The Last Honest Woman Read online

  Her eyes looked dark, a soft green, and if he hadn't known better he'd have said they were frightened. The delicacy he'd seen at a distance became more apparent at close range. She had elegant cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin that gave her face a triangular piquant look. Her skin was pale, her lashes dark. Dylan decided she was either a magician with cosmetics or wasn't wearing any. She smelled of rain and wood-smoke.

  Pausing at the door, Dylan pried off his shoes. "I don't think you want me tramping around the place in those."

  "I appreciate it." He stepped easily into her house in his stockinged feet while she stood with her hand on the knob feeling desperate and awkward. "Why don't you just leave your things there for now and come into the kitchen? It's warm; you can dry out."

  "Fine." He found the inside of the house as unexpected as he'd found the exterior. The floors were worn, their shine a bit dull. He saw on a table by the staircase a crude papier-mƒch‚ flower that appeared to have been made by a child. As they walked, Abby bent down to pick two little plastic men in space regalia and continued without breaking rhythm.

  "You drove down from New York?"

  "Yeah."

  "Not a very pleasant ride in this weather."

  "No."

  He wasn't purposely being rude, though he could be when it suited him. At the moment, the house interested him more than small talk. There were no dishes in the sink, and the floor was scrubbed clean. Nevertheless, the kitchen was hardly tidy. On every available space on the refrigerator door were pictures, drawings, memos. On the breakfast bar was a half-completed jigsaw puzzle. Three and a half pairs of pint-size tennis shoes were jumbled at the back door.

  But there was a fire in a brick fireplace, and the scent of coffee.

  If he wasn't going to bother to speak to her, they wouldn't get far, Abby mused. She turned for another look. No, his face wasn't kind, but it was intriguing, with its untidy night's growth of beard. His brows were as dark as his hair, and thick over eyes that were a pale green. Intense eyes. She recognized that. Hadn't she been fatally attracted to intensity before? Chuck's eyes had been brown, but the message had been the same. I get what I want because I don't give a damn what I have to do to win.

  He hadn't. Abby was very much afraid she'd just opened her life to the same kind of man. But she was older now, she reminded herself. Infinitely wiser. And this time she wasn't in love.

  "I'll take your coat." She held out her hands and waited until he shrugged out of it. For the first time in years she found herself noticing and reacting to a male body. His was tall and rangy, and a response trickled into her slowly. Abby felt it, recognized it, then put a stop to it. Turning, she hung his coat on a peg by the door. "What do you take in your coffee?"

  "Nothing. Just black."

  It had always been true for Abby that to keep occupied was to keep calm. She chose an oversize mug for him and a smaller one for herself. "How long have you been on the road?"

  "I drove through the night."

  "Through the night?" She glanced over her shoulder as he settled at the bar. "You must be exhausted." But he didn't look it. Though he was unkempt, he seemed to be completely alert.

  "I got my second wind." He accepted the mug and noticed that her long, narrow hands were ringless. Not even a gold band. When he lifted his eyes, they were cynical. "I'd guess you know how that is."

  Lifting a brow, she sat across from him. As a mother, she knew what it was to lose a night's sleep and will herself through the next day. "I guess I do." Since he didn't seem interested in polite conversation, she'd get right down to business. "I've read your work, Mr. Crosby. Your book on Millicent Driscoll was tough, but accurate."

  "Accurate's the key word."

  She sipped coffee as she watched him. "I can respect that. And I suppose there was enough pity for her from other sources. Did you know her personally?"

  "Not until after her suicide." He warmed his hands on the mug as the fire crackled beside him. "I had to get to know her afterward in order to write the book."

  "She was a sensational actress, a sensational woman. But her life wasn't an easy one. I knew her slightly through my sister."

  "Chantel O'Hurley, another sensational actress."

  Abby smiled and softened. "Yes, she is. You met her, didn't you, when you were researching Millicent?"

  "Briefly." And there'd been no love lost there. "All three of the O'Hurley triplets seemed to have made their mark- one way or the other."

  Her eyes met his, calm, accepting. "One way or the other."

  "How does it feel having sisters causing ripples on both coasts?"

  "I'm very proud of them." The answer came immediately, without any extra shades of meaning.

