Mirror Image

by Sandra Brown

  Tate lowered his head and kissed her softly. He paused, then kissed her again with the same delicacy. His cheeks were very hot against hers. Acting on instinct and overwhelming need, she reached up and touched the bandage at his hairline. Affectionately, her fingers sifted through his tousled hair. She traced the cleft in his chin with her fingernail.

  God, she loved this man.

  His lips settled against hers with purpose. His tongue slipped between her lips. Gently, erotically, he worked it in and out, making love to her mouth. She made a small, wanton sound. He responded by drawing her closer to him, close enough for his softened penis to nestle in the humid warmth between her thighs.

  He kept kissing her mouth, her neck, her shoulders, while he fondled her breasts. His stroking fingers made the nipples stiff for his mouth. Hotly, wetly, he sucked them with tempered greed, until she was moving beneath him restlessly. He kissed her stomach, her undulating abdomen, the sensitive space between her pelvic bones.

  Avery, lost to the touch of his mouth on her skin, threaded her fingers through his hair and held on tight.

  Between her thighs, she was absurdly slippery, but his fingers dipped into her without intimidation. He discovered that tiny, distended nubbin of flesh between the pouting lips. He pressed it, feathered it, gently rolled it between his fingers.

  She spoke his name on a serrated sigh. Her body quickened. Small shudders began to ripple through her. Reflexively she drew her knees up.

  “I’m hard again.”

  His voice was tinged with wonder. Unintentionally he had spoken aloud the realization that had him mystified. He hadn’t expected to need her again so soon, nor to ever need her as violently as he did now.

  His entrance was surer than before, yet he took more time. When he was fully buried inside her, he turned his face into her neck and gently pulled her skin between his teeth. Avery’s body responded instantly. Her inner muscles flexed, tightly squeezing him. With a low sound, he mindlessly began rocking his hips forward and backward.

  She clung to him. Each rhythmic stroke propelled her closer to the light glimmering at the end of a dark tunnel. Her eyelids fluttered. She raced, harder and faster.

  The light exploded around her brilliantly and she was consumed.

  Tate released a long, low moan. His whole body tensed. He came and came and came, scalding and fierce, until he was completely empty.

  He said nothing when he disengaged his body from hers. He turned away, giving her his back and drawing the sheet over his sweat-beaded shoulders.

  Avery faced the opposite wall, trying to keep her crying silent. Physically it had been the finest sex imaginable, far surpassing anything she had ever experienced from the few lovers she’d had. There had been pitifully few. Relationships required time, and she’d sacrificed most of hers to the pursuit of her career. The obvious difference with this time was the love she had for her partner.

  But for Tate it had started and ended as a biological release. Anger had been his turn-on, not love or even affection. He’d given her a climax, but that had been an obligation considerately fulfilled and nothing more.

  The foreplay had been technically excellent but impersonal. They hadn’t luxuriated in their repletion, though she’d longed to explore his naked body, familiarize her eyes and hands and mouth with every nuance of it. No endearments had been whispered. No vows of love had been pledged. He hadn’t once spoken her name.

  He didn’t even know it.

  Thirty-Two

  “Tate, I need a minute of your time.”

  Avery barreled through the previously closed door, interrupting the conference being held in the large den at the ranch house.

  Jack, who had been speaking when she made her peremptory entrance, was left standing in the midst of them with his hand frozen in a gesture and his mouth hanging open.

  “What is it?” Tate asked, looking particularly ill-tempered.

  Eddy was frowning with annoyance; Jack was cursing beneath his breath. Nelson’s displeasure was just as clear, but he made an attempt at civility. “Is it an emergency? Mandy?”

  “No, Nelson. Mandy’s at nursery school.”

  “Is it something Zee can help you with?”

  “I’m afraid not. I need to speak privately to Tate.”

  “We’re in the middle of something here, Carole,” he said testily. “Is it important?”

  “If it weren’t important, I wouldn’t have interrupted you.”

