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With another woman? She hadn’t heard any scuttlebutt, and surely she would have. His name hadn’t been linked to any local woman except for…
Darcy reacted as though she’d been slapped. “But that’s impossible,” she protested out loud.
Key Tackett and Dr. Mallory? Their names had been linked when they’d flown that kid to Tyler, but that sure as hell hadn’t been a lark.
On the other hand, the doctor was a renowned man-eater. She’d been carrying on with her lover right under her husband’s nose. Even Darcy had more morals—and better sense—than to do that.
Some men, however, liked a woman with the spirit of adventure. It added spiciness and suspense. James Bond didn’t fuck shrinking violets, did he?
She gripped the steering wheel tighter. If Key was having a secret affair with his brother’s mistress, Darcy would make certain that everybody in East Texas heard about it. By the time she got through spreading tales, he’d be a laughingstock. Taking Clark’s leftovers? Ha! That would serve the bastard right.
But the rumors should contain at least a grain of truth or the laugh would be on her. How could she make certain that he was sleeping with Lara Mallory? She’d never even met the doctor. Lara Mallory would see right through any friendly overtures. She was no fool.
How could she get close to Lara Mallory without putting her on guard? It warranted some thought, but she was confident that she’d think of a way.
Arriving home, she let herself into the house, tiptoeing and moving around in the dark to keep from waking Fergus and Heather, who were asleep upstairs. She didn’t want to account for the lateness of the hour unless absolutely necessary. She hated lying to her husband and avoided doing so whenever possible.
Moving past the door to the family room, she noticed that the television set had been left on. She went in to turn it off. As she rounded the leather sofa, two startled people leaped up. There were exclamations of surprise as they grappled for loose articles of clothing.
Darcy switched on the lamp, took in the situation at a glance, and angrily demanded to know—although she already did—“Just what the hell is going on here?”
Chapter Twelve
The pastor of the First Baptist Church commended Letty’s soul to the Lord and said a final amen over the small white casket. Marion Leonard’s keening cry echoed across the windswept cemetery, raising goose bumps on all who heard it. Jack Leonard was silent, but tears rolled down his gaunt, pale cheeks as he pulled his grieving wife away from their daughter’s coffin. It was a heartrending scene that deserved privacy. Mourners began to disperse.
Lara had kept to the fringes of the crowd, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. As she turned to leave, the white-hot flash of a high-tech camera exploded near her face. Instinctively she threw up her arm for protection. The first blinding flash was followed by another, then a third.
“Mrs. Porter, will you comment on the Leonards’ malpractice suit against you?”
“What?” A microphone was thrust against her mouth. She shoved it aside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And my name is Dr. Mallory.”
As the violet spots receded, she saw a horde of reporters blocking her path. She switched directions. The band flocked after her. Some were obviously affiliated with TV stations—their video cameramen trotted along beside them, connected by cables. Others were from newspapers; with them were the still photographers and their despised flashes. Five years ago, she’d become well acquainted with the accoutrements of mass communication.
What was the media doing here? What did they want with her? She felt as if her nightmare was being reenacted.
“Please, let me by.”
Glancing back, she saw that others attending Letty Leonard’s funeral had gathered in clusters and were speaking in hushed but excited voices, gaping at the sideshow. She hadn’t created the spectacle but was nevertheless its unwilling star.
“Mrs. Porter—”
“My name is Mallory,” she insisted. “Dr. Mallory.”
“But you were married to the late U.S. Ambassador Randall Porter?”
She hurried across the neatly clipped grass toward the gravel lane where her car was parked in a line of others behind the white hearse and the limousine.
“You’re the same Lara Porter who was Senator Tackett’s mistress, isn’t that right?”
“Please move aside.” Reaching her car at last, she fumbled in her handbag for her keys. “Leave me alone.”
“What brought you to Eden Pass, Mrs. Porter?”
“It is true that Senator Tackett brought you here before his death?”
“Were you still lovers?”
“What do you know about his accidental drowning, Mrs. Porter? Was it actually a suicide?”
