The Last Honest Woman Read online

  Ignoring her evasions, he went straight to the point. "Why does Chuck Rockwell's widow have to wash floors for six dollars an hour?"

  She went very pale. It was in his voice, the doubt, the derision. "I don't have time or the inclination to discuss my financial business with you, Dylan." She yanked the door open, but he slammed it again.

  "I asked you a question."

  "And I've given you the only answer I intend to." The fire came into her eyes, briefly but powerfully. "I don't have to tolerate this from you, from anyone, Dylan. I don't have to stand here while you look at me as though I'm less of a person because I mop other people's floors and dust their furniture for pay. If I did it for charity I'd be a hero, but I do it for money."

  "I want to know why you do it at all."

  "I do exactly what I have to do. Nobody knows it better."

  With that she yanked the door open again and strode out. He could have followed her, and he started to. Then, just as determined as she, Dylan shut the door. It was time to get back to business, he told himself. And back to the truth.

  CHAPTER Ten

  Moving with a dull, grinding fury, Dylan drafted out twenty pages. Chuck Rockwell had become more than a name, less than an image to him now. Over the course of time, Dylan had come to know him as a man, a badly flawed one, insecure, self-absorbed, intemperate. The skill and the training couldn't be overlooked, nor could the daring that some would have called heroics. He'd been born not just with a silver spoon in his mouth, but with the whole place setting at his disposal. Yet he hadn't chosen to simply sit back and enjoy his wealth, he'd refused a meaningless title in the family conglomerate. He had, instead, chosen to make his own mark in his own way. There was something to be said for that.

  Chuck Rockwell had become a success and had earned respect, even adulation. His associates had considered him one of their best, even if they hadn't liked him personally. The press had gloried in him, on the track and off. His fans had made him a celebrity within a year of his first professional race. He'd attained all that, plus a devoted wife and two sons.

  Then he'd set out-systematically, it seemed to Dylan-to destroy it all.

  He'd lost his backer and first supporter, he'd alienated most of his associates and had torn irreparable holes in his marriage. Yet Abby had once described him as a knight on a white charger. And she'd stuck by him for four years.

  Why?

  Chuck had abused their marriage, abused her and left her to raise his children while he ran the next race and pursued the next woman. But she'd made a home for him.

  Why?

  Until she told him, until he cornered her again and pulled the answers out of her, what he wrote would just be words.

  Until she told him, until she trusted him with the truth, what he felt for her couldn't be acknowledged.

  How long could he deny it? Dylan crushed his cigarette out with quick and deliberate violence. How long could he live in the same house with her, watch her, want her, deny he'd lost his head over her? Lost his head. With self-mocking laugh, he ran his hands over his face. It was easier to plead insanity than to admit he'd lost his heart. What he'd done was fall in love.

  But he'd always thought that falling in love meant you'd stumbled, slipped, that you hadn't looked for the rocks in the road or noticed the edge of the cliff. And he'd been right. He felt as if he'd slipped, stumbled and caught himself on one of those rocks, then taken a nosedive off the cliff. In all likelihood, it was going to screw up his book, his objectivity and his life.

  He wished to God she would come home.

  That was another problem, he admitted. He'd been on the farm less than three weeks and he already thought of it as home. He'd been with Abby less than three weeks and he already thought of her as his. And the boys- Dylan pushed away from his desk and strode around the room. All right, so he was crazy about them. He wasn't made of stone, was he?

  It didn't have to make any difference. He'd worked too hard to get his life exactly the way he wanted it. The only person he was responsible to was himself, the only person he had to satisfy was himself. The only person who had to approve of him was Dylan Crosby.

  Maybe he wasn't rolling in money, but he certainly made enough. If he wanted to take off tomorrow for three weeks in the South Seas, there was no one he'd have to clear it with first. Selfish? Dylan turned that over in his mind with a shrug. What if he were? He was entitled. He'd milked cows until the tune he'd gone to college. He'd studied hard, worked hard, and had established himself professionally and personally. His years as an investigative reporter had been fiendish in their way, but he'd gotten through them. His marriage hadn't exactly been made in heaven, but he'd done the best he could with it while it had lasted. Now he was free, with no ties, no strings. He set his own schedules, made his own demands. Just because he liked the farm and was fond of a couple of kids didn't mean he was going to turn his world upside down. He'd been through one marriage, and so had Abby. They'd be smart not to step back into the ring.

  When was she coming home?

  The minute he heard the engine, he was at the window. But it wasn't Abby's sturdy station wagon that pulled up. It was a huge gunmetal-gray limo.

  "Ah, fresh air. Country air." Frank O'Hurley bounced out of the limo as though it were act one, scene one. "Clears the mind. Cleanses the soul. Everybody should breathe it in." He did, then screwed up his face. "God save us. What is that smell?"

