by Sandra Brown
“I remember,” Key said. “And I’m glad you brought that up because something else has been bugging me. You said you were inside the shack while all that was going on, right?”
Randall nodded. “I was bound and gagged, unable to alert you to the fact that I was still alive. That was Emilio’s inside joke.”
“When did you first learn that I was in Montesangre?” Lara asked.
“The morning following your arrival. I knew something was afoot because my guards were brusque and wouldn’t look me in the eye. We’d developed a grudging respect for one another over the years. Suddenly they were hostile and taciturn again.
“After Ricardo intercepted the jeep on the road, it was only a matter of hours before they deduced who the ‘widow’ was. There was some speculation about the idiot brother-in-law.” He looked pointedly at Key. “But once Emilio learned your name, he put two and two together. He knew about Lara’s… friendship with Clark.
“The more you snooped around, the more volatile the situation became. The night before you were brought to the camp, I was transported there. Emilio taunted me with the threat of killing you slowly and painfully while I watched. I was beaten, but not severely. He wanted me conscious for the next morning’s theatrics.
“After you were taken away, I was beaten again, then driven to Ciudad Central. We were probably only an hour behind you, but my guards and I spent the night in the truck. The last thing I remember is being knocked unconscious shortly after dawn. Your scream when you found me in the bathtub roused me. I was as shocked as you to find myself still alive.”
He stood and slipped on his suit coat. “Well, I think it’s time to go.”
“I still can’t comprehend Emilio’s strategy,” Lara argued, making no move to join him at the door.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“No, we’ll talk about it now, Randall. If you insist that I face the press, I need to fully understand the situation. They’ll ask me about my dealings with El Corazón del Diablo. I’ll gladly tell them everything I know about the slender, bookish young man who worked as a translator at the embassy, and about the cold-blooded murderer I met this week. But I can’t expound on foreign policy without having a clearer picture of what was in Emilio’s mind. Why did he let us go? Why did he keep you alive but imprisoned for three years and then suddenly release you?”
Randall gnawed the inside of his cheek, apparently annoyed by her confusion. He decided to humor her. “I’ve had three years to ruminate on why my death was staged. The savagery of it was to demonstrate how much Montesangre resented the United States’ intervention into its internal affairs.”
“Why didn’t they kill you for real?” Key asked.
“I assume they wanted to keep me as a trump card. Had the U.S. decided to send troops into Montesangre, as they did into Panama, they could have used me as a hostage.”
“So why were you released now?”
“That’s simple, Lara. They’re starving. Montesangre relies entirely on imports for virtually everything. Under the embargo enforced by the United States, and adhered to by the nations who are either allied with or fearful of us, their resources were quickly exhausted. Frankly, I’m amazed that they’ve held out this long. They probably wouldn’t have if Pérez were still their leader. They would have relaxed their political position long before now without someone as ruthless as Emilio at the helm. He’s made himself into a demigod.”
“What are you, president of his fan club?” Key asked caustically.
“Certainly not,” Randall coldly countered. “He was my jailer for three years. However, I’ve witnessed firsthand the suffering of the Montesangrens. I have tremendous sympathy for them and wish to help their plight. For all his ruthlessness, Sánchez is the best hope for pulling the country together, feeding the hungry, ending the chaos, and establishing some semblance of order. And, putting personal considerations aside, I must admire his tenacity.
“He’s inordinately determined and patient. Using your venture to release me was a brilliant stroke of ingenuity. He knew the human-interest value of this story, knew it would gain the attention of the American people. It’s his invitation to the United States to reopen diplomatic dialogue.”
“That’s the message he gave me to deliver. Why use his ace in the hole?”
Randall smiled as though amused by Key’s näiveté. “He knew I would have more credibility in Washington than a cowboy.”
“I’m not a cowboy.”
“Of course you are.” His eyes slid over Key’s jeans and boots, making plain his low opinion of them. “The only difference is that you ride airplanes instead of horses. Otherwise, you’re a range bum. Even your brother thought so.”
Key lunged for him, but Lara stepped between them. Putting her back to Key, she angrily faced Randall. “Clark thought no such thing! He loved Key very much.”
Randall smiled and said softly, “I bow to your superior knowledge of whom and what Clark loved.” He extended his hand. “We really must go, darling. Ready?”
Disregarding his proffered hand, she moved stiffly toward the door. Sensing that Key wasn’t following, she turned to him. “Coming?”
“No.”
She panicked. The only thing that would hold her together during this press conference was knowing that Key was beside her. He couldn’t lend her physical support, of course, but she’d relied on his strong presence to bolster her.
Gauging by the resolve in his expression, she knew arguing would be futile, but still she had to try. “You’re expected.”
“They’ll just have to be disappointed. The newspapers are hinting that I took you to Montesangre to rescue him.” He hitched his head toward Randall. “That’s not why I went, and I’m not going to pretend that it was.”
“They’ll think you’re only being coy, Mr. Tackett.”
Key glared at her husband. “I can’t control what they think. The only thing I have any real control over is myself, and I’m not going to be carrion for a flock of vultures with cameras. If you want a quote, write that one down.” Looking at Lara again, he said, “You don’t have to go either. No one can force you.”
