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Tate had touched her arm briefly as she excused herself to go to the powder room, as though he dreaded even that brief a separation.

Now, as she passed the bank of telephones, a hand shot out and manacled her wrist. She emitted a cry of astonishment and spun around to confront the man who had accosted her. He was wearing a tuxedo, signifying that he belonged to the crowd in the banquet hall.

"How's it going, baby?" he drawled.

"Let go of me." Taking him for someone who'd had too much to drink, she made a painful attempt to wrench her arm free.

"Not so fast, Mrs. Rutledge." He slurred the name insultingly. "I want to get a close-up look at the new face I've heard so much about." He pulled her closer. "Except for your hair, you look the same. But tell me what I really want to know. Are you still as hot?"

"Let me go, I said."

"What's the matter? Afraid your husband is going to catch you? He won't. He's too busy campaigning."

"I'll scream bloody murder if you don't release my arm this instant."

He laughed. "Are you pissed because I didn't come see you in the hospital? Now, would it have been seemly for one of your lovers to elbow your husband away from your bedside?"

She glared at him with cold fury. "Things have changed."

"Oh, yeah?" He put his face close to hers. "Doesn't your pussy itch like it used to?"

Incensed and afraid, she renewed her struggle to release her arm, which only seemed to incite him. He bent her arm up behind her and hauled her against the front of his body. His breath was humid and boozy against her face. She tried to turn her head away, but he trapped her jaw with his free hand.

"What's with you, Carole? Do you think you're high and mighty now that Tate's actually in the race? What a joke! Rory Dekker's gonna kick his ass, you know." He closed his fingers, hurting her jaw. She whimpered with pain and outrage.

"Now that you think he might make it to Washing-ton, you're really sucking up to him, aren't you? Tonight you looked straight through me. Just who the hell do you think you are, bitch, to ignore me like that?"

He ground a hard kiss upon her lips, smearing her fresh lipstick and making her sick by poking his tongue between her lips. She doubled up her fists and pushed with all her might against his shoulders. She tried to drive a knee into his crotch, but her slim skirt prevented that. He was strong; she couldn't budge him. He consumed all her air. She felt herself weakening, growing faint.

Dimly at first, and then louder, she heard approaching voices. So did he. He shoved her away and gave her a smirking smile. "You'd do well to remember who your friends are," he sneered. He rounded the corner seconds ahead of two women who were on their way to the powder room.

Their conversation died when they saw Avery. She quickly turned her back and fumbled with the telephone receiver as though she were about to place a call. They went past and entered the ladies' room. As soon as the door swished closed behind them, she collapsed against the shelf beneath the public phone.

She broke a nail in her haste to undo the clasp on Carole's beaded evening bag in search of a Kleenex. Finding one, she wiped her mouth, rubbing it hard, ridding it of the smeared lipstick and any taste of the hateful kiss she had endured from Carole's ex-lover. She unwrapped a peppermint and put it in her mouth, then dabbed her tearful eyes with the tissue. During the tussle an earring had come off; she clipped it back on.

The two women came out, speaking in hushed tones as they walked past. Avery murmured needlessly into the receiver, feeling like a fool for enacting such a ridiculous charade.

But then, she had become very good at playing charades, hadn't she? She'd fooled one of Carole's lovers.

When she finally felt composed enough to face the crowd again, she hung up the telephone receiver and turned to go. As she did, a man quickly rounded the corner and ran right into her. Seeing only the front of his tux, she cried out in fear.

"Carole? For God's sake, what's wrong?"

"Tate!"

Avery slumped against him, tightly wrapping her arms around his waist. Resting her cheek on his lapel, she closed her eyes to block out the vision of the other man.

Hesitantly, Tate placed his arms around her. His hands stirred the silk against her body as he stroked her back. "What's the matter? What happened? A lady drew me aside and said you looked upset. Are you sick?"

He had immediately deserted the limelight and rushed to her assistance, even though she was an unfaithful wife. Whatever scruples she had had against sleeping with another woman's husband vanished in that single moment. Carole hadn't deserved him.

"Oh, Tate, I'm sorry." She lifted her face to his. "So sorry."