  “I’d rather you wait until we get finished or handle the crisis yourself.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm with indignation. Since their return home several days earlier, he had gone out of his way to avoid her. It had come as a vast disappointment but only a mild surprise that he hadn’t moved back into the yellow bedroom she occupied. Instead, he’d resumed sleeping alone in the adjoining study.

  Their lovemaking hadn’t drawn them closer. Rather, it had widened the gap between them. The morning following it, they’d barely made eye contact. Words had been few. The mood had been subdued, as though something nefarious had transpired and neither party involved wanted to own up to it. She had taken her cue from Tate and pretended that nothing had happened in that wide bed, but the effort to remain impassive had made her cantankerous.

  He had acknowledged it only once, as they waited for the bellman to come for their luggage. “We didn’t use anything last night,” he had said in a low, strained voice as he gazed out over the Dallas skyline.

  “I don’t have AIDS,” she had snapped waspishly, wanting to prick his seemingly impenetrable aloofness. She succeeded.

  He came around quickly. “I know. They would have discovered it while you were in the hospital.”

  “Is that why you felt it was okay to touch me? Because I was disease-free?”

  “What I want to know,” he ground out, “is if you could get pregnant.”

  Glumly, she shook her head. “Wrong time of the month. You’re safe on all accounts.”

  That had been the extent of the conversation about their lovemaking, although that term elevated the act into something it hadn’t actually been, at least for Tate. She felt like a one-night stand—an unpaid prostitute. Any warm, female body would have suited him. For the time being, he was sated. He wouldn’t need her for a while.

  She resented being so disposable. Used once—well, twice, actually—then thrown away. Perhaps Carole’s unfaithfulness had been justified. Avery was beginning to wonder if Tate got off just as easily on the heady thought of becoming a senator as he did on sex. He certainly spent more time in pursuit of that than he did cultivating a loving relationship with his wife, she thought peevishly.

  “All right,” she said now, “I’ll handle it.”

  She pulled the den door closed with a hard slam. Less than a minute later she was slamming another door in the house—this one to Fancy’s bedroom. The girl was sitting on her bed, painting her toenails fire-engine red. A cigarette was burning in the nightstand ashtray. Condensation was collecting on the cold drink can beside the ashtray. Stereo headphones were bridging her head. Her jaws were working a piece of Juicy Fruit to the rhythm of the music.

  She couldn’t possibly have heard the slamming door over the acid rock being blasted into her ears, but she must have felt the vibration of the impact because she glanced up and saw Avery glaring down at her, holding a gum wrapper in her hand.

  Fancy replaced the brush in the bottle of nail polish and draped the headphones around her neck. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

  “I came to retrieve my belongings.”

  Giving Fancy no more warning than that, Avery marched to the closet and slid open a louvered panel.

  “Just a freaking minute!” Fancy exclaimed. She tossed the headphones down onto the bed and came charging off it.

  “This is mine,” Avery said, yanking a blouse off a hanger. “And this skirt. And this.” She removed a belt from a hook. Finding nothing more in the closet, she crossed to Fancy’s dress
ing table, which was littered with candy wrappers, chewing gum foil, perfume bottles, and enough cosmetics to stock a drugstore.

  Avery raised the lid of a lacquered jewelry box and began riffling through earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and rings. She found the silver earrings she had reported missing in Houston, a bracelet, and the watch.

  It was an inexpensive wristwatch—costume jewelry, really—but Tate had bought it for her. It hadn’t been a bona fide gift. They had been browsing through a department store during a break in the campaign trip. She had seen the watch, remarked on its attractive green alligator band, and Tate had passed the star struck salesgirl his credit card.

  Avery treasured it because he had bought it for her, not for Carole. She had noticed its disappearance from her jewelry box that morning. That had prompted her to storm the meeting in search of Tate. Since he had declined to advise her on how to deal with Fancy’s kleptomania, she had taken matters into her own hands.

  “You’re a lousy thief, Fancy.”

  “I don’t know how your stuff got into my room,” she said loftily.

  “You’re an even lousier liar.”

