Mortal Faults by Michael Prescott Page B

face.
    “Your meeting must have ended hours ago.”
    He wondered why both of the women in his life insisted on criticizing him. “I took the Mustang for a spin.” He went into the bathroom and began to undress.
    “Sometimes,” Nora said from the bedroom, “I think you love that car more than me.”
    “Don’t be stupid.”
    “How did it go? The meeting, that is?”
    “The usual.”
    “Press coverage?”
    “No.”
    “Good turnout, at least?”
    “Not bad. What are you doing up so late? That book keeping you awake?”
    “Actually, I was waiting for you.”
    He had removed most of his clothes by now. Distantly he wondered why he never undressed in front of his wife. He had no qualms about stripping with Rebecca in the room. “Waiting? Why? Something you need to talk about?”
    “I was just ... feeling lonely, I guess.”
    He ignored the obvious implication. “You have plenty of friends around here.”
    “Yes. I suppose I do.”
    He threw in the pajamas and came out of the bathroom. Nora was pretending to read, her face set in a blank stare.
    “Now you’re mad at me,” he said with a sigh.
    She didn’t look at him. “How long has it been since we were ... together?”
    It had been four months, but he feigned ignorance. “I’m not sure.” Before she could pursue the point, he went on the offensive. “As I recall, I’m not the one who kept saying no.”
    Now she did look at him. “You hurt me, Jack.”
    “Because of what I just said? It’s the truth.”
    “It’s not what you said. I mean, you hurt me. The last time we ... you
hurt
me.”
    “I got a little carried away.”
    “More than a little.”
    “It was a scratch.”
    “Go on and tell yourself that, if you want to.”
    She returned to her book, but her eyes were wet.
    “Maybe I’ll sleep in the guest room,” he said.
    She didn’t answer. That was fine. He’d had enough of this conversation, anyway.
    He took the pillow from his side of the bed and carried it down the hall. He was pissed off now. The drive and his recreational outing with Rebecca had cooled his jets, and now he was all tense and edgy again.
    He lay in bed, eyes shut, and took himself back to Rebecca’s bedroom, his hands working her over, her mouth issuing soft grunting protests that rose gradually to screams. Muffled screams, choked off by the pillow she pressed to her face so her neighbors wouldn’t hear—but screams, nonetheless.
    Eyes closed, he shivered with pleasure, and unaccountably he thought of Abby Sinclair.
    He would like to make that bitch scream, too.
    He really would.

 
     
     
    7
     
    Abby was a downward facing dog, or more exactly she had arched her body into the yoga position of that name, when her cell phone rang. Her first thought was that Tess was calling with news on the witness protection thing. It was only eight o’clock in the morning, though. A little early to be hearing about that.
    She pushed herself to a standing position and answered. “Abby Sinclair.”
    It wasn’t Tess. It was Reynolds’ assistant, the ice princess, Rebecca somebody-or-other, who’d rejected Abby’s sisterly appeal. “Please hold for—”
    “Congressman Reynolds,” Abby finished. “I know the drill.”
    Evidently the congressman was too important to dial his own phone. She waited for a half minute, wondering how much she should reveal about last night’s less-than-successful enterprise, until Reynolds came on the line.
    Surprisingly, he didn’t ask any questions. “I’ll be in L.A. for lunch today at the Brayton,” he said without preamble, and with none of his synthetic charm.
    Abby was confused. “You’re asking me to lunch?”
    “No.” His tone registered impatience with her stupidity. “I’m having lunch with some contributors. I’ll meet you at the hotel beforehand. The rendezvous court, eleven thirty. Go through the lobby and the galleria, past the elevators, and you’re there. Got it?”
    “There’s not much I can tell you so far.” And