Mirror Image

plethora of good Texana food, friendly people who likened Tate to a young John Kennedy, and live music. She even got to dance with Tate. Eddy had pressured him into it.
    “Come on. It’ll look good to the crowd.”
    For the time Tate held her in his arms and twirled her around the dance floor, she pretended it had been his idea. Heads thrown back, they had smiled at each other as their feet kept time to the lively tune. She believed he was actually enjoying himself. As the music reached a crescendo, he lifted her against him and whirled her around to the exuberant applause of everyone watching. Then he had bent down and kissed her cheek.
    When he pulled back, there was an odd expression on his face. He appeared surprised by his own spontaneity.
    On the return trip into the city, however, she sat in the corner of the limousine’s backseat, staring through the dark patch of tinted window while he, Jack, and Eddy analyzed how well the day had gone and assessed what effect it might have on the outcome of the election.
    She had gone to bed feeling exhausted and glum. She’d had difficulty falling asleep. The nightmare—and she could count on one hand the others she had had in her lifetime—was the product of a physically and emotionally taxing day.
    She treasured this uninterrupted moment with Tate. They were continually surrounded by other people. Even in their own suite, they were rarely alone.
    “I think the Bailey’s is going to do the trick.” She handed him her empty glass and lay back against the pillows.
    “Feeling sleepy?”
    “Hmm.” She flung her arms up so that her hands were lying on either side of her head, palms up, fingers curled inward, a position both provocative and defenseless. Tate’s eyes turned dark as they moved from her face down the front of her body.
    “Thank you for dancing with me,” she said drowsily. “I enjoyed you holding me.”
    “You used to say I had no rhythm.”
    “I was wrong.”
    He continued to watch her for a moment, then switched out the lamp. He was about to leave her bed when she laid a restraining hand on his bare thigh. “Tate?”
    He froze. His motionless silhouette was limned by the bluish light leaking through the drapes from the parking lot. Invitingly, she repeated his name on a breath of a whisper.
    Slowly, he lowered himself to the mattress again and leaned over her. With a soft exclamation, she bicycled her legs to kick off the covers so there would be nothing between them.
    “Tate, I—”
    “Don’t,” he commanded gruffly. “Don’t say anything to change my mind.” His head moved so close that she felt his breath against her lips. “I want you, so don’t say a word.”
    Fiercely possessive, his lips rubbed hers apart. His tongue probed and explored, dipping into her mouth on deep and daring forays. Avery clutched handfuls of his hair and pressed her mouth up into his kiss.
    He relaxed his arms, which had been stiffly bridging her head. Gradually, his body stretched out along hers. His hard thigh crowded her hip; she turned her lower body into it. He nudged her moist cleft with his knee.
    “Is it me you’re wet for?”
    Avery gasped, unspeakably aroused by his boldness. “You told me not to say anything.”
    “Who are you wet for?”
    She ran her hand down his thigh, placed it beneath his hip, and invitingly drew him closer.
    Groaning in need, he ended the kiss with several rough glances of his lips across hers. He kissed his way down her throat and chest and nuzzled her breasts as he filled his hands with them. His open mouth sought the raised center of one and tugged on it through the fabric of her gown. It beaded against his flicking tongue.
    Reflexively, her body bowed off the bed. His hands slid between the pillow and her head, his palms cradling it, his thumbs meeting beneath her chin. He tilted her face up and fastened his mouth to hers again, giving her a scorching, searching kiss as he moved to lie between her spreading thighs.
    Avery’s body quickened to the splendor of feeling the full extension of his sex stroking the dell of her femininity. There was even a certain sexiness to the friction of his cotton briefs sliding against her silk underpants.
    Heat shimmied through her and was conveyed to him through her skin. His kiss delved deeper, and the rocking motions of his body grew more desperate. Too impatient to be leisurely and inquisitive, her hands clutched his sleek, supple back. She fitted his calf muscles into the