  “Mona probably—”

  “Fancy!” Avery shouted. “You’ve been sneaking into my room and taking things for weeks. I know it. Don’t insult my intelligence by denying it. You leave unmistakable clues behind.”

  Fancy looked down at the incriminating gum wrapper now lying on the bed. “Are you going to tattle to Uncle Tate?”

  “Is that what you want me to do?”

  “Hell, no.” She flopped back down on the bed and began vigorously shaking the bottle of nail polish. “Do whatever the hell you want to. Just do it someplace else besides my room.”

  Avery was on her way out when she reconsidered. Turning back, she approached the bed and sat down. Taking the silver earrings, she pressed them into Fancy’s hand and folded her fingers around them.

  “Why don’t you keep these? I would have loaned them to you if you had just asked.”

  Fancy flung the earrings as far as she could throw them. “I don’t want your goddamn charity.” Her beautiful blue eyes turned ugly with dislike. “Who the hell are you to offer me your sorry leftovers? I don’t want the earrings or anything else you’ve got.”

  Avery withstood the verbal attack. “I believe you. It’s not the earrings or any of this stuff that you wanted,” she said, nodding down at the possessions she had gathered. “What you wanted was to get caught.”

  Fancy scoffed. “You’ve been out in the sun too long, Aunt Carole. Don’t you know the sun’s bad for your plastic face? It might cause it to melt.”

  “You can’t insult me,” Avery returned blandly. “You don’t have the power. Because I’m on to you.”

  Fancy regarded her sulkily. “What do you mean?”

  “You wanted my attention. You got it by stealing. Just like you get your parents’ attention by doing things you know they’ll disapprove of.”

  “Like fucking Eddy?”

  “Like fucking Eddy.”

  Fancy was taken aback by Avery’s calm echo of her cheeky question. She quickly recovered, however. “I’ll bet you nearly shit when you saw me coming out of his hotel room. Didn’t know I was anywhere near Houston, did you?”

  “He’s too old for you, Fancy.”

  “We don’t think so.”

  “Did he invite you to join him in Houston?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” She sprayed fixative on her scarlet toenails, then waggled them as she admired her handiwork. Hopping off the bed, she moved to a drawer and took out a bikini. She peeled her nightgown over her head. Her body was marred by bruises and scratches. Her shapely buttocks were striped with them. Avery glanced away, a sick feeling rising in her stomach.

  “I’ve never had a lover like Eddy before,” Fancy said dreamily as she stepped into the bikini trunks.

  “Oh? What kind of lover is he?”

  “Don’t you know?” Avery said nothing. She didn’t know if Carole had slept with her husband’s best friend or not. “He’s the best.” Fancy hooked the bikini bra, then leaned into the mirror, selected a lipstick off the dressing table, and spread it across her mouth. “Jealous?”

  “No.”

  They made eye contact in the mirror. Fancy looked skeptical. “Uncle Tate’s still sleeping in that other room.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Doesn’t matter to me,” she said with a malicious grin, “as long as you don’t try and take up the slack with Eddy.”

  “You sound very proprietary.”

  “He’s not sleeping with anybody else.” She bent at the waist and, flipping her hair forward, began pulling a brush through the thick, dark-blond strands.

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “I’m sure. I don’t leave him the energy to screw around on me.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Fancy swept her hair to one side and slyly looked up at Avery from her upside down position. “I get it. Not jealous, just curious.”

  “Maybe. What do you and Eddy find to talk about?”

  “Do you chat with the guys you’re balling?” She laughed out loud. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any grass, would you?”

  “No.”

  “Guess not,” she said, sighing with disgust as she came erect and threw her hair back. “Uncle Tate went berserk when he caught us smoking that time. Wonder what he would have thought if he’d caught us sharing that cowboy?”

  Avery blanched and looked away. “I… don’t do things like that anymore, Fancy.”

  “No shit? For real?” She seemed genuinely curious.

  “For real.”

