Mirror Image

She realized, however, that Van might not be as glad to see her as she was to see him. Oh, he’d be thrilled that she was alive, but once he’d recovered from the shock, she could almost hear him saying, “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Frequently, she had been asking herself that same question. She wanted the story, yes, but her motivation wasn’t entirely self-fulfilling.

Saving Tate’s life had been her ultimate reason for taking the place of his late wife. But was that still operative? Where was the threat that was supposed to exist?

Since coming home, she had been a curious observer. There was some discord between Jack and Dorothy Rae. Fancy could provoke a saint. Nelson was autocratic. Zee was aloof. Eddy was competent to a fault. But none had exhibited anything but adoration and love toward Tate. She wanted to rout out a potential killer, and get the story that would win back the respect and credibility that had been so stupidly sacrificed to poor judgment. Seeing Van had served as a reminder of that.

He’d brought with him the realization that she wasn’t concentrating as much on the incredible story as she was on the people living it. That wasn’t surprising. Detachment had always been the most difficult aspect of her career. It was the only essential element of journalism that had escaped her.

She had inherited journalistic interest and skill from her father. But his ability to discount the human factor hadn’t been part of his legacy. She tried to develop objectivity but so far she had failed. She feared that she wasn’t going to learn it by becoming involved with the Rutledges.

But she could not leave now. The biggest flaw in her carefully laid plan was that she hadn’t left herself an escape route. Short of ripping the whole thing wide open, she had no choice but to stay and take things as they came—even surprise visits from old friends.

* * *

Friday arrived. Avery whiled away the long hours of the afternoon by playing with Mandy in her room after she woke up from her nap. Seated at a small table, they made clay dinosaurs until Mandy got hungry and was turned over to Mona.

At five o’clock Avery bathed. While she applied her evening makeup, she nibbled from a snack plate that Mona had brought her.

She styled her hair with mousse. It was still short and chic, but not as severe as it had been. The top had grown out long enough for her to creatively style it. She accented the smart, sexy, final results with a lavish pair of diamond earrings.

By quarter of seven, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, she was ready. She was in her bathroom, dabbing fragrance behind her ears, when Tate suddenly strode in.

His unheralded and unprecedented appearance stunned her. He slept on the convertible sofa in the study/parlor next to her room. There was a connecting door between them, but it was always kept shut and locked from his side.

The study was decorated in subdued, masculine tones resembling a gentleman’s club. It had a small adjoining bathroom. The sink was no bigger than a dentist’s basin, the shower barely large enough to accommodate an adult. Yet Tate preferred those cramped facilities to sharing his wife’s spacious bedroom and bathroom, which had two large dressing areas connected by a wall of mirrors, a marble Roman tub with a skylight overhead, and yards of plush carpeting.

Avery’s first sinking thought when he barged in was that he had changed his mind and had come to tell her that she couldn’t go with him. He didn’t appear angry, however, only harassed. He was brought up short when he spied her image in the mirror.

Gratified to know that her efforts had paid off, Avery turned to face him and held her arms out to her sides. “Like it?”

“The dress? The dress is great.”

“Our Frost Brothers bill will reflect just how great.”

She knew it was a terrific dress. Black illusion, irregularly sprinkled with sequins, covered

her chest, shoulders, upper back, and arms, down to the wrists. From the first suggestion of cleavage, the knee-length sheath was lined with black silk. The dress was further enhanced by bands of black iridescent sequins at her neck and around her wrists.

It was a sexy dress, but in a respectable way, reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn. She hadn’t splurged on it for selfish reasons. She hadn’t wanted to wear anything belonging to Carole tonight. She had wanted to be new for Tate, different, unlike Carole had ever been.

Besides, all Carole’s formal dresses had been low-cut and flamboyant, not to Avery’s liking. She had needed something seasonably lightweight, but with long sleeves. She was very conscientious about revealing too much skin, which might give her false identity away. This dress had offered it all.

“Money well spent,” Tate muttered reluctantly.

“Did you want something in particular? Or did you come to see if I was running late?”

“I’m the one who’s late, I’m afraid. I can’t find my studs. Have you seen them?”

It hadn’t escaped her notice that he was only partially dressed. There was a speck of fresh blood on his chin, attesting to a quick, close shave. He was still barefoot, his hair was still damp and uncombed after a haphazard towel drying, and his starched, pleated shirt was unbuttoned. The long shirttail hung over his dark tuxedo trousers.

The sight of his hairy, bare chest made her mouth water. His belly was as tight and flat as a drum. Since he hadn’t yet fastened the fly to his trousers, she had an unrestricted view all the way down, past his navel, to the white elastic waistband of his briefs.

Reflexively, she moistened her lips. Her heart was beating so hard she could actually feel the fabric of her dress moving against her skin. “Studs?” she asked faintly.

“I thought I might have left them in here.”

“Feel free to look.” She gestured toward the dressing area, where she had discovered a cache of masculine toiletries and grooming utensils during one of her explorations.