Mirror Image (11 page)

"Drive carefully."

Tate stood staring after his brother until someone else approached the door and looked at him inquiringly. He pivoted on his heels and thoughtfully retraced his steps toward Carole's room.

While Tate was gone, Avery thought about how he had changed. She had sensed a difference in his attitude more than a week ago. He still paid her regular visits, but they were no longer on a daily basis. At first she had excused this, knowing that his campaign was in full swing.

Whenever he came, he still brought flowers and magazines. Now that she could eat solid foods, he brought her junk food to augment the hospital's excellent, but boring cuisine. He'd even had a VCR installed and had supplied her with a variety of movies to help entertain her. But he was often withdrawn and moody, guarded in what he said to her. He never stayed for very long.

As Carole's face became more distinct, Tate became more distant.

He hadn't brought Mandy to see her, either. She had printed Mandy's name, followed by a question mark, on the tablet and held it up to him. He had shrugged. "I thought the visits were probably doing her more harm than good. You'll have plenty of time to spend with her once you're back home."

The insensitive words had wounded her. Mandy's visits had become highlights in her monotonous existence. On the other hand, it was probably better that he had suspended them. She was growing too attached to the child and wanted desperately to help see her through this crisis in her young life. Since she wouldn't have that opportunity, it was wise to sever any emotional bonds now.

The attachment she had developed for Tate was more complex and would be considerably harder to sever when she moved out of his world and back into her own.

At least she would be taking something back with her: the ingredients of a juicy inside story on the man running for the U.S. Senate whom someone wanted murdered.

Avery's journalistic curiosity ran rampant. What had been amiss in the Rutledges ' marriage? Why had Carole wanted her husband dead? She wanted to exhaust all the possibilities until she arrived at the truth. Telling that truth might lift her out of the muck she'd made of her professional life. Yet it left a bad taste in her mouth to think about broadcasting that truth.

Tate Rutledge's problems belonged to her now just as much as they did to him. She hadn't asked for them; they'd been imposed on her. But she couldn't just turn her back on them. For some bizarre reason that defied explanation, she felt compelled to make up for Carole's shortcomings.

The one time she had extended a compassionate hand to him, he had emphatically rebuffed her, but the strife between Tate and Carole went beyond the normal marriage in trouble. There was another almost malevolent dimension to it. He treated her as one might a caged wild beast. He saw to all her needs, but from a careful distance. His approach was mistrustful, as though her behavior couldn't be depended on.

As Avery knew, Tate's wariness of his wife was well-founded. Carole, along with another individual, had plotted to kill him. How and why were the questions that haunted her more than any others.

The troubling thoughts were temporarily shelved when he returned from escorting Jack out. However, her welcoming smile wavered as he approached her chair. He was scowling.

"Why are you writing with your left hand?"

Avery froze. So, this was to be the moment of truth. She had hoped to choose the time herself, but it had been chosen for her. How stupid she'd been to make such a blunder! Percentages were strongly against Carole Rutledge being left-handed.

She looked up at him with appeal and managed to speak a guttural version of his name.

God help me,she prayed as she fumbled for the pencil with her left hand. As soon as she revealed her identity, she must warn him of the planned assassination. The only time limit placed on it was that he would never live to take office. It could happen tomorrow, tonight. It might not happen until next November, but he had to be warned immediately.

Who in his family would she accuse? She hadn't revealed herself as soon as she could control a pencil because she didn't have enough facts. She had vainly hoped that each new day would provide her with some.

Once she had outlined the meager facts she knew, would he believe her?

Why should he?

Why should he even listen to a woman who had, for almost two months, passed herself off as his wife? He would think she was an unconscionable opportunist, which could be uncomfortably close to the truth if she weren't genuinely concerned for his and Mandy's welfare.

The pencil moved beneath the painstaking coaxing of her fingers. She drew the letterh.Her hand was shaking so badly, she dropped the pencil. It rolled downward, slid across her lap, and finally became lodged between her hip and the seat of the upholstered chair.

