Excerpt of A Test Of Faith by Christa Allan

I wanted to kill my husband's mistress.

Of course, that was impossible. But Logan reassured me that the insufferable, insensitive and insistent creature that had consumed both him and our relationship would die a natural death.

But, once again, she beckoned him away for the night to another hand-shaking, wide-smiling, campaign-promoting event.

"It'll be over soon. I promise." Logan grabbed the back door handle and tossed his farewell over his shoulder like an old nubby sweater. The state of Louisiana was not to be denied. Just me.

Well, at least I didn't suffer the agony of deceit. Election day was six months away, and the all-consuming political campaign that seduced my husband would end. I'll deal with the "then what?" later. For now, I'll add it to the "then what"' collection and wait for it to decay like the others.

For too long, our physical relationship languished on the Logan Butler, Candidate for State Representative, "to do" list. Matt Feldman, his Campaign Manager, probably slotted it in on his calendar:

10:20 p.m. Make love to wife

10:25 p.m. Sleep

Sleeping was usually the only late night "To do" changed to "done."

I told Logan weeks ago, after another night of my hand returning with empty hope after reaching across the bed, I'd never have to worry about another woman taking him away.

"And why is that?" he asked. The words bounced back to me from the wall he spoke to. A wall that saw more action than I did considering the number of times I'd painted it in the last two years.

"Because the campaign's already your mistress. You don't have time for anyone else," I said and crunched my pillow under my head. My anger spilled itself out in quiet, hot tears.

But, by morning, I'd tugged on the good-wife costume again. And, by lunchtime, I'd sat across from two silver-haired gentlemen who double-teamed me at checkers at the East Haven Home for the Elderly while Logan surprised the ladies' Zumba Gold class as their bodies convulsed to the calypso beat of Harry Belafonte's "Jump in the Line."

And that was my life as the wife of a politician running for office. Smiling, playing checkers, smiling, and hoping to have a reason to unwrap my ivory lace-appliquéd satin slip. A few nights Logan provided a reason, but the experience left me feeling I was the last campaign stop for the day.

But since the meeting with his staff tonight didn't start until seven o'clock, I knew not to expect any more than his arriving home in one piece.

He paused, the door still open. "I love you. You know that don't you?" he said, in a voice that seemed wrapped in silk.

I closed my Southern Living magazine and looked into those eyes of his that caressed me and, even at the age of thirty, could make my knees feel like melting wax. "It's what saves you every time," I said.