

Tate had told her that? They hadn't engaged in a private conversation since the night he had kissed her. She found it hard to believe that he'd said something flattering about her to his secretary.

"Is he in?" He was. His car was parked out front.

"He's with a client."

"I didn't think he was handling any cases."

"He's not." Mary Crawford smoothed her skirt beneath her hips and sat back down. "He's with Barney Bridges. You know what a character he is. Anyway, he pledged a hefty donation to Tate's campaign, so when he hand delivered it, Tate made time to see him."

"Well, I've come all this way. Will they be long? Shall I wait?"

"Please do. Have a seat." The secretary indicated the grouping of waiting room sofas and chairs upholstered in burgundy and navy striped corduroy. "Would you like some coffee?"

"No thanks. Nothing."

She often passed up coffee now, preferring none at all to the liberally sweetened brew Carole had drunk. Sitting down in one of the armchairs, she picked up a current issue ofField and Streamand began idly thumbing through it. Mary resumed typing, as she'd been doing before Avery had come in.

This impetuous visit to Tate's law office was chancy, but it was a desperation measure she felt she had to take or go mad. What had Carole Rutledge done all day?

Avery had been living in the ranch house for over two weeks, and she had yet to discover a single constructive activity that Tate's wife had been involved in.

It had taken Avery several days to locate everything in her bedroom and the other rooms of the house to which she had access. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, not wanting to alert anyone to what she was doing. Eventually, she felt comfortable with the house's layout and where everyday items were stored.

Gradually, she began to learn her way around outside, as well. She took Mandy with her on these missions so they would appear to be nothing more than innocent strolls.

Carole had driven an American sports car. To Avery's consternation, it had a standard transmission. She wasn't too adept at driving standard transmissions. The first few times she took the car out, she nearly gave herself whiplash and stripped all the gears.

But once she felt adequate, she invented errands that would get her out of the house. Carole's way of life was dreadfully boring. Her routine lacked diversion and spontaneity. The ennui was making Avery Daniels crazy.

The day she had discovered an engagement calendar in a nightstand drawer, she had clutched it to her chest like a miner would a gold nugget. But a scan of its pages revealed very little except the days that Carole had had her hair and nails done.

Avery never called for an appointment. It would be a luxury to spend several hours a week being pampered in a salon—something Avery Daniels had never had time for— but she couldn't risk letting Carole's hairdresser touch her hair or a manicurist her nails. They might detect giveaways that others couldn't.

The engagement book had shed no light on what Carole did to fill her days. Obviously, she wasn't a member of any clubs. She had few or no friends because no one called. That came both as a surprise and a relief to Avery, who had been afraid that a covey of confidantes would descend, expecting to pick up where they had left off before Carole's accident.

Apparently, no such close friends existed. The flowers and cards she had received during her convalescence must have come from friends of the family.

Carole had held no job„ had no hobbies. Avery reasoned that she should be thankful for that. What if Carole had been an expert sculptress, artist, harpist, or calligrapher? It had been difficult enough teaching herself in private to write and eat with her right hand.

She was expected to do no chores, not even make her own bed. Mona took care of the house and did all the cooking. A yard man came twice a week to tend to the plants in the courtyard. A retired cowboy, too old to herd cattle or to rodeo, managed the stable of horses. No one encouraged her to resume an activity or interest that had been suspended as a result of her injuries.

Carole Rutledge had been a lazy idler. Avery Daniels was not.

The door to Tate's private office opened. He emerged in the company of a barrel-chested, middle-aged man. They were laughing together.

Avery's heart accelerated at the sight of Tate, who was wearing a genuinely warm smile. His eyes were crinkled at the corners with the sense of humor he never shared with her. Eddy constantly nagged him to trade in his jeans, boots, and casual shirts for a coat and tie. He refused unless he was making a scheduled public appearance.

"Who am I trying to impress?" he had asked his perturbed campaign manager during a discussion relating to his wardrobe.

"Several million voters," Eddy had replied.

"If I can't impress them by what I'm standing for, they sure as hell aren't going to be impressed by what I'm standing in."

Nelson had drolly remarked, "Unless it's bullshit."

Everybody had laughed and that had been the end of the discussion.

Avery was glad Tate dressed as he did. He looked sensational. His head was bent at the listening angle that she had come to recognize and find endearing. One lock of hair dipped low over his forehead. His mouth was split in a wide grin, showing off strong, white teeth.

He hadn't seen her yet. At unguarded moments like this, she reveled in looking at him before contempt for his wife turned his beautiful smile into something ugly.

"Now, this is a treat!"

The booming bass voice snapped Avery out of her love-struck daze. Tate's visitor came swiftly toward her on short, stocky legs that were reminiscent of Irish. She was scooped up into a smothering bear hug and her back was hammered upon with exuberant affection. " Gawddamn, you look better than you ever have, and I didn't think that was possible."

"Hello, Mr. Bridges."

" 'Mr. Bridges?' Shee-ut . Where'd that come from? I told Mama when we saw you on the TV that you're prettier now than you were before. She thought so, too."

"I'm glad I have your approval."

He wagged two stubby fingers, holding a cigar, near the tip of her nose. "Now you listen to oP Barney, darlin ', those polls don't meant a gawddamn thing, you hear? Not a gawddamn thing. I told Mama just the other day that those polls ain't worth shee-ut . You think I'd put my money on the boy here," he said, walloping Tate between the shoulder blades, "if I didn't think he was gonna put the screws to that gawddamn Dekker on election day? Huh?"

"No sir, not you, Barney," she replied, laughing.

"You're gawddamn right I wouldn't." Cramming the cigar into the corner of his mouth, he reached for her and gave her another rib-crunching hug. "I'd purely love to take y'all to lunch, but I got a deacons' meetin ' at the church."

"Don't let us keep you," Tate said, trying to keep a straight face. "Thank you again for the contribution."

Barney waved away the thanks. "Mama's mailin ' hers in today."

Tate swallowed with difficulty. "I. . .I thought the check was from both of you."

"Hell no, boy. That was only my half. Gotta go. The church is a long way from here, and Mama gets pissed if I drive the Vette over seventy in town, so I promised not to. Too many gawddamn crazies on the road. Y'all take care, you hear?"

He lumbered out. After the door had closed behind him, the secretary looked up at Tate and wheezed, "Did he say half?"

"That's what he said." Tate shook his head in disbelief. "Apparently he really believes that the polls aren't worth shee-ut ."

Mary laughed. So did Avery. But Tate's smile had disappeared by the time he had ushered her into his office and closed the door. “What are you doing here? Need some money?"

When he addressed her in that curt, dismissive tone of voice, which he reserved for the times when they were alone, each word was like a shard of glass being gouged into her vitals. It made her ache. It also made her mad as hell.

"No, I don't need any money," she said tightly as she sat down in the chair opposite his desk. "As you suggested, I went to the bank and signed a new card. I explained about the change in my handwriting," she said, flexing her right hand. "So I can write a check against the account whenever I get low on cash."