Tate went after it. His strong fingers nudged her flesh. He replaced the pencil in her hand and guided it back onto the tablet. "it what?"

Beseechingly, she looked up at him, silently asking for his forgiveness. Then she finished the word she had begun. When she had printed it, she turned the tablet toward him.

"Hurts," he read. "It hurts to use your right hand?"

Immersed in guilt, Avery nodded her head. "It hurts," she croaked, and raised her right hand where the skin was still sensitive.

Her lie was justified, she assured herself. She couldn't tell him the truth until she could explain everything in detail. A scrawled message, a few key words without any elaboration, would only pitch him into a frenzy of anger and confusion. In that kind of mental state, he would never believe that someone wanted to kill him.

He gave a soft, short laugh. "You had Jack spooked. I can't believe I didn't notice it myself. I guess I've had too much on my mind to sweat the details."

He placed his hands in the small of his back and arched it, stretching luxuriantly. "Well, I've got that drive ahead of me, and it's getting late. I understand your cast comes off tomorrow. That's good. You'll be able to move around better."

Avery's eyes clouded with tears. This man, who had been so kind to her, was going to hate her when he discovered the truth. Through the weeks of her recuperation, he had unwittingly become her lifeline. Whether he was aware of it or not, she had depended on him for physical and emotional healing.

Now, she must repay his kindness by telling him three ugly truths: his wife was dead; in her place was a broadcast journalist who was privy to aspects of his personal life; and someone was going to try to assassinate him.

Rather than eliciting his pity, her tears provoked him. He glanced away in irritation, and as he did, he noticed the newspapers stacked on the deep windowsill. She had requested them from the deferential staff. They were back issues, containing accounts of the plane crash. Tate gestured toward them.

"I don't understand your tears, Carole. Your face looks great. You could have died, for crissake . So could Mandy. Can't you consider yourself lucky to be alive?"

After that outburst, he drew himself up and took a deep breath, controlling his temper by an act of will. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lash out like that. I know you've suffered a lot. It's just that you could have suffered a hell of a lot more. We all could have."

He reached for the sports jacket he frequently wore with his jeans and pulled it on. "I'll see you later."

With no more than that, he left her.

Avery stared at the empty doorway for a long while. A nurse came in and helped her prepare for sleep. She had graduated from a wheelchair to crutches for her broken leg, but was still awkward on them. Gripping them hurt he-hands. By the time she was settled and left alone, she was exhausted.

Her mind was as tired as her body, and yet she couldn't sleep. She tried to envision the expression that would break across Tate's face when he discovered the truth. His life would undergo another upheaval, and at a time when he was most vulnerable.

The instant the word vulnerable formed in her mind, Avery was struck by a new and terrifying thought. As soon as she was exposed, she, too, would be vulnerable to whoever planned to kill Tate!

Why hadn't she thought of that before? When Avery Daniels, a television news reporter, was revealed, the culprit would realize his grave error and be forced to do something about it. She would be as susceptible to attack as Tate. Judging by the deadly calculation she had heard in his voice, the would-be assassin wouldn't hesitate to murder both or them.

She sat up and peered into the shadows of the room, as if expecting her faceless, nameless nemesis to leap out at her. Her rapid heartbeats echoed loudly against her eardrums.

Lord, what could she do? How could she protect herself? How could she protect Tate? If only she really were Carole, she—

Before the idea was even fully developed, her mind began hurling objections, both conscientious and practical. It couldn't be done. Tate would know. The assassin would know.

But if she could keep playing the role long enough to determine who Tate's secret enemy was, she could save his life.

Yet it was inconceivable to step into another woman's life. And what about her own? Officially, Avery Daniels no longer existed. No one would be missing her. She had no husband, no children, no family.

