Where There's Smoke (11 page)

"Would it have evened the score for you if I'd been stoned?
 
Believe me, being brutalized by the media is just as deadly."
 
The hand within his grip was becoming numb.
 
She flexed her fingers.
 
"You're hurting me.

Slowly he released her and took a step back.
 
"Reflexes."

That was as close as she was going to get to an apology.
 
Strange under the circumstances, but she thought he sincerely regretted hurting her.

He winced and pressed his hand against his side.

"Are you in pain?"

"It's nothing."

"Do you want something?"

As a physician, her instinct was to reach out and lay her hands on him, render assistance.
 
But she didn't.
 
For one thing, he would shun her concern.
 
But primarily she was apprehensive about touching him for any reason.
 
Only now that the contact had been broken did she realize how closely he'd held her against him.

As she massaged circulation back into her hand, she tried to make a joke of it, as much to reassure herself as him.
 
"I don't ordinarily slap my patients."

The attempted levity didn't work.
 
He didn't even smile.
 
Indeed, he was single-mindedly scrutinizing her face.
 
"I didn't recognize you last night from the pictures I'd seen," he said.
 
"You look different now.

"I've aged five years."

He shook his head.
 
"It's more than that.
 
Your hair's different."

She touched her hair self-consciously.
 
"I don't lighten it anymore.

Randall liked my hair lighter."

"Back to the husband.
 
Poor Randall.
 
Guess he felt like the rug had been yanked out from under him, huh?
 
Wonder why he stayed with you?"

His voice had regained the underpinnings of sarcasm.

"I mean there you were, Randall Porter's lawfully wedded wife, featured on the cover of the National Enquirer, being exposed as Senator Clark Tackett's married lover.
 
The photos showed Randall hustling you away from the cottage, wrapped up in your nightie."

"You don't need to reacquaint me with the reports.
 
I remember them well."

"And what does Randall do?"
 
he asked as though she hadn't spoken.

"He's with the State Department, right?
 
A diplomat.
 
He's supposed to have a way with words, a glib answer for everything.

But does he deny the allegations?
 
No.
 
Does he step forward and defend your honor?
 
No.
 
Does he renounce you as a cheating slut?

No.
 
Does he proclaim that you've realized the error of your ways and become a born-again Christian?
 
No."

He planted his hands on his knees and leaned forward.
 
"Randall makes like a goddamn clam.
 
Says nothing for the record before hightailing it off to that banana republic and hauling you with him.

No comment' was all the media ever prized out of him."

He shrugged ruefully.
 
"But then I guess there's not much you can say when your wife is caught screwing your best friend right under your nose and their affair becomes a political incident of national importance."

"I guess not.
  
She was determined not to lose control again, no matter how provocative he became.

"Even though Randall died a martyr's death in service to his country, if you ask me, he was a coward."

"Well, I didn't ask you, Mr. Tackett.
 
Furthermore, I refuse to discuss my late husband and our personal life with you.
 
But while we re on the subject of cowardice, what about your brother's?
 
He didn't go on the record with a denial or defend my honor, either."

Like her husband, Clark had failed to make a statement of apology or explanation.
 
He'd forsaken her to confront the disgrace alone.

Their combined silence was as good as an indictment and had been the most humiliating indignity she'd had to bear, both publicly and privately.

"The jig was up.
 
What could he do?"

"Oh, he did plenty.
 
Do you really believe that Randall was assigned to Montesangre on a whim?"

"I never thought about it."

"Well think about it now.
 
That country is a hellhole," she said emphatically.
 
"A cesspool.
 
An ugly, dirty, corrupt little republic.

Politically speaking, it was a powder keg of violence ready to explode.

"Randall didn't choose to go there, Mr. Tackett.
 
He didn't ask for the assignment.
 
Your brother saw to it that we were sent," she said disdainfully.
 
"His way of dealing with the scandal wasn't to confront it but to sweep it under the rug.

"How'd he manage that?
 
Thanks to you, no one wanted to know him.
 
His friends turned out to be the fair weather variety."

"But several people over at State owed Clark favors.
 
He called them in, and presto!
 
Randall was assigned to the most potentially dangerous area in the world at that time.

"Do you know the Bible story of David and Bathsheba?"
 
Giving him no time to answer, she explained.
 
"King David sent Bathsheba's husband to the front lines of battle, virtually guaranteeing that he would be killed.
 
And he was.

"But that's where your parallel ends," he said, sliding off the edge of the desk and moving to stand directly in front of her again.
 
"King David kept Bathsheba with him.
 
Doesn't speak very well of you, does it?"
 
he asked with a sneer.
 
"Clark didn't value you enough to keep you around.
 
You must have been a lousy mistress."

Spots of fiery indignation appeared on her cheeks.
 
"Following the scandal, Clark and I had no future together."

"He had no future, period.
 
You cost him his career in politics.
 
He didn't even embarrass his political party by running again.
 
He knew that Americans had had their fill of statesmen getting caught in compromising positions with bimbos."

"I am not a bimbo."

"Exception noted.
 
You can probably type," he said caustically.

"The point is that until you came along, my brother was Washington's golden boy.
 
After that morning in Virginia, he became a pariah on Capitol Hill."

"Don't cry Poor Clark' to me!
 
Your brother knew the potential consequences of his actions."

"And was willing to take the risks, is that it?"

"Precisely."

"Just what is it you do in bed that's so damn great it can separate a man from his better judgment?"

"I won't even honor that with a response," she shot back angrily.

"Do you think Clark was the only one to suffer consequences?"
 
She splayed her hand over her chest.
 
"I suffered losses too.
 
My career, for instance, which was as important to me as Clark's was to him."

"You left the country."

"What did it matter?
 
Even if I hadn't gone to Montesangre with Randall, I never would have had an opportunity to practice medicine in and around Washington.
 
I'd still be struggling to practice anywhere if Clark's guilt hadn't compelled him to buy me this place."

"What?"
 
His head snapped back.

Lara sucked in a sharp little breath.
 
Her lips parted in amazement.

She could tell that his stunned expression was authentic.
 
"You didn't know?"

His eyebrows came together in a steep frown above the bridge of his nose.

"I can't believe it," she murmured.
 
Carefully gauging his reaction, she said, "Clark bought this place from Dr. Patton when he retired, then deeded it over to me.

He stared at her for several ponderous moments, his gaze so intense it was difficult for her to meet it, but she did so unflinchingly.

Confusion and suspicion warred within his eyes.
 
"You're lying."