  "No plans to break back into show business yourself?"

  She would have laughed if she hadn't detected the cynicism in his voice. "No. I have other priorities. Have you ever seen Maddy on Broadway?"

  "Couple of times." He sipped. The coffee was making up for those last few filthy miles of road. "You don't look like her. You don't look like either one of them."

  She was used to that, the inevitable comparisons. "No. My father always thought we'd have been a sensation if we'd been identical. More coffee, Mr. Crosby?"

  "No, I'm fine. The story goes that Chuck Rockwell walked into that little club where you and your family were playing on a whim, and that he never looked twice at either of your sisters. Only you."

  "Is that how the story goes?" Abby pushed her coffee aside and rose.

  "Yeah. People generally lean toward the romantic."

  "But you don't." She began to busy herself at the stove.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm starting dinner. I hope you like chili."

  So she cooked. Or at least she was cooking tonight, perhaps to build some sort of impression. Dylan leaned back in his stool and watched her brown meat. "I'm not writing a romance, Mrs. Rockwell. If the publisher didn't make the ground rules clear to you, I'll do it now."

  She concentrated on the task at hand. "Why waste time?"

  "I haven't any to waste. First rule is, I'm writing this book. That's what I'm paid for. You're paid to cooperate."

  Abby added spices with a deft hand. "I appreciate you pointing that out. Are there other rules?"

  She was as cool as her reputation indicated. Cool and, a good many had said, unfeeling. "Just this. The book is about Chuck Rockwell; you're a part of it. Whatever I find out about you, however personal, is mine. Yon gave up your privacy when you signed the agreement."

  "I gave up my privacy, Mr. Crosby, when I married Chuck." She stirred the sauce, then added a touch of cooking wine. "Am I wrong, or do you have reservations about writing this book?"

  "Not about the book. About you."

  She turned to him, and the momentary puzzlement in her eyes vanished as she studied his face. He wouldn't be the first to have come to the conclusion that she'd married Chuck for money. "I see. That's frank enough. Well, it isn't necessary for you to like me."

  "No, it isn't. That goes both ways. The one thing I will be with you, Mrs. Rockwell, is honest. I'm going to write the most thorough and comprehensive biography of your husband I can. To do that I'm bound to rub you the wrong way-plenty-before we're done."

  She set the lid on the pot, then brought the coffee to the bar with her. "I'm not easily annoyed. I've often been told I'm too- complacent."

  "You'll be annoyed before this is over."

  After adding more coffee to her mug, she set the pot on a hot pad. "It sounds as though you're looking forward to it."

  "I'm not much on smooth water."

  This time she did laugh, but it was a quick, almost regretful sound. She lifted her cup. "Did you ever happen to meet Chuck?"

  "No."

  "You'd have understood each other very well. He was a man with one goal in mind. To win. He'd run the race his way, or not at all. There was very little flexibility."

  "And you?"

  Though the
question was offhand, she took it seriously. "One of my biggest problems growing up was that I'd tend to bend whenever I was asked. I've learned." She finished her coffee. "I'll show you to your room. You can unpack and get your bearings before dinner."

  She led him down the hall and took one of his suitcases in hand before he could tell her not to bother. He knew it was heavy, but while he gathered the rest of his things, he watched her carry it easily up the stairs. Stronger than she looked, Dylan mused. It was just one more reason not to take her-or anything about her-at face value.

  "There's a bath at the end of the hall. The hot water's fairly reliable." After pushing open a door, she set his case down next to the bed. "I brought a desk up here. I do have a study of sorts downstairs, but I thought this would be more convenient."

  "This is fine."

  It was more than fine. The room smelted faintly of lemon oil and spice, fresh and inviting. He liked antiques and recognized the Chippendale headboard and the museum-quality shaving stand. There were sprigs of dried weeds mixed with silver-maple twigs in a brass pot on a chest of drawers. The curtains were drawn back to give him a view of rolling, snow-covered hills and a barn whose wood had mellowed to gray.

  "It's a nice place."

  "Thanks." She looked out the window herself and remembered. "You should have seen it when we bought it. There were probably five spots where the roof didn't leak, and the plumbing was more wish than reality. But I knew it was for me as soon as I saw it."