Her career was in a shambles. Because of one mistake—one gross error in judgment—she was deemed a failure by anyone's standards. Not only had she failed to live up to her father's sterling reputation, she'd taken the glint off it. Working at KTEX in San Antonio was like being sentenced to years of hard labor. While the station had a solid reputation for a market its size, and while she would be eternally grateful to Irish for giving her a job when no one else would even grant her an interview, employment there was tantamount to banishment in Siberia. She was alienated from journalistic circles that really counted. KTEX was a long step down from a network job and a Washington, D.C., beat.

But now, a sensational story had been dropped into her lap. If she became Mrs. Tate Rutledge, she could document a senatorial campaign and an attempted murder from an insider's point of view. She wouldn't just be covering the story, she would be living it.

What better vehicle to launch herself back to the top echelon of broadcast news? How many reporters had ever been given an opportunity like this? She knew scores who would give their right arm for it.

She smiled wanly. Her right arm hadn't been required of her, but she had given her face, her name, and her own identity already. Saving a man's life and getting a career boost would be repayment enough for such an indignity. And when the truth finally came out, no one could accuse her of exploitation. She hadn't asked for this chance; it had been forced on her. She wouldn't be exploiting Tate, either. Even above her desire to restore her professional credibility, she wanted to preserve his life, which had become precious to her.

The risks involved were astronomical, but she couldn't name a single ace reporter who hadn't stuck his neck out to get where he was. Her father had taken daily risks in the pursuit of his profession. His courage had paid off with a Pulitzer prize. If he was willing to risk everything for his stories, could less be expected of her?

However, she realized that this had to be a rational business decision. She must approach it pragmatically, not emotionally. She would be assuming the role of Tate's wife and all that the relationship implied and entailed. She would be living with his family, constantly observed by people who knew Carole intimately.

The enormity of the challenge was intimidating, but it was also irresistible. The consequences could be severe, but the rewards would be worth any price.

She would make a million mistakes, like writing with the wrong hand. But she'd always had a knack for thinking on her feet. She would talk her way out of mistakes.

Could it work? Could she do it?Dareshe try?

She threw off the covers, propped herself on her crutches, and hobbled into the bathroom. Beneath the glaring, merciless fluorescent lighting, she stared at the face in the mirror and compared it to the photograph of Carole that had been taped to the wall for encouragement.

The skin looked new, as pink and smooth as a baby's butt, just as Dr. Sawyer had promised. She peeled her lips back and studied the dental prostheses that were duplicates of Carole Rutledge's front teeth. She ran her hand over the close cap of dark hair. No scars were discernible, unless one looked very closely. In time, all traces would fade into invisibility.

She didn't allow herself the luxury of sadness, though regret and homesickness for her own familiar image tugged at her heart. This was her destiny now. She had a new face. It could be her ticket to a new life.

Tomorrow, she would assume the identity of Carole Rutledge.

Avery Daniels had nothing else to lose.

ELEVEN

The nurse gave her a satisfied once-over. "You've got wonderful hair, Mrs. Rutledge."

"Thanks," Avery said ruefully. "What there is of it."

During the seven days that Tate had been away, she had fully regained her voice. He was due to arrive at any moment, and she was nervous.

"No," the nurse was saying, "that's my point. Not everybody can wear such a short style. On you, it's a knockout."

Avery glanced into the hand mirror, plucked at the spiky bangs on her forehead, and said dubiously, "I hope so."

She was seated in a chair with her right leg elevated on a footstool. A cane was propped against the chair. Her hands were folded together in her lap.

The nurses were as aflutter as she over Tate's imminent arrival after being out of town for more than a week. They had primped her like a bride waiting for her groom.

"He's here," one of them announced in a stage whisper, poking her head around the door. The nurse with Avery squeezed her shoulder. "You look terrific. He's going to be bowled over."

He wasn't exactly bowled over, but he was momentarily stunned. She watched his eyes widen marginally when he spotted her sitting in the chair, wearing street clothes— Carole's street clothes—which Zee had brought her several days earlier.