  “You know, when you first came home from the hospital, I thought you were faking it. You were Miss Goody Two Shoes all of a sudden. But now, I believe you really changed after that airplane crash. What happened? Are you afraid you’re gonna die and go to hell, or what?”

  Avery changed the subject. “Surely Eddy’s told you something about himself. Where did he grow up? What about his family?”

  Fancy propped her hands on her hips and regarded Avery strangely. “You know where he grew up, same as I do. Some podunk town in the Panhandle. He didn’t have any family, remember? Except for a grandma who died while he and Uncle Tate were still at UT.”

  “What did he do before he came to work for Tate?”

  Fancy had already grown impatient with the questions. “Look, we screw, okay? We don’t talk. I mean, he’s a real private person.”

  “For instance?”

  “He doesn’t like me going through his stuff. One night I was searching in his drawers for a shirt to put on and he got really pissed, said for me not to meddle in his stuff again, so I don’t. I don’t pry, period. We all need our privacy, you know.”

  “He’s never mentioned what he did between Vietnam and when he came back to Texas?”

  “All I’ve ever asked was if he’d been married. He told me he hadn’t. He said he’d spent a lot of time finding himself. I said, ‘Were you lost?’ I meant it like a joke, but Eddy got this funny look on his face and said something like, ‘Yeah, for a while there, I was.’ ”

  “What do you think he meant by that?”

  “Oh, I suspect he freaked after the war,” Fancy said with breezy unconcern.

  “Why?”

  “Probably because of Uncle Tate saving his life after their plane crashed. I guess Eddy relives bailing out, being wounded, and having Uncle Tate carry him around in the jungle until a chopper could pick them up. If you’ve ever seen him naked, you must’ve noticed the scar on his back. Pretty gruesome, huh?

  “He must’ve been scared shitless they were gonna get captured by the Cong. Eddy begged Uncle Tate to leave him to die, you know, but Uncle Tate wouldn’t.”

  “Surely he didn’t think Tate would,” Avery exclaimed.

  “Well, you know the fighter pilots’ motto—‘Better dead than look bad.’ Eddy must’ve taken it to heart more than most.
Uncle Tate was the hero. Eddy was just another casualty. That must still play on his mind.”

  “How do you know all this, Fancy?”

  “Are you kidding? Haven’t you heard Grandpa tell it often enough?”

  “Oh, sure, of course. You just seem to know so many of the fine details.”

  “No more than you. Look, I’m going out to the pool. Do you mind?”

  Inhospitably, she walked to the door and pulled it open. Avery joined her there. “Fancy, the next time you want to use something of mine, just ask.” She rolled her eyes, but Avery ignored her insolence. Touching the girl’s shoulder briefly, she added, “And be careful.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of Eddy.”

  * * *

  “She said for me to be careful of you.”

  The motel room was cheap, dusty, and dank. But as Fancy bit into a fried chicken drumstick, she didn’t seem to notice or mind. She’d become accustomed to the shabby surroundings in the last several weeks.

  She would rather have had her trysts with Eddy in a more elegant hotel, but the Sidewinder Inn was located on the interstate between campaign headquarters and the ranch, so it was a convenient place for them to meet before going home. The motel catered to illicit lovers. Rooms were rented by the hour. The staff was discreet—out of indifference, not empathy.

  Because they had worked through the dinner hour this evening, Fancy and Eddy were sharing their time together with a bucket of Colonel Sanders’s best. Naked, they were sitting amid the rumpled sheets, eating fried chicken and discussing Carole Rutledge.

  “Careful of me?” Eddy asked. “Why?”

  “She said I shouldn’t be getting involved with a man so much older,” Fancy said, tearing off a bite of meat. “But I don’t think that’s the real reason.”

  Eddy broke apart a chicken wing. “What’s the real reason?”

  “The real reason is because she’s eaten up with jealousy. See, she wants to play the good wife for Uncle Tate, just in case he wins and goes to Washington. But in case he doesn’t, she wants to have someone waiting in the wings. Even though she pretends not to, I know Aunt Carole craves your body.” Playfully, she tapped his chest with the drumstick.