  "You picked it out?" He carried his typewriter to the desk. It was his first order of business.

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  She was still looking out the window, so her back was toward him. He thought he heard her sigh. "A person needs to sink down roots. At least some people do."

  He unearthed his tape recorder and set it next to his typewriter. "A long way from the fast lane."

  "I never raced." She looked over her shoulder, then turned, seeing his tools already set out. "Do you have everything you need?"

  "For now. One question before we get started, Mrs. Rockwell. Why now? Why after all this time did you agree to authorize a biography of your husband?"

  There were two reasons, two very important, very precious reasons, but she didn't think he'd understand. "Let's just say I wasn't ready before. Chuck's been gone for nearly five years now."

  And after five years the money might be running out. "I'm sure the deal was lucrative." When she didn't answer, he glanced over. There was no anger in her eyes. He would have preferred it to the cool, unreadable expression that was there.

  "Dinner should be ready at six. We keep early hours here."

  "Mrs. Rockwell, when I insult you I'm prepared to be kicked back."

  She smiled for the first time. It touched her eyes and gave her face a calm, rather sweet vulnerability. He felt a twinge of guilt and a tug of attraction, both unexpected. "I don't fight well. That's why I generally avoid it."

  There was a crash outside, but she didn't even jolt. It was followed by a wailing yell worthy of an Indian circling a wagon train. The dog sent up a riot of barking just before something along the lines of an elephant stampede landed on the porch.

  "There are fresh towels in the bathroom."

  "Thanks. Mind if I ask what that is?"

  "What?"

  And for the first time he saw real humor in her eyes. The vulnerability was gone. Here was a woman who knew who she was and where she was going. "It sounds like an invasion."

  "That's just what it is." She crossed the room, then paused when the front door slammed open, then shut, shaking the pictures on the walls.

  "Mom! We're home!"

  The greeting echoed, followed by another riot of crashing feet and the beginnings of a heated argument.

  "My children always feel as though they have to announce themselves. God knows why. If you'll excuse me, I have to try to save the living room carpet." With that, she left him alone with his thoughts.

  CHAPTER Two

  By the time she got to the kitchen, her sons were shedding their outdoor clothes. She'd followed the thin stream of water from the front door.

  "Hi, Mom." Both boys grinned at her. School was out and the world was beautiful.

  "Hi, yourself." A few damp books sat on the bar. A small puddle was forming in front of the refrigerator where the two boys stood. The door was wide open and the cool air vied with the heat from the fire. Abby surveyed the damage and found it minimal. "Chris, that looks like your coat on the floor."

  Her youngest glanced around in apparent surprise. "Tommy Harding got in trouble on the bus again." He gathered up his coat and hung it on one of the lower hooks by the rear door. "He has to sit up in the front for two whole weeks."

  "He spit at Angela," Ben announced with relish as he got a sturdy grip on a jug of juice. "Right in her hair."

  "Lovely." Abby picked up Chris's dripping gloves and handed them to him. "I don't suppose you had anything to do with it."

  "Uh-uh." Juice sloshed, but Ben made it to the counter. "I just said she was ugly."

  "She's only a little ugly." Chris, always ready to root for the underdog, busied himself with his boots.

  "Toad face," Ben stated as he pouted juice in a glass. "Chris and I raced from the bus. I gave him a head start, but I still won."

  "Congratulations."

  "I almost won." Chris struggled with his second boot. "And I got awful hungry."

  "One cookie."

  "I mean awful hungry."

  He had the face of a cherub, round, pate and pretty. His blond hair curled a bit around his ears, and his hazel eyes were luminous as he looked up at her. Abby relented with a sigh. "Two." He was going to be a heartbreaker.

  "I'm starving." Ben gulped down his juice, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Her little heathen. His hair was already darkening from blond to a sandy brown and fell every which way around his face. His eyes were dark and wicked.

  "Two," Abby told him, accepting the fact that they knew each other's measure. She was boss. For now.

  Ben dipped his hand in a cookie jar shaped like a duck. "Whose car's out front? It's neat."

  "The writer, remember?" Going to the closet, Abby took out a mop and began to scrub quickly at the water on the floor. "Mr. Crosby."

  "The guy who's going to write the book about our dad?"

  "That's right."

