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But then, everybody who knew Irish well teased him about his Celtic superstition and closet Catholicism. All that was important to Avery was that she hadn’t lost him.
At the conclusion of the piece, before the tape went to black, a message appeared in the middle of the screen. It read, “Dedicated to the memory of Van Lovejoy.”
“We’re too far away for me to put flowers on his grave,” she said huskily. “Watching his work is how I pay tribute.” She clicked off the machine and set the transmitter aside.
Nelson’s machinations had impacted their lives and they would never be completely free from the memories. Jack was still grappling with his disillusionment about his father. He had chosen to stay and manage the law firm in San Antonio rather than join Tate’s staff in Washington. Though they were apart
geographically, the half brothers had never been closer. It was hoped that time would eventually heal the heartache they had in common.
Tate struggled daily to assimilate Nelson’s grand scheme, but also mourned the loss of the man he’d always known as Dad. He adamantly kept the two personas separate in his mind.
His emotions regarding Bryan Tate were conflicting. He liked him, respected him, and appreciated him for the happiness he’d given Zee since their marriage. Yet he wasn’t quite prepared to call him father, a kinship he could never claim publicly, even if he acknowledged it privately.
During those moments of emotional warfare, his wife’s love and support helped tremendously.
Thinking on it all now, Tate drew her into his arms, receiving as much comfort as he gave. He hugged her close for a long time, turning his face into her neck.
“Have I ever told you what a courageous, fascinating woman I think you are for doing what you did, even though it placed your own life in jeopardy? God, when I think back on that night, to when I felt your blood running over my hands.” He pressed a kiss onto her neck. “I had fallen in love with my wife again, and I couldn’t understand why. Before I really ever discovered you, I almost lost you.”
“I wasn’t sure it would matter,” she said. He raised his head and looked at her quizzically. “I was afraid that when you found out who I really was, you wouldn’t want me anymore.”
He pulled her into his arms again. “I wanted you. I still want you.” The way he said it left no doubt in her mind. The way he kissed her made it a covenant as binding as the marriage vows they had taken months earlier.
“I’m still finding out who you really are, even though I know you intimately,” he whispered into her mouth, “more intimately than I’ve known any other woman, and that’s the God’s truth. I know what you feel like inside, and how every part of your body tastes.”
He kissed her again with love and unappeasable passion.
“Tate,” she sighed when they drew apart, “when you look into my face, who do you see?”
“The woman I owe my life to. The woman who saved Mandy from emotional deprivation. The woman who is carrying my child.” Warmly, he caressed her swollen abdomen. “The woman I love more than breath.”
“No, I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” He eased her back against the sofa cushions and followed her down, cradling her face between his hands and touching her mouth with his. “I see Avery.”
About the Author
Sandra Brown is the author of over sixty New York Times bestsellers, including most recently Low Pressure; Lethal; Rainwater; Tough Customer; Smash Cut; Smoke Screen; Play Dirty; Ricochet; Chill Factor; White Hot; Hello, Darkness; The Crush; Envy; The Switch; The Alibi; Unspeakable; and Fat Tuesday, all of which jumped onto the New York Times list in the numbers one to five spots. There are over eighty million copies of Sandra Brown’s books in print worldwide and her work has been translated into thirty-four languages. In 2008, Brown was named Thriller Master by the International Thriller Writers Association, the organization’s top honor. She currently lives in Texas. For more information you can visit www.SandraBrown.net.
Bellamy Lyston Price was just twelve years old when her sister was murdered on a stormy Memorial Day.
Eighteen years later, she writes a novel about the horrific experience—and a new nightmare begins…
Please see the next page for a preview of
Low Pressure
Prologue
The rat was dead, but no less horrifying than if it had been alive.
Bellamy Price trapped a scream behind her hands and, holding them clamped against her mouth, backed away from the gift box of glossy wrapping paper and satin ribbon. The animal lay on a bed of silver tissue paper, its long pink tail curled against the fat body.
When she came up against the wall, she slid down it until her bottom reached the floor. Slumping forward, she removed her hands from her mouth and covered her eyes. But she was too horror-stricken even to cry. Her sobs were dry and hoarse.
Who would have played such a vicious prank? Who? And why?
The events of the day began to replay in her mind like a recording on fast-forward.