She fought the magnetic pull that would have drawn her to him. There were so many things to say, so many explanations to make, but in order not to cause more damage than had already been done, she had to remain silent.
Naturally she was glad that Randall hadn’t died a brutal death. She celebrated his release from a long and hellish captivity. From a very selfish viewpoint, however, his deliverance couldn’t have come at a worse time. Randall had been liberated, but her imprisonment was just beginning.
Tears filled her eyes. One rolled down her cheek. Seeing it, Key started to say something, but obviously thought better of it. They gazed at each other in mute misery.
“Well, well,” Randall said around a dry little cough. Not knowing that he was echoing Lara’s thoughts, he said, “It appears that the husband’s resurrection from the dead has come at an inopportune time.”
She quickly turned away from Key. “As you said, Randall, we’re going to be late. Let’s go.”
He held up his hand to forestall her. “They’ll wait. This, on the other hand, demands immediate attention.”
“There is no ‘this.’ ”
“You always were a terrible liar, Lara.” He chuckled. “Out of deference to the shock you’ve sustained, I haven’t imposed my marital rights these past few nights. It’s a good thing I didn’t. Undoubtedly I would have found your bedroom door locked.”
She gave him a fulminating look but said nothing.
He laid his finger lengthwise against his lips and fixed an appraising gaze on Key. “He’s such a contrast to Clark, I’m amazed you find him attractive. He’s certainly not as polished as his older brother. Still, he does emanate a hot-blooded, animalistic quality that I suppose a woman like you would find appealing.”
“I’m not deaf and dumb, you son of a bitch,” Key said. “If you’ve got so
mething to say, say it to me directly.”
“All right,” he said pleasantly. “Didn’t you feel the least bit foolish fucking a woman known nationwide as your brother’s whore?”
Even Lara couldn’t have stopped Key then. He sidestepped her and encircled Randall’s throat with his hands.
“Key, no!” She tried to pry his fingers off Randall’s neck, but they were unyielding. He backed him into the door; Randall’s head made connection with a solid thunk. Frantically, he clawed at Key’s fingers, but they squeezed tighter.
“Please. Key!” she cried. “Don’t make matters worse! Don’t make me another tabloid headline!”
Her shouted plea registered. She saw him blink rapidly as though to dispel a fog of rage. When her words sank in, his fingers began to relax. He released Randall with an abrupt gesture of contempt.
Randall recovered himself and, with a semblance of dignity, straightened his coat and necktie. “I’m glad cowboys no longer carry six-shooters. I could be dead.”
Key was still breathing hard and looking dangerous. “You talk about Lara and me that way again, and I’ll kill you.”
“How chivalrous,” Randall said scornfully. He turned to her. “Well, Lara. For the final time, shall we go?”
Key rounded on her and gripped her by the shoulders. “You don’t have to do what he says.” He gave her a little shake. “You don’t.”
“Yes, I do, Key.” She spoke quietly but with steely conviction.
At first he was incredulous. Then his bafflement turned to anger. She watched his face grow taut with fury. She knew he wouldn’t understand her decision, and she couldn’t explain it. So she had no choice but to withstand his disgust.
He released her, turned on his heel, yanked the door open, and stalked out. Hopelessly, she watched him go.
“I thought it went very well, but after all that talking, I could stand a drink.” Randall slipped out of his suit jacket and carefully laid it across the back of a chair as he moved to the bar. “Want something, darling?”
“No, thank you.”
He mixed a scotch and soda and smacked his lips appreciatively after the first sip. “One of the many things I missed during my captivity.” Sitting on the sofa, drink in hand, he unlaced his shoes. “You’re subdued, Lara. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? I’m fair game and this is the first day of hunting season.” She rounded on him. “I hate being put on display, and I bitterly resent you for forcing me to reopen my life to public scrutiny.”
“You should have thought of the consequences before you finagled Key Tackett into taking you to Montesangre.”
“I tried every other resource I knew of before asking Key. He was my last hope. I’ve explained why I went. Why I had to go.”
“And your noble motivation was duly noted by the press. You were quite effective when you described the mass grave. You’ll probably be nominated for Mother of the Year.” He took another sip of scotch. “I honestly don’t know why you’re so upset.”
“Because to even recount the incident at the cemetery is an invasion of my privacy, Randall. And while my motives were pure, the reporters’ weren’t. They were only politely interested in the events of our trip, and the ruthless despot, El Corazón, and what effects your release might have on foreign policy.
“What they really wanted was dirt. ‘Why did you team up with Senator Tackett’s brother, Mrs. Porter?’ ‘Does Key Tackett resent the role you played in Senator Tackett’s downfall?’ ‘Was his death a suicide?’ ‘How did you feel when you discovered your husband is still alive, Mrs. Porter?’ What kind of questions are those?”
“Profound, I would say.” With deceptive calm, he set his drink on the coffee table. “How do you feel about your husband’s return from the dead, Mrs. Porter?”
She avoided his goading glance. “I prefer being addressed by my professional name, Randall. I’ve been Dr. Mallory for a long time. ‘Mrs. Porter’ has negative connotations for me.”
