Where There's Smoke

“It wasn’t the first time you’d been to Clark’s cottage in Virginia, was it?”

“No.”

“You were familiar with the house.”

“Yes.”

“In fact, because Clark was a bachelor, you’d served as his official hostess lots of times.”

“I had helped him organize several dinner parties.”

“And that sort of put you two together.”

“Naturally, we had to plan menus—”

“Oh, naturally.”

“Clark was a public official. Even casual gatherings involved planning and preparation.”

“Have I disputed anything?”

His condescension was as infuriating as his angry accusations. Lara suddenly realized that her hands had clenched into tight fists. She willed them to relax.

“Arranging all these dinner parties,” he continued, “planning and preparing and such, must have taken up a lot of your time.”

“I enjoyed it. It was a welcome break from my duties at the hospital.”

“Uh-huh. So while you two—you and Clark—had your heads together making all these plans, you became very, uh, close.”

“Yes,” she answered softly. “Your brother was a charismatic man. He had a magnetic personality. I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who could match his energy, his verve. He appeared to be in motion even when standing still. He got excited about things and had such high ideals, such ambitious goals not only for himself but for the nation. It was no mystery to me why the voters of Texas elected him to Congress.”

“Fresh out of law school,” he told her, although she already knew that. “He served only one term in the House of Representatives before deciding to try for the Senate. Beat the incumbent by a landslide.”

“Your brother was a man of vision. I could listen to him talk for hours on any subject. His enthusiasm and conviction were contagious.”

“Sounds like love.”

“I’ve admitted that we were very close.”

“But you were married.”

“Actually, Clark and Randall were friends before I ever met him. Randall introduced us.”

“Ahh.” He held up his index finger. “Enter the husband. The poor cuckold. What a cliché. Always the last to know that his wife is screwing around. And with his best friend to boot. Didn’t ol’ Randall become suspicious when you insisted on spending that night in Virginia instead of returning to Washington with the other guests?”

“It was Clark’s idea. He and Randall were scheduled to play golf the following day. It would have been ludicrous to drive back to D.C., then return early the next morning. Randall saw the logic.”

“That must have been real convenient for you, Doc. I mean, to have your husband accommodate you like that. Did you also fuck him that night just to throw him off track?”

She slapped him, hard. The slap startled her as much as it did Key. In her entire life she’d never struck anyone. She wouldn’t have thought she was capable of it.

Learning to control herself had been a critical part of her upbringing. Giving over to one’s emotions had been unthinkable in her parents’ house. Crying jags, uproarious laughter, any form of unbridled emotional expression was considered unacceptable behavior. That ability to detach herself had served her well in Washington.

She didn’t know how Key had managed to breach her conditioned restraint, but he had. If the palm of her hand hadn’t been smarting so badly, she wouldn’t have believed she’d really slapped him.

Faster than her thoughts could register this, he encircled her wrist, drew her against him, and pushed her arm up behind her back. “Don’t ever do that again.” The words were precisely enunciated through straight, thin lips that barely moved. His eyes were as direct and brilliant as laser beams.

“You can’t talk to me like that.”