“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 letter h. 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. “H 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 her 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 of 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.