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His threat hung over her like the glittering blade of the guillotine. She was doomed; she just didn't know when or how the blade was going to fall.

In the long run, she might not have to fear the senator's reprisal: The suspense of not knowing what form it would take might be her undoing.

"Lord, Daily," she groaned, laying her forearm across her eyes, "how could I have been so wrong? Everything led me to conclude that the President of the United States had committed one, possibly two, murders. Logic should have demanded that I rethink it."

"Frankly, I don't think logic is all it's cracked up to be," he said sympathetically. "Thinking back through history, name me one great mind who didn't spit in the face of logic."

"Stop trying to make me feel better. Let me wallow in this misery. I've earned it."

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He massaged the ball of her foot. "You screwed up pretty bad, all right.

This is even worse than the Justice Green incident."

"I couldn't believe it," she said, almost in a whisper. "When Gray pulled back that sheet, I was prepared to see Vanessa's lovely chestnut hair and creamy complexion. Instead, there lay a stranger. I was stunned. And then of course Armbruster erupted like Mount St. Helens. And Gray . . ."

"Gray?" he prompted.

"He pulled a David Copperfield and disappeared."

Her foolhardiness would have severe consequences, but, of all of them, Gray's vanishing act was perhaps the hardest to take. She was resigned to being the target of Armbruster's vengeance. The senator would make her suffer for those few minutes that he'd believed his daughter was dead. For years to come, she would be the laughingstock of the Washington press corps. Whatever crumbs of credibility she had scraped together since the Justice Green debacle were now for naught. It would be years, if ever, before she regained a modicum of respect in journalistic circles. Even if she hadn't notified her own TV station, word would have gotten out eventually. Pennsylvania Avenue was like Main Street in any small town in America. Gossip and bad news were telegraphed with lightning speed. A fiasco with such a high-profile cast of characters couldn't have been kept under wraps.

So she was braced for the ridicule. It would hurt. But not as badly as Gray's desertion.

She had looked from Jayne Gaston's death mask into his face, and one was about as animated as the other. Oddly, she'd been concerned more with Gray's reaction than with Senator Armbruster's. Of the two, the senator had been the

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more vocal and vituperative. His tirade had distracted her, and by the time he'd finished reviling her, Gray had vanished.

"I searched the hospital, then the parking area," she told Daily. "No one remembered seeing him leave. My car was where we'd left it, so I don't know what he used for transportation. He simply vanished."

She picked at a loose thumb cuticle. "I guess he was mortified that a man of his experience had been drawn into the fantasy of an idiot like me."

"Please," Daily groaned. "Self-pity makes me want to puke."

"I'm not---2'

"You didn't convince Bondurant of anything, and you flatter yourself if you think you could. You confirmed suspicions he'd already had, remember?"

"But based on what I told him, he killed Spencer Martin."

"In self-defense."

"Are we sure of that?"

"You doubt it?"

"Well, if Merritt didn't have anything to hide, why would he have sent Spencer Martin to Wyoming to get rid of Bondurant? Because I had told him my wild theory, Gray must've misread the purpose of Spencer Martin's visit, the timing of which was probably nothing more than coincidence. Merritt isn't going to let his top adviser disappear without conducting an exhaustive search and investigation. Gray will be charged with murder." "He covered Martin's tracks and probably disposed of the body so well that it will never be found," Daily speculated. "No body, no murder."

"That's a technicality."

"He didn't seem overly concerned."

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"No, he was more concerned about Vanessa. When he thought she was dead, he looked like death himself."

Gray Bondurant loved Vanessa Merritt. Not lusted after, loved. He loved her enough to sacrifice his career for her. He had resigned so that neither her marriage nor her public status would be jeopardized by a scandalous affair. He loved her enough to relinquish any claim to his son. It must have been torture for him not to be there when the child was born, and then to mourn his death alone, in virtual exile.

Barrie would never receive that kind of love, and peevishly felt that such devotion was wasted on a woman as shallow and selfish as Vanessa Armbruster Merritt. She was ill, true. But did that excuse her for being grossly manipulative? Why had Vanessa involved her at all? Why had she tossed out those red herrings for her to follow?

