Mirror Image

But if she could keep playing the role long enough to determine who Tate’s secret enemy was, she could save his life.

Yet it was inconceivable to step into another woman’s life. And what about her own? Officially, Avery Daniels no longer existed. No one would be missing her. She had no husband, no children, no family.

Her career was in a shambles. Because of one mistake—one gross error in judgment—she was deemed a failure by anyone’s standards. Not only had she failed to live up to her father’s sterling reputation, she’d taken the glint off it. Working at KTEX in San Antonio was like being sentenced to years of hard labor. While the station had a solid reputation for a market its size, and while she would be eternally grateful to Irish for giving her a job when no one else would even grant her an interview, employment there was tantamount to banishment in Siberia. She was alienated from journalistic circles that really counted. KTEX was a long step down from a network job and a Washington, D.C. beat.

But now, a sensational story had been dropped into her lap. If she became Mrs. Tate Rutledge, she could document a senatorial campaign and an attempted murder from an insider’s point of view. She wouldn’t just be covering the story, she would be living it.

What better vehicle to launch herself back to the top echelon of broadcast news? How many reporters had ever been given an opportunity like this? She knew scores who would give their right arm for it.

She smiled wanly. Her right arm hadn’t been required of her, but she had given her face, her name, and her own identity already. Saving a man’s life and getting a career boost would be repayment enough for such an indignity. And when the truth finally came out, no one could accuse her of exploitation. She hadn’t asked for this chance; it had been forced on her. She wouldn’t be exploiting Tate, either. Even above her desire to restore her professional credibility, she wanted to preserve his life, which had become precious to her.

The risks involved were astronomical, but she couldn’t name a single ace reporter who hadn’t stuck his neck out to get where he was. Her father had taken daily risks in the pursuit of his profession. His courage had paid off with a Pulitzer prize. If he was willing to risk everything for his stories, could less be expected of her?

However, she realized that this had to be a rational business decision. She must approach it pragmatically, not emotionally. She would be assuming the role of Tate’s wife and all that the relationship implied and entailed. She would be living with his family, constantly observed by people who knew Carole intimately.

The enormity of the challenge was intimidating, but it was also irresistible. The consequences could be severe, but the rewards would be worth any price.

She would make a million mistakes, like writing with the wrong hand. But she’d always had a knack for thinking on her feet. She would talk her way out of mistakes.

Could it work? Could she do it? Dare she try?

She threw off the covers, propped herself on her crutches, and hobbled into the bathroom. Beneath the glaring, merciless fluorescent lighting, she stared at the face in the mirror and compared it to the photograph of Carole that had been taped to the wall for encouragement.

The skin looked new, as pink and smooth as a baby’s butt, just as Dr. Sawyer had promised. She peeled her lips back and studied the dental prostheses that were duplicates of Carole Rutledge’s front teeth. She ran her hand over the close cap of dark hair. No scars were discernible, unless one looked very closely. In time, all traces would fade into invisibility.

She didn’t allow herself the luxury of sadness, though regret and homesickness for her own familiar image tugged at her heart. This was her destiny now. She had a new face. It could be her ticket to a new life.

Tomorrow, she would assume the identity of Carole Rutledge.

Avery Daniels had nothing else to lose.

Eleven

The nurse gave her a satisfied once-over. “You’ve got wonderful hair, Mrs. Rutledge.”

“Thanks,” Avery said ruefully. “What there is of it.”

During the seven days that Tate had been away, she had fully regained her voice. He was due to arrive at any moment, and she was nervous.

“No,” the nurse was saying, “that’s my point. Not everybody can wear such a short style. On you, it’s a knockout.”

Avery glanced into the hand mirror, plucked at the spiky bangs on her forehead, and said dubiously, “I hope so.”

She was seated in a chair with her right leg elevated on a footstool. A cane was propped against the chair. Her hands were folded together in her lap.

The nurses were as aflutter as she over Tate’s imminent arrival after being out of town for more than a week. They had primped her like a bride waiting for her groom.

“He’s here,” one of them announced in a stage whisper, poking her head around the door. The nurse with Avery squeezed her shoulder. “You look terrific. He’s going to be bowled over.”

He wasn’t exactly bowled over, but he was momentarily stunned. She watched his eyes widen marginally when he spotted her sitting in the chair, wearing street clothes—Carole’s street clothes—which Zee had brought her several days earlier.

“Hello, Tate.”

At the sound of her voice, he registered even more surprise.

Her heart lurched. He knew!

Had she made another blunder? Did Carole have a pet name she always addressed him by? She held her breath, waiting for him to point an accusing finger at her and shout, “You lying impostor!”