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Merritt was saying. "Five thousand annually in our country alone."
    This face and voice Gray Bondurant recognized and 30 Sandra Brown
    knew well, even though it was instantly apparent to him that she'd been coached on how to conduct herself during the interview. She held her hands demurely in her lap, no gestures allowed. Facial expressions carefully schooled.
    The interviewer segued into a sound bite from Dr. George Allan, the Merritts' personal physician, who'd had the unpleasant task of pronouncing Robert Rushton Merritt dead in the White House nursery. Dr. Allan explained that medical science is still trying to isolate causes and preventatives of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
    Then the interview became more personal. "Mrs. Merritt, we all witnessed your and President Merritt's grief during your son's funeral." Scenes from the funeral were edited in. "You've had three months' distance from it.
    The wounds must surely still be tender, but I know our viewers would be interested in hearing any reflections you might wish to express."
    Vanessa took a moment. "My father has a saying: Àdversity is a great opportunity in disguise.' As always, Daddy's right," she said with a fleeting smile. "David and I feel that we've become stronger, as a couple and as individuals, because we've been tested to the limit of our endurance, and we've survived."
    "Bullshit." He balled up the hand towel and hurled it across the bedroom, then picked up the remote control, unwilling to listen to any more. But he paused. Vanessa was saying, "The President and I hope that others who experience a similar tragedy can draw courage and comfort from survivors like us. Life does go on."
    Swearing, Bondurant hit the Off button.
    Scripted responses, signed, sealed, and delivered to Vanessa to memorize and parrot. Words composed by Dalton Neely. Maybe her father, Clete Armbruster. Possibly even the President, with final approval by Spencer Martin.

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    However they'd been rehearsed and revised in advance of the interview, they weren't Vanessa's words. She had spoken them, but not spontaneously and not from her heart. He doubted that the reporter with the sexy voice was aware that she'd been duped. Vanessa had been as well programmed as a talking doll with a computer chip in her head. Revealing her inner feelings wouldn't be seemly. It damn sure wouldn't be politic.
    Feeling that the walls of the bedroom were closing in on him, Bondurant stalked to the kitchen to get a beer, then went out onto his front porch.
    Ten feet deep and shaded by an overhang, the porch extended the width of the house. He flung himself into his rush-seated rocking chair and tipped the beer to his mouth. The muscles of his tanned throat worked as he drank half the can in one long swallow.
    He looked like a beer commercial. Pictures of him drinking it bare-chested in these rustic surroundings could have sold millions of cans of any brand-name brew, but he didn't realize that, or care. He knew he made an impact on people, but he had never bothered to analyze why. Vanity wasn't in his nature, certainly not during the past year, when weeks would pass without his seeing another living soul. If he drove into Jackson Hole, he might shave. Or he might not.
    He was as he was. Take him or leave him. That was, and always had been, his attitude, and he silently communicated it to everyone he met, which was one of the reasons why he hadn't blended in well with the Washington scene. He was glad to be out of it. A certain amount of conformity was required of presidential confidants; Gray Bondurant was a nonconformist.
    His blue eyes as hard and cold as a glacier, he stared at the jagged snow-capped peaks of the Tetons. Actually miles away, they looked close enough to touch. Purple mountains' majesty. In his front yard. Imagine that.

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    He crushed the empty beer can as though it were a foil gum wrapper. He wished he could take back the last ten minutes. Why hadn't he stayed