Mirror Image

The tension ebbed from his splendid body. A grin tugged at one corner of his lips. He switched out the light, then slid into bed and pulled her into his arms.

Her nightgown seemed to vaporize beneath his caressing hands. Before Avery had time to prepare herself for it, she was lying naked beneath him, and he was stroking her skin with his fingertips. Occasionally his lips left hers to sample a taste of throat, breast, shoulder, belly.

Desire rivered through her, a constant ebbing and flowing of sensation until even her extremities were pulsing. Her body was sensitized to each nuance of his—from the strands of hair that fell over his brow and dusted her skin each time he dipped his head for a kiss, to the power in his lean thighs that entwined with hers before gradually separating them.

When he levered himself above her, poised for entrance, she prolonged the anticipation by bracketing his rib cage between her hands and rubbing her face in his chest hair. Her lips brushed kisses across his nipples. The sound of Tate’s hoarse moan was her reward.

Hungrily, their mouths found each other again. His kisses were hot and sweet and deep… and that’s what he said of her body when he claimed it.

* * *

Mandy, riding on Tate’s shoulders, squealed as he dipped and staggered as though he were about to fall with her. She gripped double handfuls of his hair, which made him yelp.

“Shh, you two!” Avery admonished. “You’ll get us kicked out of this hotel.”

They were making their way down the long corridor from the elevator to their suite after having eaten breakfast in the restaurant downstairs. They’d left Nelson and Zee drinking coffee, but Mandy had been getting restless. The formal dining room was no place for an energetic child.

Tate passed Avery the key to their suite. They went inside. The parlor was full of busy people. “What the hell’s going on in here?” Tate asked as he swung Mandy down.

Eddy glanced up from his perusal of the morning paper and removed the Danish pastry that he’d been holding between his teeth. “We needed to meet and you have the only room with a parlor.”

“Make yourselves at home,” Tate said sarcastically.

They already had. Trays of juice, coffee, and Danish had been sent up. Fancy was polishing off a bagel as she sat crossed-legged on the bed, flipping through a fashion magazine. Dorothy Rae was sipping what looked like a Bloody Mary and staring vacantly out the window. Jack was on the phone, a finger plugging one ear. Ralph was watching the “Today Show.” Dirk was riffling through Tate’s closet with the appraising eye of a career shopper at a clearance sale.

“You got a good review last night,” Eddy commented around the sweet roll.

“Good.”

“I’ll take Mandy into the other room.” Avery placed her hands on the child’s shoulders and steered her toward the connecting door.

“No, you stay,” Dirk said, turning away from the closet. “No hard feelings about last night, okay? We’ve all been under a lot of pressure. Now the air’s been cleared.”

The man was insufferable. Avery wanted to slap the phony, ingratiating smile off his dour face. She looked at Tate. Ignoring the campaign expert, he told her, “I guess you’d better stick around.”

Jack hung up the phone. “All set. Tate’s got a live interview on channel five at five o’clock. We need to have him there no later than four-thirty.”

“Great,” Ralph said, rubbing his hands together. “Any word from the Dallas stations?”

“I’ve got calls in.”

Someone knocked on the door. It was Nelson and Zee. A man, a stranger to Avery, was with them. Fancy bounded off the bed and embraced her grandparents in turn. Since her arrival in Fort Worth, her mood had been effervescent.

“Good morning, Fancy.” Zee cast a disapproving glance at Fancy’s denim miniskirt and red cowboy boots, but said nothing.

“Who’s he?” Tate asked, nodding at the man lingering on the threshold.

“The barber we sent for.” Dirk stepped forward and pulled the dazed man into the room. “Sit down, Tate, and let him get started. He can clip while we talk. Something conservative,” he told the barber, who whisked a blue-and-white-striped drape around Tate’s neck and took a comb to his hair.

“Here,” Ralph said, shoving a sheaf of papers beneath Tate’s nose. “Glance over these.”

“What are they?”

“Your speeches for today.”

“I’ve already written my speeches.” No one listened to or acknowledged him.

The phone rang. Jack answered. “Channel four,” he excitedly informed them, covering the mouthpiece.