  "Don't see why anybody'd want to read about somebody who's dead."

  There it was again, Abby thought. Ben's frank and careless dismissal of his father. Was Chuck to blame for it, or was she at fault for refusing to carry her child papoose-style around the circuit? Blame didn't matter, she decided. Only the result.

  "Your father was very well-known, Ben. People still admire him."

  "Like George Washington?" Chris asked, stuffing the last of his cookie in his mouth.

  "Not exactly. You two should go up and change before dinner. And don't disturb Mr. Crosby," she added. "He's in the spare room nearest the stairs. He had a long drive, and he's probably resting."

  "'Kay." Ben sent Chris a significant look behind their mother's back. "We'll be real quiet."

  "I appreciate it." Abby waited until they were gone, then leaned on the mop handle. She was doing the right thing, she told herself again. She had to be.

  "Don't make the stairs creak," Ben warned and started up in a pattern he'd discovered a few months before. "He'll know we're coming."

  "We're not supposed to bother him." But Chris meticulously followed his brother's path.

  "We're not gonna. We're just going to look at him."

  "But Mom said-"

  "Listen." Ben paused dramatically three steps from the top, keeping his voice to a whisper. "Suppose he isn't a writer really. Suppose he's a robber."

  Chris's eyes widened. "A robber?"

  "Yeah." Warming to the theme, Ben bent close to his brother's ear. "He's a robber and he's going to wait until we're all sleeping tonight. Then he's going to cl
ean us out."

  "Is he going to take my trucks?"

  "Probably." Then Ben played his ace. "I bet he has a gun, too. So we've gotta be real quiet and just watch him."

  Sold, Chris nodded. The two boys, hearts thumping, crept up the last steps.

  With his hands tucked in his back pockets, Dylan stood looking out the window. The hills weren't so different from the hills he'd seen out of his bedroom window as a boy. The rain pelted down, the fog rolled. There wasn't another house in sight.

  Unexpected. But then, he preferred the unexpected. He'd thought Abigail O'Hurley Rockwell's home would have been a showplace of the ornate and the elegant. He'd been certain he'd find a houseful of servants. Unless they were out on errands, she didn't appear to have any at all, and her house was simply comfortable.

  He'd known, of course, that she had children, but he'd expected nannies or boarding school. The woman whose picture he had in his file, dressed in white mink and glittering with diamonds, wouldn't have the time or inclination to actually raise children.

  If she wasn't that woman, who the hell was she? It was his job to research the life of Chuck Rockwell, but Dylan found himself more interested in the widow.

  Hardly looked like a widow, he mused as he moved to drop one of his suitcases on the bed. Looked more like a graduate student on winter break. But then she had been an actress of sorts. Perhaps she still was.

  He flipped back the top of his suitcase. A small sound, hardly more than a murmur, caught his attention. As an investigative reporter, Dylan had found himself in enough back alleys and seedy bars to develop eyes in the back of his head. Casually he pulled out a stack of shirts and sweaters while he shifted his gaze to the mirror at the foot of the bed.

  The bedroom door opened slowly, just a crack, then a tiny bit wider. He tensed and waited, though it appeared as though he simply continued to unpack. He saw two eyes in the mirror one above the other. Moving to the dresser, he beard the sound of nervous breathing. When the door opened a bit wider, he saw small fingers wrap around the edge.

  "He looks like a robber." Ben said in a piercing whisper, hardly able to contain the excitement. "He's got shifty eyes."

  "Do you think he's got a gun?"

  "Probably a whole arsenal." Wildly pleased, Ben followed Dylan's movements around the room. "He's going to the closet," he whispered frantically. "Be quiet."

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when the door was yanked open. The two boys tumbled into the room.

  Sprawled on the carpet, Chris looked up at the man's face, which seemed miles above his. His bottom Up poked out, but his eyes were dry. "You can't have my trucks." He was ready to yell frantically for his mother at a moment's notice.

  "Okay." Amused, Dylan crouched down until they were almost eye-to-eye. "Maybe I could see them sometime."

  Chris's eyes darted back to his brother. "Maybe. Are you a robber?"

  "Chris!" Mortified, Ben struggled to untangle himself from his brother and stand. "He's just a kid."

  "Am not. I'm six."