The Last Honest Woman Read Free Page A

"Sigmund!"
    Both Dylan and the dog looked toward the house, where a woman stood near the porch steps. So this was Abigail, he mused. He'd seen enough pictures of her over the years to recognize her instantly. The fresh-faced ingenue in the pits at Rockwell's races. The stunning socialite in London and Chicago. The cool, composed widow by her husband's grave. Yet she wasn't precisely what he'd expected.
    Her hair, a honey blond, fell across her forehead in wispy bangs and skimmed her shoulders. She looked very slender, and very comfortable in jeans and boots and a bulky sweater that bagged at her hips. Her face was pale and delicate through the rain. He couldn't see the color of her eyes, but he could see her mouth, full and unpainted as she called to the dog again.
    "Sigmund, get down now."
    The dog let out a last halfhearted bark and obeyed. Cautious, Dylan opened the door and stepped out. "Mrs. Rockwell?"
    "Yes. Sony about the dog. He doesn't bite. Very often."
    "There's good news," Dylan muttered, and popped his trunk.
    As he pulled out his bags, Abby stood where she was while her nerves tightened. He was a stranger, and she was letting him into her home, into her life. Maybe she should stop it now, right now before he'd taken another step.
    Then he turned, bags in hand, and looked at her. Rain streamed from his hair. It was dark, darker now wet and plastered around his face. Not a kind face, she thought immediately as she rubbed her palms on her thighs. There was too much living in it, too much knowledge, for kindness. A woman had to be crazy to let a man like that into her life. Then she saw that his clothes were drenched and his shoes already coated with mud.
    "Looks like you could use some coffee."
    "Yeah." He gave the dog a last look as it sniffed around his ankles. "Your lane's a mess."
    "I know." She gave him a small, apologetic smile as she noted that his car had fared no better than he. "It's been a hard winter."
    He didn't step forward. With the rain pelting between them, he stood watching her. Summing her up, Abby decided, and she thrust her nervous hands in her pockets. She'd committed herself, and she wouldn't get what she wanted if she allowed herself to be a coward now.
    "Come inside." She went to the door to wait for him.
    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-mâché 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