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dead; in her place was a broadcast journalist who was privy to aspects of his personal life; and someone was going to try to assassinate him.
    Rather than eliciting his pity, her tears provoked him. He glanced away in irritation, and as he did, he noticed the newspapers stacked on the deep windowsill. She had requested them from the deferential staff. They were back issues, containing accounts of the plane crash. Tate gestured toward them.
    “I don’t understand your tears, Carole. Your face looks great. You could have died, for crissake. So could Mandy. Can’t you consider yourself lucky to be alive?”
    After that outburst, he drew himself up and took a deep breath, controlling his temper by an act of will. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lash out like that. I know you’ve suffered a lot. It’s just that you could have suffered a hell of a lot more. We all could have.”
    He reached for the sports jacket he frequently wore with his jeans and pulled it on. “I’ll see you later.”
    With no more than that, he left her.
    Avery stared at the empty doorway for a long while. A nurse came in and helped her prepare for sleep. She had graduated from a wheelchair to crutches for her broken leg, but was still awkward on them. Gripping them hurt her hands. By the time she was settled and left alone, she was exhausted.
    Her mind was as tired as her body, and yet she couldn’t sleep. She tried to envision the expression that would break across Tate’s face when he discovered the truth. His life would undergo another upheaval, and at a time when he was most vulnerable.
    The instant the word vulnerable formed in her mind, Avery was struck by a new and terrifying thought. As soon as she was exposed, she, too, would be vulnerable to whoever planned to kill Tate!
    Why hadn’t she thought of that before? When Avery Daniels, a television news reporter, was revealed, the culprit would realize his grave error and be forced to do something about it. She would be as susceptible to attack as Tate. Judging by the deadly calculation she had heard in his voice, the would-be assassin wouldn’t hesitate to murder both of them.
    She sat up and peered into the shadows of the room, as if expecting her faceless, nameless nemesis to leap out at her. Her rapid heartbeats echoed loudly against her eardrums.
    Lord, what could she do? How could she protect herself? How could she protect Tate? If only she really were Carole, she—
    Before the idea was even fully developed, her mind began hurling objections, both conscientious and practical. It couldn’t be done. Tate would know. The assassin would know.
    But if she could keep playing the role long enough to determine who Tate’s secret enemy was, she could save his life.
    Yet it was inconceivable to step into another woman’s life. And what about her own? Officially, Avery Daniels no longer existed. No one would be missing her. She had no husband, no children, no family.
    Her career was in a shambles. Because of one mistake—one gross error in judgment—she was deemed a failure by anyone’s standards. Not only had she failed to live up to her father’s sterling reputation, she’d taken the glint off it. Working at KTEX in San Antonio was like being sentenced to years of hard labor. While the station had a solid reputation for a market its size, and while she would be eternally grateful to Irish for giving her a job when no one else would even grant her an interview, employment there was tantamount to banishment in Siberia. She was alienated from journalistic circles that really counted. KTEX was a long step down from a network job and a Washington, D.C. beat.
    But now, a sensational story had been dropped into her lap. If she became Mrs. Tate Rutledge, she could document a senatorial campaign and an attempted murder from an insider’s point of view. She wouldn’t just be covering the story, she would be living it.
    What better vehicle to launch herself back to the top echelon of broadcast news? How many reporters had ever been given an opportunity like this? She knew scores who would give their right arm for it.
    She smiled wanly. Her right arm hadn’t been required of her, but she had given her face, her name, and her own identity already. Saving a man’s life and getting a career boost would be repayment enough for such an indignity. And when the truth finally came out, no one could accuse her of exploitation. She hadn’t asked for this chance; it had been forced on