"For what?" He took her firmly by the shoulders and shook her lightly. "Will you tell me what the hell is going on?"

Because she couldn't tell him the truth, she foundered for a logical explanation. When she arrived at one, she realized that it wasn't entirely untrue. "I guess I'm not ready to be surrounded by so many people. The crowd was overwhelming me. I felt smothered."

"You seemed to be doing fine."

"I was. I was enjoying it. But all of a sudden every-body seemed to close in. It was like being wrapped up in those bandages again. I couldn't breathe, couldn't—"

"Okay. I get the picture. You should have said something. Come on." He took her by the arm.

She dug her heels in. "We don't have to leave."

"The party's breaking up anyway. We'll beat everybody to the valet parking."

"You're sure?" She wanted to leave. To return to the banquet hall and possibly confront that gloating face again would be untenable. However, this was her audition. She didn't want to blow it and be left at the ranch when he went campaigning.

"I'm sure. Let's go."

They didn't say much on the way home. Avery tucked her feet beneath her hips and turned in the seat to face him. She wanted to touch him, to comfort and be comforted, but she satisfied herself with simply facing him.

Everyone was in bed when they arrived home. Silently they went together to Mandy's room, and, as they had promised, kissed her good night. She mumbled sleepily in response but didn't wake up.

As they moved down the hallway toward their respective bedrooms, Tate said offhandedly, "We'll be attending several formal functions. You probably should take that dress on the trip."

Avery spun around to face him. "You mean you want me to go?"

He looked at a spot beyond her head. "Everybody thinks it would be a good idea."

Unwilling to let him off that lightly, she gave his lapel a tug. His eyes connected with hers. "I'm only interested in what you think, Tate."

He deliberated for several tense moments before giving her his answer. "Yeah, I think it's a good idea. Eddy'll give you an itinerary in a day or two so you'll know what else to pack. Good night."

Bitterly disappointed in his lukewarm enthusiasm, Avery watched him walk down the hall and enter his room. Dejectedly, she went into hers alone and prepared for bed. She examined her dress, looking for damage done by Carole's ex-lover, whoever he'd been, but thankfully found none.

She was exhausted by the time she turned off the lamps, but when an hour went by and she still hadn't fallen asleep, she got out of bed and left her room.

Fancy decided to enter through the kitchen in case her grandfather had set up an ambush in the living room. She unlocked the door, disengaged the alarm system, and quietly reset it.

"Who's that? Fancy?"

Fancy nearly jumped out of her skin. "Jesus Christ, Aunt Carole! You scared the living shit out of me!" She reached for the light switch.

"Oh, my God." Avery sprang from her chair at the kitchen table and turned Fancy's face up toward the light. "What happened to you?" She grimaced as she examined the girl's swollen eye and bleeding lip.

"Maybe you can lend me your plastic surgeon," Fancy quipped before she discovered that it hurt to smile. Touching the bleeding cut with the tip of her tongue, she disengaged herself from her aunt. "I'll be all right." She moved to the refrigerator, took out a carton of milk, and poured herself a glass.

"Shouldn't you see a doctor? Do you want me to drive you to the emergency room?"

"Hell, no. And would you please keep your voice down? I don't want Grandma and Grandpa to see this. I'd never hear the end of it."

"What happened?"

"Well, it was like this." She scraped the cream filling out of an Oreo with her lower front teeth. "I went to this shit-kicker's dance hall. The place was swinging. Friday night, you know—payday. Everybody was in a party mood. There was this one guy with a really cute ass." She ate the two disks of chocolate cookie and dug into the ceramic jar for another.

"He took me to a motel. We drank some beer and smoked some grass. He got a little too sublime, I guess, because when we got down to business, he couldn't get it up. Naturally, he took it out on me." As she summed up the tale, she dusted her hands of cookie crumbs and reached for the glass of milk.

"He hit you?"

Fancy gaped at her, then gave a semblance of a laugh. " 'He hit you?' " she mimicked. "What the hell do you think? Of course he hit me."

"You could have been seriously hurt, Fancy."

"I can't believe this," she said, rolling her eyes ceiling-ward in disbelief. "You always enjoyed hearing about my romantic interludes, said they gave you a vicarious thrill, whatever the hell that means."