  "Horse manure'd be my guess." Maddy stepped out beside him, then looked around with quick, avid curiosity. Fifty-second Street or Dogpatch, it made no difference to her. "Mom, did I leave my purse in there?"

  "Right here." Molly, slim and pretty, accepted the driver's hand before stepping out. She stood on sturdy legs and shaded her eyes against the sun. Sunlight made wrinkles. She wasn't particularly vain, but her face was part of her act. "Ah." With a look that was half pleased, half baffled, she stared at the house. "Such a place. I can never quite imagine our Abby here."

  "Where'd we go wrong?" Frank asked her, and got a quick swipe on the shoulder from his youngest daughter.

  "Cut it out, Pop. Abby loves this place."

  Dylan came to the door just in time to see Chantel O'Hurley step from the limo onto the sparsely graveled drive. It struck him first that Abby had the same million-dollar legs as Chantel. He watched as her skirt flared beautifully around her and she took the driver's hand, then flashed a smile designed to turn a man to putty.

  "Thank you, Donald." Her voice was like smoke and seemed to encircle her listeners sensuously. "If you'd just put our bags on the porch, that will be all for today."

  "Very good, Miss O'Hurley."

  "You do that so well," Maddy murmured as the driver popped the hood.

  "Darling, I was born to do it." Then, as she laughed and linked her arm through her sister's, she spotted Dylan. "Well, well." It might have been a purr, but kittens didn't purr when they showed their teeth. "What have we here?"

  "Must be the writer." Maddy gave him a brief and thorough summing-up. "Be nice."

  "Maddy, remember my image." Chantel slid her oversize sunglasses down her nose and continued to stare. "Nice had nothing to do with it."

  As the two women paused, Dylan did some summing-up of his own. One sister was dressed in baggy slacks and an oversize jacket whose contrasting shades of green and blue should have hurt the eyes. Instead, the pattern was as bright and cheerful as her short mop of strawberry-blond hair. Beside her was the image of cool, understated glamour, from the long silvery-blond mane to the toes of her alligator pumps. Standing next to them were a small, pretty woman of about fifty and a wiry little man making theatrical gestures toward the barn.

  Maddy was the first to step forward. "Hello, we're Abby's family."

  She walked up the steps with the quick, swinging gait of a born optimist. Her sister followed with the slow, alluring moves of a born siren. "Dylan Crosby." Chantel extended the tips of her fingers. "We've met."

  "Miss O'Hurley." If he'
d ever seen a woman who'd have liked to ram a knife into him-and one who would have known precisely the right spot to aim for-it was this one. Dylan turned to Maddy.

  "You're the writer." She sent her sister an amused, knowing glance.'' Abby told us you'd be here. These are our parents."

  "Frank and Molly O'Hurley." Frank stuck his hand out and shook with fast, friendly exuberance.

  "Molly and Frank," his wife said with a smile. Dylan could see where Abby had inherited her looks.

  "Always worried about billing." Frank pecked his wife's cheek before turning back to Dylan. "Where's my girl?"

  "Abby had to run some errands." Dylan was a man who believed in first impressions, and he was immediately drawn to the small, spry man with the big grin and the well-timbred voice.

  "Errands." Frank slipped an arm around his wife and gave her a squeeze. "Just like our Abby."

  "And totally unlike the rest of us. Hello." Molly didn't offer her hand, but smiled at Dylan. "You must be the writer. Abby told us she'd decided to authorize the book."

  "That's right." She didn't have to say any more to convey her disapproval. Yet Dylan felt it was directed at the project rather than himself. It wasn't everyone who could make such a fine distinction felt so easily. "I don't know exactly when she'll be back, but-"

  "No problem." Frank gave him a companionable pat on the arm, then strode past him into the house. The move was so smooth, so natural, that it took Dylan a minute to realize Frank had ignored the pile of luggage. Maddy hauled up two bags and sent Dylan a wink.

  "Pretty sharp, isn't he? Come on, Chantel, just like old times."

  Chantel cast a long, considering look at the pile, paused, then chose one small leather tote.

  "Takes after her father," Molly commented as she leaned over to grasp the handle of a suitcase.

  "I'll take care of it," Dylan began, but Molly laughed and hefted the bag herself.

  "I've been lugging trunks since I could stand. Don't worry about me, you'll have your hands full with the rest, because I can promise you they won't be back for them. Put on some coffee, Frank," she called out, then walked up the staircase without a backward glance.

  With a shrug, Dylan stacked and lifted the remaining bags and followed. It looked as if it might be an interesting afternoon.

  Abby decided there was little purpose in nursing her temper. Perhaps it was justified, perhaps in its way it was satisfying. But it just didn't accomplish anything. Dylan didn't trust her. If she was honest, she had to admit he had no real reason to. While she could rationalize that she hadn't lied to him, neither had she been completely honest. Dylan Crosby was a man who required the unvarnished truth.

