Mirror Image

She tilted her head to one side and aligned her lips with his. Her hands cupped the back of his head, her fingers curling through his hair and drawing him down. If he really wanted to, he could resist, Avery assured herself.

But he allowed his head to be drawn closer to hers. Encouraged, she daintily used the moist tip of her tongue to probe at his lips. His muscles tensed, but it was a sign of weakness, not endurance.

“Tate?” She gently nipped his lower lip with her teeth.

“Christ.”

The hand bracing him against the wall fell away. Avery was propelled backward when she absorbed the weight of his body, becoming sandwiched between him and the wall. One arm curled hard and tight around her waist. His other hand captured her jaw, almost crushing it between his strong fingers. It held her head in place while he kissed her ravenously. He sealed her open mouth to his with gentle suction, then burrowed his tongue into the silky wet cavity.

Leaving her gasping for breath, he angled his head the opposite way and tormented her with quick, deft flicks of his tongue across her lips and barely inside them. Her hands moved to his cheeks. She laid her palms against them and ran her fingertips across his cheekbones as she gave herself totally to his kiss.

He fumbled with her clothing, thrusting his hand beneath her skirt, into her underpants, and filling it with soft woman flesh. She moaned pleasurably when he tilted her middle up against his swollen pelvis and ground it against her cleft.

Avery felt fluid and feverish. Her sex was wet and warm. Her breasts ached. The nipples tingled.

Then she was abruptly deserted.

She blinked her eyes in

to focus. Her head landed hard against the wall behind her. She flattened her hands against it to keep herself from sliding to the floor.

“I’ll grant you that it’s a polished act,” he said woodenly. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were dilated. His breathing was rapid and shallow. “You’re not as blatant as you used to be, but classier. Different, but just as sexy. Maybe even sexier.”

She looked down at the distended fly of his jeans, a look that made words superfluous.

“Okay, I’m hard,” he admitted with an angry growl. “But I’ll die of it before I’ll sleep with you again.”

He walked out. He didn’t slam the door behind him, but left it standing open, more of an insult than if he had stormed out. Heartsick and wounded, Avery was left alone in Carole’s room, with Carole’s chintz, Carole’s mess.

* * *

Everyone in the family had noticed the puzzling inconsistencies in Carole’s personality, but her odd behavior was keeping one person in particular awake at night. After hours of prowling the grounds surrounding the house, looking for answers in the darkness, the insomniac posed a question to the moon.

What is the bitch up to?

No radical changes in her could be pinpointed. The differences in her face were subtle, the result of the reconstructive surgery. Shorter hair made her look different, but that was inconsequential. She had lost a few pounds, making her appear slimmer than before, but it was certainly no drastic weight loss. Physically, she was virtually the same as before the crash. It was the nonphysical changes that were noticeable and so damned baffling.

What is the bitch up to?

Judging by her behavior since the crash, one would think her brush with death had given her a conscience. But that couldn’t be. She didn’t know the meaning of the word. Although for all the goodwill she was dispensing, that’s apparently what she wanted everybody to believe.

Could Carole Rutledge have had a change of heart? Could she be seeking her husband’s approval? Could she ever be a loving, attentive mother?

Don’t make me laugh.

She was stupid to switch tactics now. She’d been doing fine at what she’d been hired to do: destroy Tate Rutledge’s soul, so that by the time that bullet exploded in his head, it would almost be a blessing to him.

Carole Navarro had been perfect for the job. Oh, she’d had to be scrubbed down, tidied up, dressed correctly, and taught not to spike her speech with four-letter words. But by the time the overhaul had been completed, she had been a stunning package of wit, intellect, sophistication, and sexiness that Tate hadn’t been able to resist.

He hadn’t known that her wit had been cleansed of all ribaldry, that her intellect was only refined street smarts, her sophistication acquired, and her sexiness tempered with false morality. Just as planned, he’d fallen for the package, because it had promised everything he had been looking for in a wife.

Carole had perpetuated the myth until after Mandy was born—that had also been according to plan. It had been a relief for her to put phase two into action and start having affairs. The shackles of respectability had been chafing her for a long time. Her patience had worn thin. Once let loose, she performed beautifully.

God, it had been marvelous fun to witness Tate in his misery!

Except for that indiscreet visit in the hospital ICU, there’d been no mention made of their secret alliance since she was introduced to Tate four years ago. Neither by word or deed had they given away the pact they had made when she had been recruited for the job.

But since the crash, she’d been even more evasive than usual. She bore watching—closely. She was doing some strange and unusual things, even for Carole. The whole family was noticing the unfamiliar personality traits.