by Sandra Brown
She chuckled in the darkness, coughing on cigarette smoke. Wouldn’t her immortality come as a nasty shock to them? She’d made a career of taking people by surprise. It didn’t pay to be caught napping around Jody Tackett. They could ask Fergus Winston if they didn’t believe it.
Again Jody laughed, and again she coughed, harder, reminding herself that where her mortality was concerned, she might not have a choice.
Frowning, she viciously cursed fate. She wasn’t ready to die. She had things left to do, the main one being to drum that Porter bitch out of Eden Pass. Clark must have been out of his head or under the influence of some mind-altering substance to have purchased Doc Patton’s clinic and then deed it to her. What had he been thinking, for chrissake?
More than Janellen and Key guessed, as long as Lara Mallory Porter remained in Eden Pass, she posed a serious threat to them and to all they held sacred.
Jody hadn’t yet figured out the doctor’s reason for moving here. However, she knew with the same certainty that the sun rose in the east that it was for more than to accept Clark’s legacy. Unless she wanted something more, she would have turned that clinic for a quick profit and never set foot in Tackett territory. She was here for a reason. Jody dreaded learning what it was, but must before either she or one of her children walked into a trap laid by Lara Porter.
She, Jody Tackett, had come from poverty and married the richest man around. She hadn’t remained at the helm of an independent oil company for years, hadn’t become a woman to be feared and revered, by sitting on her ass trying to figure out other people’s motives. She acted first, before they were given a chance. A rattler struck before he was stepped on.
Jody remained awake for a long time, smoking and plotting. By the time she’d smoked her last cigarette down to the filter, she had formulated her next move.
Darcy lowered her car windows. The wind punished her hairdo, but it would blow away the odor of tobacco smoke that she’d absorbed in the bar. That might make Fergus suspicious. Smoking wasn’t allowed in the nursing home where her mother resided. Visits to the expensive facility provided her excellent excuses to go out at night. She’d been going out more frequently than usual because her ego needed boosting. Thanks to Mr. Key Tackett, her self-esteem was shaky.
Knowing that she’d been dumped gnawed at Darcy, eating away at her self-confidence like a vicious rat. That’s why she wasn’t having any fun lately. She couldn’t concentrate on any other man and wouldn’t until she’d repaid Key for slinging this shit on her.
She hadn’t even had the satisfaction of showing him how little she cared. Oddly, he hadn’t been hanging out at the popular watering holes. The word around town was that he was flying a lot, chartering flights for clients from Dallas to Little Rock and as far south as Corpus Christi. But he couldn’t be flying all night every night. Where was he going in between jobs? How was he spending his free time?
With another woman? She hadn’t heard any scuttlebutt, and surely she would have. His name hadn’t been linked to any local woman except for…
Darcy reacted as though she’d been slapped. “But that’s impossible,” she protested out loud.
Key Tackett and Dr. Mallory? Their names had been linked when they’d flown that kid to Tyler, but that sure as hell hadn’t been a lark.
On the other hand, the doctor was a renowned man-eater. She’d been carrying on with her lover right under her husband’s nose. Even Darcy had more morals—and better sense—than to do that.
Some men, however, liked a woman with the spirit of adventure. It added spiciness and suspense. James Bond didn’t fuck shrinking violets, did he?
She gripped the steering wheel tighter. If Key was having a secret affair with his brother’s mistress, Darcy would make certain that everybody in East Texas heard about it. By the time she got through spreading tales, he’d be a laughingstock. Taking Clark’s leftovers? Ha! That would serve the bastard right.
But the rumors should contain at least a grain of truth or the laugh would be on her. How could she make certain that he was sleeping with Lara Mallory? She’d never even met the doctor. Lara Mallory would see right through any friendly overtures. She was no fool.
How could she get close to Lara Mallory without putting her on guard? It warranted some thought, but she was confident that she’d think of a way.
Arriving home, she let herself into the house, tiptoeing and moving around in the dark to keep from waking Fergus and Heather, who were asleep upstairs. She didn’t want to account for the lateness of the hour unless absolutely necessary. She hated lying to her husband and avoided doing so whenever possible.
Moving past the door to the family room, she noticed that the television set had been left on. She went in to turn it off. As she rounded the leather sofa, two startled people leaped up. There were exclamations of surprise as they grappled for loose articles of clothing.
Darcy switched on the lamp, took in the situation at a glance, and angrily demanded to know—although she already did—“Just what the hell is going on here?”
Chapter Twelve
The pastor of the First Baptist Church commended Letty’s soul to the Lord and said a final amen over the small white casket. Marion Leonard’s keening cry echoed across the windswept cemetery, raising goose bumps on all who heard it. Jack Leonard was silent, but tears rolled down his gaunt, pale cheeks as he pulled his grieving wife away from their daughter’s coffin. It was a heartrending scene that deserved privacy. Mourners began to disperse.
Lara had kept to the fringes of the crowd, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. As she turned to leave, the white-hot flash of a high-tech camera exploded near her face. Instinctively she threw up her arm for protection. The first blinding flash was followed by another, then a third.