  He'd hurt her. His doubts and derision had hurt her. She had wanted to believe they'd reached some point of understanding. She'd hoped they'd come far enough in their relationship for him to accept her for who and what she was.

  She had wanted too much. The trouble was, Abby longed for more. She wanted his trust, though she hadn't been able to give her own. She wanted his support, though she was afraid to offer hers. She wanted his love most of all, yet she wouldn't admit her own feelings for him.

  Temper had given her a smug sense of self-satisfaction, but only temporarily. It had also left her unsettled and unhappy. Maybe the time had come for her to put her feelings on the line and give Dylan what seemed most important to him. Complete honesty. If she opened up and he still walked away from her, she could have no regrets.

  When Abby pulled up in the drive, she had decided to tell Dylan everything-the mistakes, the regrets, the compromises. Without faith, love was just another word. She would put her life in his hands and believe in him.

  The minute she opened the front door, her nerve started to weaken. She had to talk to him and talk to him quickly, before she pulled back. Then she saw him coming from the direction of the kitchen. Abby stood where she was and waited for her resolve to harden. "Dylan." She shifted her bag from hand to hand. "We need to talk."

  "Yeah." He'd made his own decisions that morning. "It might have to wait a little while."

  "It can't. I-" Abby caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned toward the stairs. Maddy stood there, barefoot, her hands deep in the pockets of baggy slacks. She grinned as though she knew every secret in the world and was ready to tell them.

  "Maddy!" Before the name was fully formed, Abby rushed toward the staircase and threw herself into her sister's arms. First came laughter; then they both began to talk at once. Somehow, in the torrent of words, they both managed to ask and answer a half a dozen questions.

  "You two always stepped on each other's lines." From the top of the staircase, Chantel looked down. Dylan noted that she looked just as cool, just as elegant, as she had when she'd stepped from the limo. Then, with a whoop, she was clattering down the stairs at a dangerous speed to launch herself at her sisters.

  "Both of you." Abby had an arm around each sister, holding them dose. One smelled free, easy, fresh, the other dark and tempting. "How did you manage it?"

  "I backed out of the play." Maddy said with a laugh. She hadn't realized until it was done, how badly she'd needed to move on. "My understudy is building a shrine to me."

  "We shot the final scenes of the movie last week." Chantel gave a lazy shrug. "I left my leading man desolate." Then she stepped back, taking Abby's face in her hand. She turned it one way, then the other, her eyes narrowed. "Incredible," she muttered. "Not a bit of makeup. That's why I hate you."

  Abby hugged them both again. "Oh, God, I'm so glad to see you."

  There was a hint, only a hint, of desperation in her voice. It was enough. Over Abby's head, Chantel aimed a long, hard look at Dylan. Her eyes were blue, a very dark, very intense blue. She knew how to use them.

  Sensitive to changes in mood, Maddy felt the tension. The best way to deal with it, in her opinion, was to slide over it. "I hate to use old lines," she said easily, "but you ain't seen nothin' yet. Come into the kitchen. How about some coffee, Dylan?"

  Her look was so friendly that he wondered if he imagined the message beneath. Her eyes weren't the vivid blue of Chantel's or the deep green of Abby's. They were a warm shade of brandy uniquely her own. But the challenge was there. Acknowledging it, he walked in to the kitchen with them.

  "Mom. Pop." Stunned, Abby stared at her parents, who were sitting cozily at the breakfast bar.

  "It's about time you got home, girl." Frank swiveled in his chair and grinned at her. His arms opened in the wide, inviting gesture that had always warmed her. "Let's have a kiss."

  "What are you doing here?" She had an arm around each parent, drawing in the old, familiar scents-peppermint and Chanel. Her father couldn't get through a day without peppermints, and her mother would go without shoes before she denied herself her perfume. "There isn't a theater within twenty miles."

  "Vacation." Her father have her another smacking kiss. "It was either here or Paris."

  Molly gave a quick, none-too-subtle snort, then picked up her coffee. "Where are the boys?"

  "In school. They'll be home a bit after three."

  "All day stuck with books." Frank shook his head. "It's a tragedy."

  "Just keep that to yourself," Abby warned. "They'll be too glad to agree with you."

  "What's this?" Frank reached up and brushed a tear from her lashes.

  "Abby's entitled to get emotional." Maddy went to the stove to pour more coffee. "She's wondering how she's going to feed four extra people for three days. Abby, is there a trick to this stove? I can't get the burner going."

  "Push the knob in before you turn it. Can you really stay?" She looked at her mother first because she knew who really called the shots.

  "We're between engagements," Molly told her dryly then patted her arm. "If you can put up with us, we'll stay until the end of the week."