"He's quite a stud," Daily observed.

"Hmm. What? Who? Bondurant?" Barrie quickly retracted her foot and sat up.

"I wouldn't know."

"You two didn't. . ." He raised his eyebrows.

"Of course not."

"But you would've liked to."

"Give me a break. Our Mr. Bondurant has some admirable traits, but he's about as far removed from my ideal man as one could get. He's the strong, silent type, which, as far as I'm concerned, translates into asshole with an attitude.

"He killed a friend in what he claims was self-defense, but we have only his word on that. He's hung up on a woman he can never, ever have. He lives like a hermit out in the boonies, which is weird and sort of spooky.

"Even if he lived around the corner and was Mr. Upstanding/Involved Citizen of the Year, he's made no secret of his opinion of me, which is that I'm a walking calamity, a disaster waiting to happen. Anyway, this entire

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conversation is pointless because I'm not interested in him, and anyway he's disappeared, too. Okay?"

"So how long after you met him were you in bed together?"

"About ninety seconds."

"Jesus, Barrie."

"Yeah. A real professional approach, but only if you're a hooker." She sighed. "Since my career as a journalist is over, perhaps I ought to consider going into the purveyance of personal pleasure."

"You, a hooker?" Daily chuckled. "That I'd like to see."

"I'd have to charge extra for watching." She swung her legs over the edge of the cot. "This conversation, which I began in the hope of boosting my spirits, has made me feel even more depressed. I'm going to take a shower."

"A shower won't cure what ails you."

"Well, I'm going to shower anyway." She dug into a shopping bag for a new set of underwear. As she clipped off the tags, she said, "If I could be granted one wish, Daily, it would be to pick up my life the day Vanessa Merritt called to invite me for coffee. I would decline."

"Meaning that now you're convinced the Merritt baby died of SIDS, and that the rest of it was just a product of your bad judgment and active imagination?"

She looked up at him sharply. "Aren't you?"

"You look radiant!" Senator Armbruster smothered his daughter in a bear hug.

"I can't tell you how good it is to see you."

"It's good to see you too, Daddy." She returned his hug, but he sensed her restlessness and released her. Her smile was as bright as a ten-dollar diamond ring and much more

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counterfeit. "I saw myself in the mirror this morning. I don't think radiant is the word I'd use to describe me."

"You just got up from weeks in a sickbed. What do you expect? You'll get the color back in your cheeks in no time."

"I think she looks gorgeous." This from David Merritt, who was buttering a blueberry muffin.

The three were sharing a continental breakfast in Vanessa's chambers. In Clete's opinion, the last thing Vanessa needed was caffeine, and she was on her second cup of coffee. "Maybe you should spend a few weeks at home,"

he suggested. "You could lie in the sun, sleep late every day, eat fattening southern cooking. What do you think, David? Should we pack her off to Mississippi?"

His son-in-law's best campaign smile was in place. He must have been practicing it. "I just got her back, Clete. I'd hate to have her leave again right away. Besides, she's definitely on the mend. George has worked wonders for her."

The senator didn't share his son-in-law's opinion of Dr. Allan. "Night before last, he looked to be hanging on to his ass with both hands."

Vanessa was at her vanity table, trying on earrings. "Which should I wear?"

she asked, turning to face them and holding a different earring to each ear. "I think the pearls are best, don't you, Daddy?"

"The pearls are fine."

"They were Mother's."

"Yes, I know."

"My junior year in high school, you let me wear them to a dance, remember, Daddy? I lost one, and you were upset. But I went back to the gym the next day and searched until I found it. My dress was pink. You had a fit because you thought the seamstress had hemmed it too short. My date was that Smith boy, the one who went to Princeton and then flunked out. I forget what happened to him after that."

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Before Vanessa was diagnosed as manic-depressive, Clete had been confused and saddened by the violent mood swings he witnessed. She could be abysmally depressed, agitated, anxious, or hyper. But he'd rarely seen her as hopped up as she was now. She was either in the throes of a manic episode or high on an antidepressant drug. The symptoms were so similar that it was difficult to tell. But she wasn't stabilized, which had been the point of her seclusion.