“Mrs. Porter, will you comment on the Leonards’ malpractice suit against you?”
“What?” A microphone was thrust against her mouth. She shoved it aside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And my name is Dr. Mallory.”
As the violet spots receded, she saw a horde of reporters blocking her path. She switched directions. The band flocked after her. Some were obviously affiliated with TV stations—their video cameramen trotted along beside them, connected by cables. Others were from newspapers; with them were the still photographers and their despised flashes. Five years ago, she’d become well acquainted with the accoutrements of mass communication.
What was the media doing here? What did they want with her? She felt as if her nightmare was being reenacted.
“Please, let me by.”
Glancing back, she saw that others attending Letty Leonard’s funeral had gathered in clusters and were speaking in hushed but excited voices, gaping at the sideshow. She hadn’t created the spectacle but was nevertheless its unwilling star.
“Mrs. Porter—”
“My name is Mallory,” she insisted. “Dr. Mallory.”
“But you were married to the late U.S. Ambassador Randall Porter?”
She hurried across the neatly clipped grass toward the gravel lane where her car was parked in a line of others behind the white hearse and the limousine.
“You’re the same Lara Porter who was Senator Tackett’s mistress, isn’t that right?”
“Please move aside.” Reaching her car at last, she fumbled in her handbag for her keys. “Leave me alone.”
“What brought you to Eden Pass, Mrs. Porter?”
“It is true that Senator Tackett brought you here before his death?”
“Were you still lovers?”
“What do you know about his accidental drowning, Mrs. Porter? Was it actually a suicide?”
“Did your negligence cause the Leonard girl’s death?”
She had been asked the other questions a thousand times before and had become inured to them. They bounced off the armor of repetition. But the last question brought her around. “What?” Looking directly at the young female reporter who had posed the question, she repeated, “
What did you say?”
“Did your negligence cause the embolism that killed Letty Leonard?”
“No!”
“You were the first doctor to attend her.”
“That’s correct. And I did everything possible to save her arm and her life.”
“Apparently the Leonards don’t think so or they wouldn’t be suing you for medical malpractice.”
Had Lara not had experience in masking her reaction to personal and probing questions and verbal salvos, she might have reeled under the impact of this one. Instead she gazed back at the reporter without revealing her inner turmoil. The muscles in her face felt wooden, but she managed to move her lips sufficiently to get out the words.
“I took drastic measures to save Letty Leonard’s life. Her parents are well aware of that. I haven’t been notified of a pending malpractice suit. That’s all I have to say.”
Naturally the news hounds didn’t accept that as her final word. As she drove away, they were still aiming lenses and microphones at her, hurling questions like stones. She gripped the steering wheel with sweating hands, keeping her eyes forward, ignoring the curious onlookers as she drove past them.
It was a warm, humid morning, but she hadn’t been uncomfortable with the heat until the reporters had resurrected the ugly past. Now her clothes were sticking to her damp skin, her head was pounding, and her heart was beating at an alarming rate. She felt nauseated.
What had initiated all this media attention? Her move to Eden Pass had gone unnoticed; she’d lived in relative anonymity for more than a year. There had been newer scandals to exploit, more sensational stories to expose, sinners more sinful than she caught sinning. The story of Lara Porter and Senator Tackett had been buried in the graveyard of dead stories ages ago.
Until this morning. Letty Leonard’s death had exhumed her. Once again she was a notorious public figure.
Yet, the story of Letty’s accident, tragic as it was, hadn’t warranted statewide or national media coverage; only the local press had reported it. Naturally, her name would have been in Letty’s medical file, but unless a reporter was very astute, he wouldn’t have connected Dr. Lara Mallory of Eden Pass with Lara Porter, Senator Clark Tackett’s mistress.
In subsequent stories about Letty’s surgery and recovery, she hadn’t been mentioned at all, for which she’d been glad. The less publicity she generated, the better. She wouldn’t have cared if her name never again appeared in newsprint. But it was going to appear now, with the stigmatizing word malpractice shadowing it.
Through the entire incident with Clark, through the disaster in Montesangre, her proficiency as a physician had never come under fire. Her reputation as an accomplished doctor had withstood the bombardments to her character. She had clung to that last vestige of pride.
Now, if the Leonards even suggested they might pursue a medical malpractice suit, her work would be placed under a microscope. It would be laid bare and dissected just as her private life had been. Nothing incriminating would be found, but that didn’t matter. The examination itself would create headlines. In the public’s mind, being suspect was equivalent to being guilty.
Once again she would become fodder for the news mill. Her floundering practice—the only important thing left her—would suffer until it was extinct.
Someone must have tipped the media that the Dr. Mallory who had first attended Letty Leonard was none other than the infamous slut Lara Porter.
As she had feared, parked outside her clinic were cars and vans designated with call letters. When she pulled her car into the rear driveway, reporters swarmed her. She shoved her way through them and entered the clinic via the back door, which Nancy was holding open for her.
“What in hell is going on?” the nurse demanded as she slammed the door behind Lara.
