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“Oh yeah? Why not?”
“You haven’t got the right to judge me.”
“The hell I don’t. In some parts of the world they still stone women for being unfaithful to their husbands.”
“Would it have evened the score for you if I’d been stoned? Believe me, being brutalized by the media is just as deadly.” The hand within his grip was becoming numb. She flexed her fingers. “You’re hurting me.”
Slowly he released her and took a step back. “Reflexes.”
That was as close as she was going to get to an apology. Strange under the circumstances, but she thought he sincerely regretted hurting her.
He winced and pressed his hand against his side.
“Are you in pain?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Do you want something?”
“No.”
As a physician, her instinct was to reach out and lay her hands on him, render assistance. But she didn’t. For one thing, he would shun her concern. But primarily she was apprehensive about touching him for any reason. Only now that the contact had been broken did she realize how closely he’d held her against him.
As she massaged circulation back into her hand, she tried to make a joke of it, as much to reassure herself as him. “I don’t ordinarily slap my patients.”
The attempted levity didn’t work. He didn’t even smile. Indeed, he was single-mindedly scrutinizing her face. “I didn’t recognize you last night from the pictures I’d seen,” he said. “You look different now.”
“I’ve aged five years.”
He shook his head. “It’s more than that. Your hair’s different.”
She touched her hair self-consciously. “I don’t lighten it anymore. Randall liked my hair lighter.”
“Back to the husband. Poor Randall. Guess he felt like the rug had been yanked out from under him, huh? Wonder why he stayed with you?” His voice had regained the underpinnings of sarcasm.
“I mean there you were, Randall Porter’s lawfully wedded wife, featured on the cover of the National Enquirer, being exposed as Senator Clark Tackett’s married lover. The photos showed Randall hustling you away from the cottage, wrapped up in your nightie.”
“You don’t need to reacquaint me with the reports. I remember them well.”
“And what does Randall do?” he asked as though she hadn’t spoken. “He’s with the State Department, right? A diplomat. He’s supposed to have a way with words, a glib answer for everything. But does he deny the allegations? No. Does he step forward and defend your honor? No. Does he renounce you as a cheating slut? No. Does he proclaim that you’ve realized the error of your ways and become a born-again Christian? No.”
He planted his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Randall makes like a goddamn clam. Says nothing for the record before hightailing it off to that banana republic and hauling you with him. ‘No comment’ was all the media ever prized out of him.”
He shrugged ruefully. “But then I guess there’s not much you can say when your wife is caught screwing your best friend right under your nose and their affair becomes a political incident of national importance.”
“I guess not.” She was determined not to lose control again, no matter how provocative he became.
“Even though Randall died a martyr’s death in service to his country, if you ask me, he was a coward.”
“Well, I didn’t ask you, Mr. Tackett. Furthermore, I refuse to discuss my late husband and our personal life with you. But while we’re on the subject of cowardice, what about your brother’s? He didn’t go on the record with a denial or defend my honor, either.” Like her husband, Clark had failed to make a statement of apology or explanation. He’d forsaken her to confront the disgrace alone. Their combined silence was as good as an indictment and had been the most humiliating indignity she’d had to bear, both publicly and privately.
“The jig was up. What could he do?”
“Oh, he did plenty. Do you really believe that Randall was assigne
d to Montesangre on a whim?”
“I never thought about it.”
