Where There's Smoke

He laid his finger lengthwise against his lips and fixed an appraising gaze on Key. “He’s such a contrast to Clark, I’m amazed you find him attractive. He’s certainly not as polished as his older brother. Still, he does emanate a hot-blooded, animalistic quality that I suppose a woman like you would find appealing.”

“I’m not deaf and dumb, you son of a bitch,” Key said. “If you’ve got so

mething to say, say it to me directly.”

“All right,” he said pleasantly. “Didn’t you feel the least bit foolish fucking a woman known nationwide as your brother’s whore?”

Even Lara couldn’t have stopped Key then. He sidestepped her and encircled Randall’s throat with his hands.

“Key, no!” She tried to pry his fingers off Randall’s neck, but they were unyielding. He backed him into the door; Randall’s head made connection with a solid thunk. Frantically, he clawed at Key’s fingers, but they squeezed tighter.

“Please. Key!” she cried. “Don’t make matters worse! Don’t make me another tabloid headline!”

Her shouted plea registered. She saw him blink rapidly as though to dispel a fog of rage. When her words sank in, his fingers began to relax. He released Randall with an abrupt gesture of contempt.

Randall recovered himself and, with a semblance of dignity, straightened his coat and necktie. “I’m glad cowboys no longer carry six-shooters. I could be dead.”

Key was still breathing hard and looking dangerous. “You talk about Lara and me that way again, and I’ll kill you.”

“How chivalrous,” Randall said scornfully. He turned to her. “Well, Lara. For the final time, shall we go?”

Key rounded on her and gripped her by the shoulders. “You don’t have to do what he says.” He gave her a little shake. “You don’t.”

“Yes, I do, Key.” She spoke quietly but with steely conviction.

At first he was incredulous. Then his bafflement turned to anger. She watched his face grow taut with fury. She knew he wouldn’t understand her decision, and she couldn’t explain it. So she had no choice but to withstand his disgust.

He released her, turned on his heel, yanked the door open, and stalked out. Hopelessly, she watched him go.

“I thought it went very well, but after all that talking, I could stand a drink.” Randall slipped out of his suit jacket and carefully laid it across the back of a chair as he moved to the bar. “Want something, darling?”

“No, thank you.”

He mixed a scotch and soda and smacked his lips appreciatively after the first sip. “One of the many things I missed during my captivity.” Sitting on the sofa, drink in hand, he unlaced his shoes. “You’re subdued, Lara. What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? I’m fair game and this is the first day of hunting season.” She rounded on him. “I hate being put on display, and I bitterly resent you for forcing me to reopen my life to public scrutiny.”

“You should have thought of the consequences before you finagled Key Tackett into taking you to Montesangre.”

“I tried every other resource I knew of before asking Key. He was my last hope. I’ve explained why I went. Why I had to go.”

“And your noble motivation was duly noted by the press. You were quite effective when you described the mass grave. You’ll probably be nominated for Mother of the Year.” He took another sip of scotch. “I honestly don’t know why you’re so upset.”

“Because to even recount the incident at the cemetery is an invasion of my privacy, Randall. And while my motives were pure, the reporters’ weren’t. They were only politely interested in the events of our trip, and the ruthless despot, El Corazón, and what effects your release might have on foreign policy.

“What they really wanted was dirt. ‘Why did you team up with Senator Tackett’s brother, Mrs. Porter?’ ‘Does Key Tackett resent the role you played in Senator Tackett’s downfall?’ ‘Was his death a suicide?’ ‘How did you feel when you discovered your husband is still alive, Mrs. Porter?’ What kind of questions are those?”

“Profound, I would say.” With deceptive calm, he set his drink on the coffee table. “How do you feel about your husband’s return from the dead, Mrs. Porter?”

She avoided his goading glance. “I prefer being addressed by my professional name, Randall. I’ve been Dr. Mallory for a long time. ‘Mrs. Porter’ has negative connotations for me.”

“Yes, like the fact that you’re married,” he said with a snide laugh. “You aren’t very lucky, are you, Lara? It was so damned untimely for you to fall in love. And with Clark’s brother, no less.” He threw back his head and laughed harder. “The irony of it is so rich.”

She refused to give him the satisfaction of denying or confirming his assumption. Her relationship with Key, which was indefinable even to herself, was none of Randall’s business, except insofar as she was still legally his wife. Emotionally, she hadn’t felt conjugally linked to him since before that disastrous weekend in Virginia.

He finished his drink. “It’s getting late. We’d better get some rest. We’re booked on a ten o’clock flight to Washington tomorrow morning.”

“I’m not going to Washington.”