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“About what?”

“What do you think?” she shouted.

She jumped off the chaise, grabbed the glass of wine, and defiantly drained it.

He struggled to rein in his temper. “You’re not yourself, Vanessa.”

“You’re damn right, I’m not. So you’ll be much better off going without me tonight.”

The reception, honoring a goodwill delegation from the Scandinavian countries, was to be her first official function since Robert Rushton’s tragic death. The small, formal gathering seemed well suited for Vanessa’s reemergence into public life. She’d retreated from it following the baby’s death. Three months was enough time. The voting public needed to see her back in action.

“Of course you’re coming,” the President said. “You’ll be the belle of the ball. You always are.”

“But—”

“No buts. I’m tired of making excuses for you. We have to work through this, Vanessa. It’s been twelve weeks.”

“Is there a time limit on grief?”

He ignored the sting in her voice. “Tonight you’ll come through like the Thoroughbred you are. Just be your charming, smiling self, and everything will be fine.”

“I hate all those people, looking at me with pity and remorse and not knowing what to say. And when someone does say something, it’s so trite, I want to scream.”

“Just thank them for the sentiment and leave it at that.”

“God!” she cried, her voice cracking. “How can you just resume—”

“Because I have to, dammit. And so do you.”

He glared at her with such force that she fell back onto the chaise. Stricken, she stared up at him.

He turned away, and when again he spoke, his anger was contained. “I like your evening dress. Is it new?”

Her shoulders slumped. She lowered her head. Watching her in the mirror, he recognized these reflexive gestures as concessions of defeat. “I’ve lost weight,” she mumbled. “Nothing in my closet fits anymore.”

There was a tap on the door. He crossed the room and opened it. “Hey, Spence. Are they ready for us?”

Spencer Martin glanced over David’s shoulder and surveyed the room. Spotting Vanessa, and the empty wineglass on the end table, he reversed David’s question. “Are you ready for them?”

The President purposefully disregarded his adviser’s concern. “Vanessa’s got a mild case of stage fright, but, as you know, she always comes through.”

“Maybe we’re rushing her. If she doesn’t feel up to it—”

“Nonsense. She’s up to it.” He turned toward his wife and extended his arm. “Ready, darling?”

She came to her feet and slowly walked toward them, not looking directly at either man.

One of David’s personality traits was to ignore things he didn’t want to acknowledge, such as the dislike between his wife and his top adviser. To fill the awkward silence, he said, “Doesn’t she look beautiful tonight, Spence?”

“Indeed, Mr. President.”

“Thank you,” Vanessa replied stiffly. As they stepped into the hallway, she took her husband’s arm and asked, “What should Dalton tell Barrie Travis?”

“Barrie Travis the reporter?” Spence cut in. “Tell her about what?” He looked quizzically at the President.

“She’s asked Dalton for an interview with Vanessa.”

“About anything in particular?”