  "Of course I can put up with you." She hugged Molly again, hardly able to believe her family was in one place at one time. "I only wish Trace were here."
<
br />   Frank made a hissing sound. "That boy. No sense of responsibility, no ambition. Can't think how I could raise a son to be so feckless."

  "It's a mystery." Chanters dry voice was lost on him.

  "He's got talent." Frank slammed his fist on the counter. "Taught him everything I knew. He hasn't walked through a stage door in ten years."

  "Did I mention that Chris was in his school Christmas play?" Abby knew how to soothe and distract. "He played a sheep."

  Frank positively preened. "A man's got to start somewhere."

  "Nice touch, Abby," Maddy murmured.

  "Years of practice." She saw Dylan standing slightly off to the side, observing and absorbing-something he did well. She wished she could tell if the smile on his face was one of amusement or disdain. "Coffee?" she asked. He only nodded.

  "Dylan, my boy." Frank perked up as he remembered his audience. "Come, sit down here. Let me tell you about the time we played Radio City."

  Chantel didn't bother to disguise a moan, and Frank glared at her. "Have some respect."

  "Frank, Dylan may not be interested in show business."

  Frank looked at his wife as if she'd grown horns. "There's not a person alive who isn't interested in show business." He added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee, hesitated briefly, then added a third. "Besides, the man's a writer. That means he likes a story."

  "Story's right." Chantel gave her father a loud kiss on the cheek. "Tall story."

  Frank raised his chin. "Sit down, Dylan. Ignore the family. I could teach them a time step, but I never could teach them manners."

  Frank told his story, interrupted by asides from all three of his daughters and the occasional chuckle from his wife. Dylan would never be sure whether it was fact or fiction, but he was certain that Frank O'Hurley believed every word.

  Abby relaxed. Dylan could all but feel the tension that had held her stiff when she'd first come in drain out of her. She seemed to meld with the odd mix of people who were her family. Though she was totally unlike any of them, she fit in like a piece of a jumbled jigsaw puzzle.

  He enjoyed them. They were loud, talking over and against each other, laughing at one another. Each one had a habit of grabbing the spotlight and clinging a moment before passing it on. Their stories were exaggerated and dramatic. Yet some of them, though ridiculous, had the ring of truth. Instinctively he found himself making mental notes. The O'Hurleys, singly and as a group, might make a hell of a book.

  Not his style, Dylan reminded himself. It wasn't his style at all, of course. But he continued to observe.

  When the boys came home, it was chaos. To a casual observer it might have seemed as though the O'Hurleys were competing for the attention of a new audience. Dylan saw something deeper: their innate love of confusion and each other. Ben and Chris were part of Abby and therefore part of themselves. There were hugs, exclamations, quizzes and presents. Some children might have been overwhelmed by all the sudden attention. Dylan watched as Ben and Chris simply lapped it up as if it were their due. From what he'd gathered, Dylan was certain the boys didn't see their grandparents or their aunts often, but he sensed none of the awkward shyness that might have been expected. At one point, Chris climbed up onto Dylan's lap as though it were his natural place and began bombarding his grandfather with stories of his day at school. Without thinking, Dylan hooked an arm around the boy's waist to secure him. They sat that way for nearly an hour, with the fire crackling in the hearth, the scent of coffee lingering and the echo of voices bouncing off the kitchen walls.

  The minute Abby started dinner preparations, Frank was up. Taking both of his grandsons by the hand, he demanded that they take him upstairs and show him some of their more fascinating toys.

  Maddy watched them go with a shake of her head. "As quick on his feet as ever."

  "The nice thing about your father is that he doesn't consider cooking women's work any more than he considers changing a tire men's work." Molly leaned back in her stool with a smile. "He considers them both work and avoids them at all costs. What can I do, dear?"

  "Nothing. This is going to be pretty simple tonight, I'm afraid. Meat loaf."

  Chantel walked over and slipped onto a stool in such a way that her skirt flared and settled around her legs. "I guess you want me to peel potatoes or something."

  Abby glanced down at her sister's beautifully manicured hands. There was a sunburst of diamonds and sapphires on one finger, and a slim gold watch with an amber face on her wrist. Abby smiled, hefted a bag of potatoes out of the pantry and dropped it on the counter.

  "A dozen ought to do it."

  With a sigh, Chantel took the paring knife. "I suppose I should learn to keep my mouth shut. You've always been so literal-minded."

  Though it would have amused him to watch one of Hollywood's reigning princesses skin potatoes, Dylan rose. "I'll feed the stock."

  "But the boys-" Abby began.

  "Special circumstances." Dylan grabbed his jacket off the hook.

  "I'll give you a hand." Maddy was up and bouncing toward the door. "I'd rather play with the horses than peel potatoes." When the first blast of cool air hit her face, she tossed her head back. "I hope you know your way around the barn. I don't."

  "I can manage."