“Yes, like the fact that you’re married,” he said with a snide laugh. “You aren’t very lucky, are you, Lara? It was so damned untimely for you to fall in love. And with Clark’s brother, no less.” He threw back his head and laughed harder. “The irony of it is so rich.”
She refused to give him the satisfaction of denying or confirming his assumption. Her relationship with Key, which was indefinable even to herself, was none of Randall’s business, except insofar as she was still legally his wife. Emotionally, she hadn’t felt conjugally linked to him since before that disastrous weekend in Virginia.
He finished his drink. “It’s getting late. We’d better get some rest. We’re booked on a ten o’clock flight to Washington tomorrow morning.”
“I’m not going to Washington.”
He had bent down to pick up his shoes. Slowly he straightened. “The hell you’re not. It’s all arranged.”
“Then unarrange it. I’m not going.”
“The President of the United States is scheduled to receive us in the Oval Office.” His face had become flushed.
“Extend him my regrets. I won’t be able to make it.”
She headed for the bedroom. Randall stormed off the sofa, grabbed her arm, and brought her around. “You’ll be there with me every step of the way through this, Lara.”
“No, I won’t Randall,” she averred, pulling her arm free. “Frankly, I’m surprised you want to share the limelight. When you left Washington, you were a cuckold, a laughing-stock. You’re returning a hero. You’ll probably be invited to appear on all the TV talk shows, to write a book—there might even be a movie-of-the-week in your future. Your credibility has been fully restored and once again you’ve got the ear of the president. Why would you want me there, stealing a few rays of your spotlight and reminding everyone of that large, dark blot on your career?”
“To keep up appearances,” he said with a cold smile. “You are still my wife. I’m willing to overlook your sleeping arrangements with Key Tackett. After all, you thought I was dead.”
“Don’t assume that moral posture with me, Randall. The martyred husband who continues to forgive his wayward wife.” Her words were laden with contempt. “That’s the pose you struck when photos of me being hustled from Clark’s cottage hit the newsstands. Little did anyone guess that you’d been having affairs almost from the day we married.”
“I’ve never confessed to that,” he replied blandly. “You surmised it for your own benefit.”
“I also surmise that you didn’t live a celibate life in Montesangre. If you were chummy with your guards, I’m certain they made arrangements for you.”
“A very astute guess, Lara. In fact I did enjoy a satisfying physical relationship while I was in captivity. She was a beautiful girl, petite and delicate, with ebony eyes. She was pathetically willing to please me no matter what I asked of her. She was hardly suited to guerrilla warfare, although she was dedicated to the cause and to her second cousin, Emilio Sánchez Perón.
“When he found out she’d become my lover, he had her disemboweled. I believe he was jealous. During their youth they’d been very close. Or maybe he was afraid that her devotion to me would divide her loyalties. Either way, he brought an end to a very gratifying diversion.”
Lara was sickened by the story and the cavalier manner in which Randall related it. She said, “I should have divorced you before we went to Montesangre.”
“Possibly. But by then you were pregnant. That made things difficult for you.”
“Yes, because you threatened to take the baby away from me unless I stayed with you.”
“I could have, too. You were an adulterous wife, hardly a model parent. What court in the land would have awarded custody of a newborn to Clark Tackett’s whore?”
He’d posed the same question five years earlier. She’d known it wasn’t an empty threat. Had she pursued a divorce and refused to go with him when he left the country, he would have exhausted every effort to win legal custody of the child.
She would have fought him to the Supreme Court, except for one major consideration—Ashley. During the years most vital to her development, she would have been shuttled between them, more an object under dispute than a human being. That would have made it almost impossible to raise a contented, well-adjusted child. She hadn’t wanted that for her baby.
“Your insults can’t hurt me, Randall, because I don’t love you. You don’t love me. Why perpetuate this myth any longer?”
“Appearances are very important in my line of work,” he said with exaggerated patience. “You are garnish, Lara. You always have been. Most wives are. The smarter and prettier they are, the better, but all are little more than what parsley is to prime rib.”
Disgusted, she backed away from him.
“Your objections have been noted,” he said in a condescending way that further infuriated her. Then he smiled. “Actually I find this new rebellious streak of yours rather exciting, but I’m tiring of it. Save it for a more convenient time, hmm? You’ll follow me to Washington and stand meekly by my side just as you followed me to Montesangre and fulfilled your duties as my official hostess.”
“The hell I will.” She confronted him defiantly and fearlessly. “Because of the terrible ordeal you’d been through, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. But your three years of confinement haven’t changed you, Randall. You’re as selfish and manipulative as you ever were. Maybe even more so because you now feel the world owes you for what you endured.
“I’m glad you’re alive, but I want nothing to do with you. Don’t think you can persuade me otherwise. It’s over and has been for years.
“I went to Central America with you in exchange for Ashley. I agreed to stay for one year following her birth. We were only weeks away from the deadline when she was killed. I lost her anyway,” she said with rancor. “Now that she’s dead, your threats are worthless. You have no bargaining power because I’ve already lost everything that was valuable to me.”