David must have noticed her behavior, but he was making a concerted effort to ignore it. He interrupted Vanessa's chatter to address her father's comment about the doctor. "George wasn't at his best the other night, Clete. And can you blame him? First he had the nurse die on him, then he couldn't locate her next of kin. To top it all off, Barrie Travis showed up at the hospital with you and Gray in tow, creating a hell of a ruckus and a media event that we all could have done without." Chuckling, he shook his head. "Tell me she didn't seriously think that the corpse was Vanessa."

"That little gal got an earful from me, I can tell you that," Clete said, jabbing the air with his blunt index finger. "And I'm not finished with her yet."

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," Vanessa said, leaving the vanity.

"Look at my arms. Chill bumps. It's horrible to hear rumors about your own death."

"I'll never forgive that woman for what she put me through," Clete said.

"I've known some irresponsible reporters, but she tops the heap. How in hell did she come up with that notion? What's your version of the story, sweetheart?"

"What story? Oh, you mean about what happened at Highpoint? It's foggy. I really don't remember leaving. When I woke up, I was in my bed here, and George was telling me that I was going to feel much better soon."

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"And so you are." David moved toward her, took her hand, and kissed her cheek. But Clete noticed that Vanessa quickly put space between them.

"George told me that my nurse had had a fatal heart attack. I felt sorry about that, although I hadn't actually met her." She readjusted a heavy charm bracelet on her slender wrist. "This thing's bugging me."

"What do you mean, you never met Mrs. Gaston?" Clete asked.

"Just what I said, Daddy. I can vaguely remember her voice, but I couldn't pick her out of a crowd. I don't remember anything about what she looked like. Maybe I'll take this off." She slid the bracelet off her wrist and dropped it onto the table with a clatter.

"George Allan led me to believe that the two of you had grown very close,"

Clete said.

"George is right," David said. "You just don't remember, dear."

"I never met her, David," she insisted. "I ought to know if I did or I didn't, and I didn't. Why are you always correcting me? You always do that, and I hate it. It makes me feel stupid."

"You're not stupid."

"You treat me like I am."

"You were on medication, darling," he said smoothly. "You became very attached to Mrs. Gaston, but because of the sedatives you were taking to help you rest, you don't remember."

"Okay, okay, whatever." She waved her hands. "Jesus, I can't believe she died right there at the foot of my bed. That grosses me out." She replaced the bracelet on her wrist and shook it. "I love wearing this bracelet. I like the way the charms jangle. Like sleigh bells at Christmas."

"Christmas will be here before we know it," David 228 Sandra Brown

said, smile in place again. "Then we'll be ringing in the New Year. Election year. Let's forget about Barrie Travis and the nurse and all the unhappy events of this year and concentrate on next." He rubbed his hands together vigorously. "We've got a lot of campaign plans to make."

"I don't want to think about that yet."

Taking the cue from his daughter, Clete said, "I agree, David. I think you're jumping the gun a little. Let's get Vanessa hale and hearty first.

There's plenty of time to make campaign plans."

"It's never too early to plan."

Vanessa began wringing her hands. "Just the thought of it . . . Listen, David, I feel much better than I have in a long time, but I don't think I'm up to appearing at the press conference this morning."

Clete had been shocked to learn that a press conference was scheduled for eleven o'clock in the East Room. Vanessa was expected to attend. Her stylist had been summoned to the White House. She'd done wonders with Vanessa's hair and makeup, but her skilled efforts hadn't completely hidden the dark circles beneath Vanessa's eyes, or the gauntness of her cheeks.

"Why do I have to be there?" she asked anxiously.

"It'll only last a few minutes," David said.

"That's no answer," Clete said. "Why's it necessary that she be there?"

Tightly, David replied, "Because Vanessa dragged Barrie Travis into our lives, that's why. That's when all this started, and it culminated with that debacle in the emergency room. Rumors are flying fast and furious. The only way we can quell them is to address Mrs. Gaston's death and explain exactly what happened.