“The rumor is out that the Leonards are suing me for malpractice.”
“Have they lost their minds?”
“I’m sure they have. To grief.”
“These people,” Nancy said, indicating the reporters just beyond the closed door, “and I use the term loosely, showed up about an hour ago and started pounding on the door. I didn’t know what to think. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing.” Sure enough, the phone rang.
“Don’t answer it.”
“What do you want me to do, Dr. Mallory?”
“Call Sheriff Baxter and ask him to remove these reporters from the premises.”
“Can he do that?”
“He can keep them off my property. They can still park in the street, which I’m sure they’ll do. For the next several days, we’ll be under siege. Maybe you ought to take this week off.”
“Not on a bet. I wouldn’t desert you to fight off these jackals alone.” As Lara slipped out of her suit jacket, Nancy took it from her and noticed the damp lining. “I’ve never seen you secrete a drop of sweat. I doubted you even had sweat glands.”
“That’s nervous perspiration. They ambushed me at the funeral.”
“Those buzzards.”
“Make up your mind. Buzzards or jackals.” It was comforting to know she had retained her sense of humor.
“Doesn’t matter. They’re both scavengers. I ought to get Clem over here with his shotgun. That would scatter them.”
“I appreciate the gesture, but no thanks. I don’t need the bad publicity,” Lara said grimly. “Before I even got a foothold on being Dr. Mallory, a small-town doctor, I’m once again Lara Porter, Clark Tackett’s married lover.”
Nancy’s face reflected her regret. “It’s such a damn shame. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. I’ll need all the friends I can get.” She sighed with consternation. “I wasn’t actually in hiding, but I didn’t want my whereabouts publicized for fear that something like this would happen. Someone deliberately stirred up this hornets’ nest. I don’t believe for a moment that it evolved on its own.”
“Tackett’s the name. Treachery’s the game.”
Lara looked sharply at her nurse. “Key?”
Nancy shook her head. “Isn’t his style. My guess is the old lady. You’re making headway here. Not in leaps and bounds, but in baby steps. She can’t tolerate that. Jody heard about that little girl dying, knew that you’d been the first attending doctor, and saw a chance to create a ruckus.”
“She could have done that when I moved to town.”
“But it would have come out that Clark set you up here. That would have implied that he was still emotionally attached to you. Jody didn’t want to flatter you that much. This time, Clark’s out of the picture.”
What Nancy said made sense. Lara headed for her office. “I doubt any patients will even attempt to get in today, but I’ll be in my office if I’m needed.”
She pulled down the window shades so she wouldn’t have to witness the destruction of her lawn under the trampling feet of eager reporters. Once seated at her desk, she consulted the telephone directory. Her personality had undergone some drastic changes since that morning in Virginia. She was older now, tougher, and she wasn’t going to take persecution lying down. Reaching for the phone, she dialed a number.
“Miss Janellen?”
“Bowie! What are you doing here?”
She was seated at the kitchen table, staring at the telephone she’d just hung up. He had poked his head around the door. She signaled him in.
“Seems like I’m always sneaking up on you, pulling you out of deep thought. I don’t mean to.” He moved into the room, looking uneasy. “The, uh, maid told me to come on back. If this is a bad time for you…”
“No, it’s all right. I’m just surprised to see you here.”
“I tried the office first, then the shop. They told me there that you’d knocked off early today.”
“My mother wasn’t feeling well this morning when I left for work, and I was worried about her.” As usual, when in Bowie’s presence, she felt tongue-tied. She indicated one of the chairs across the kitchen table from her. “Sit down. I was about to have som
e tea. Would you like some?”
“Tea?” Dubiously he glanced at the steaming kettle on the stove. “Hot tea? It’s a hundred degrees outside.”
“I know, but, well, I like tea,” she said with an apologetic shrug. “It’s soothing.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Something else then? Lemonade? A soft drink? A beer? Key keeps beer in the fridge.”
“No, thanks. Besides, I can’t sit down. I’m dirty.”
He looked wonderful to her. Until he called her attention to it, she hadn’t noticed the dirt smeared on his jeans and shirt. Hunks of it clung to the soles of his boots. It was embedded in the grain of his leather work gloves, which he’d stuck into his belt, and his hat, too, was dusty.
“Don’t be silly,” Janellen said. “Mama made my brothers work during their summer vacations. They used to come in all sweaty and stinky—not that you’re stinky,” she said hastily. “I just meant that this kitchen was built for working men to… you know, to enjoy and relax in.”
Realizing that she was blabbering, she forced herself to stop. “You obviously came here to discuss something with me, so sit down, please.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he lowered himself onto a kitchen chair, balancing his buttocks on the edge of the seat.
“Wouldn’t you like something to drink?” she repeated.
“Lemonade, I guess.” He cleared his throat.
“You were a million miles away when I came in,” he remarked after taking a long swallow of his drink.
“I’d just had a very disturbing telephone call.” She debated whether she should discuss the call with him. He was looking at her expectantly, and it would be a relief to talk about it with someone who was uninvolved and therefore impartial.