"I'd hardly classify getting hit in the face romantic. Did he tie you up, too?"

Fancy followed her aunt's gaze down to the red circles around each of her wrists. "Yeah," she answered bitterly, "the bastard tied my hands together." Carole didn't have to know that the "bastard" she referred to wasn't the drunken, impotent cowboy.

"You're crazy to go to a motel room with a stranger like that, Fancy."

"I'm crazy? You're the one stuffing ice cubes in a Baggie."

"For your eye."

Fancy slapped away the makeshift ice pack. "Don't do me any favors, okay?"

"Your eye is turning black and blue. It's about to swell shut. Do you want your parents to see it like that and have to tell them the story you just told me?"

Irritably, Fancy snatched up the ice pack and held it against her eye. She knew her aunt was right.

"Do you want some peroxide for your lip? An aspirin? Something for the pain?"

"I had enough beer and grass to dull the pain."

Fancy was confused. Why was Carole being so nice to her? Since coming home from that luxury palace of a clinic, she had been freaking weird. She didn't yell at the kid anymore. She looked for things to do instead of sitting on her ass all day. She actually seemed to like Uncle Tate again.

Fancy had always considered Carole stupid for playing Russian roulette with her marriage. Uncle Tate was good-looking. All the girls she knew drooled over him. If her instincts in this field were any good, and she believed them to be excellent, he'd be terrific in bed.

She wished she had somebody who loved her as much as Uncle Tate had loved Carole when they had first gotten married. He'd treated her like a queen. She had been a fool to throw that away. Maybe she had reached that conclusion herself and was trying to win him back.

Fat chance.Fancy thought derisively. Once you crossed Uncle Tate, you were on his shit list for life.

"What are you doing up so late," she asked, "sitting all by yourself in the dark?"

"I couldn't sleep. I thought cocoa might help." There was a half-empty cup of chocolate on the table.

"Cocoa? That's a hoot."

"A proper insomnia remedy for a senator's wife," she replied with a wistful smile.

Fancy, never one to beat around the bush, asked, "You're mending your ways, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know damn well what I mean. You're changing your image in the hopes that Uncle Tate will get elected and keep you on when he goes to Washington." She assumed a confidential, just-between-us-girls pose. "Tell me, did you give up humping all your boyfriends, or just Eddy?"

Her aunt's head snapped up. Her face went pale. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and wheezed, "What did you say?"

"Don't play innocent. I suspected it all along," Fancy said breezily. "I confronted Eddy with it."

"And what did he say?"

"Nothing. Didn't deny it. Didn't admit it. He responded as a gentleman should." Snorting rudely, she headed for the door that led to the other rooms of the house. "Don't worry. There's enough shit flying aroundhere already. I'm not going to tell Uncle Tate. Unless. . ."

She spun around, her attitude combative. "Unless you pick up your affair with Eddy again. It's me he's gonna be screwing from now on, not you. G'night ."

Feeling smug and satisfied for having made herself so unequivocally understood, Fancy sashayed from the kitchen. One look in the mirror over her bedroom dresser confirmed that her face was a mess.

It didn't occur to Fancy until days later that Carole was the only one in the family who had even noticed that she was sporting a black eye and a busted lip, and that she hadn't ratted on her.

TWENTY

Van Lovejoy's apartment wasHouse Beautiful'sworst nightmare. He slept on a narrow mattress supported by concrete building blocks. Other pieces of furniture were just as ramshackle, salvaged from flea markets and junk stores.

There was a sad, dusty pinata , a sacrilegious effigyofElvis Presley, dangling from the light fixture. It was a souvenir he'd brought back from a visit to Nuevo Laredo. The goodies inside—several kilos of marijuana—were but a memory. Except for the pihata , the apartment was unadorned.

The otherwise empty rooms were filled with videotapes. That and the equipment he used to duplicate, edit, and play back his tapes were the only things of any value in the apartment, and their worth was inestimable. Van was better equipped than many small video production companies.

Video catalogs were stacked everywhere. He subscribed to all of them and scoured them monthly in searchofa video he didn't already have or hadn't seen. Nearly all his income went to keeping his library stocked and updated.