Mirror Image

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Hell, you sleep with her. If you haven’t noticed it, then I must be imagining it.” He paused, waiting expectantly for either a confirmation or denial, neither of which he got. “Did you see her talking to that TV guy last night?”

“What TV guy?”

“The one who did the camera work for the commercial we made at the ranch.”

“His name’s Van Lovejoy. He’s covering my campaign for KTEX.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jack spread his hands wide and laughed dryly. “It just seemed strange that Carole made a point to speak to him during all that hoopla last night, that’s all. She made a beeline for him as soon as she left the dais. He’s not exactly her type.” Tate quickly averted his head. “What I mean is…” Jack stammered, “he’s not… hell, you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” Tate’s voice was quiet.

“Well, I’d better get back upstairs and light a fire under Dorothy Rae and Fancy. Eddy wants everybody congregated in the lobby, packed and ready to pull out by ten-thirty.” He affectionately slapped his brother’s shoulder as he walked past him. “I enjoyed breakfast.”

“So did I, Jack.”

Tate continued to stare sightlessly out the window. Carole had been talking to Van Lovejoy again last night? Why?

He hadn’t told his brother that she had had a private conversation with the video photographer once before. For all her glib explanation, their conversation on the sidewalk outside the Adolphus had appeared furtive.

She’d lied her way around it that time. He’d known she was lying, but then he’d kissed her, she’d kissed him back, and he’d forgotten what had started the argument. Things had been going so well between them. Why did this dark cloud have to show up on the horizon?

Their sex had never been as good or as satisfying. It was hot, but it had always been hot. It was dirty, but it had always been dirty. Only now it was like having dirty sex with a lady, which made it even better. She no longer rushed the foreplay. She no longer chanted gutter jargon. She didn’t scream like before when she pretended to come, but took catchy little breaths that he thought were infinitely sexier. And he would swear that her orgasms were genuine. There was a newness to their lovemaking, an essence of intrigue, almost like it was illicit. He was embarrassed to even think the cliché, but each time was like the first time. He always discovered something about her that he hadn’t realized before.

She’d never been modest, never given a thought to parading around unclothed. Lately, however, she artfully used lingerie rather than nudity to entice him. Yesterday morning, when they’d made love on the parlor sofa, she had insisted that he pull the drapes first. He supposed her self-consciousness stemmed from the nearly undetectable scars on her arms and hands.

The maidenly shyness excited him. She seduced by withholding. He hadn’t yet seen in the light what he caressed in darkness with his hands and lips. Damned if the mystery didn’t make him want her even more.

He had thought about her constantly yesterday. Prurient thoughts of her had intrud

ed upon high-level discussions and impassioned speeches. Whenever their eyes connected, they seemed to be thinking the same thought, and that was how quickly they wanted the time to pass so they could go to bed again.

He had developed the curious habit of subconsciously knowing where she was at all times, gauging her distance from him and inventing reasons to touch her whenever she was close enough. But was she playing games with him? Was her modesty a sexual gimmick? Why did she have an unexplainable interest in this photographer?

On the one hand, Tate wanted immediate answers. But if answers meant having to give up the peace, harmony, and sex, he was prepared to wait indefinitely for an explanation.

Forty-One

Zinnia Rutledge stood gazing at the wall of framed photographs behind the credenza. She loved this office because of those photographs. She could have gazed at them for hours and never tired of it, though of course she never did. The memories they evoked were bittersweet.

At the sound of the door opening behind her, she turned. “Hello, Zee, did I startle you?”

Zee quickly blinked away the tears in her eyes and resealed her emotions in the vault of her heart. “Hello, Carole. You did take me by surprise. I was expecting Tate.” They had planned to meet here at his office and go to lunch together—a special date, just the two of them.

“That’s why he sent me over. I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news.”

“He can’t make it,” Zee said with evident disappointment.

“I’m afraid not.”

“There’s nothing wrong, I hope?”

“Not exactly. There’s been a labor dispute going on within the Houston Police Department.”

“I’m aware of that. It’s been in all the papers.”

“Well, this morning things came to a head. An hour ago, Eddy decided that Tate should go down there, assess the situation, and make a statement. The latest poll shows that Tate is closing the gap. He’s only five points behind Dekker now. This volatile situation in Houston presented a perfect forum for Tate to get across some of his ideas, not only on labor versus management, but law enforcement, as well. They’re flying down in a private jet and should be back in a few hours, but lunch is out of the question.”