Читать книгу The Last Honest Man - Lynnette Kent - Страница 10

TOMMY WHISTLED THE THEME song from Goldfinger as he crossed the parking lot on Thursday morning and entered the back door of the small building that housed his insurance agency. He wasn’t a player in this town yet, though his family had been around forever and the Crawford name still meant something—mostly, a long line of men who let money run through their hands like water. But Tommy was going to turn that situation around, with a lot of smarts and a little help from his good buddy Adam DeVries.

He whistled his way to the front of the office, but there the tune died. Only one person sat in the waiting area. Her hair was shiny black, cut short in spiky strands that made her look like an elf…a very sexy elf. She wore a red suit jacket over a black top and a short black skirt that left a long, long stretch of excellent leg bare to his gaze. Tommy had no doubt who and what she was waiting for.

“’Morning, Sam.” He fought to sound casual. “Long time, no see.”

The reporter looked up from her magazine and gave him a wink. “I figured you would expect me to show up sooner or later, and that I might as well make it sooner.” She came to her feet with a wiggle that had Tommy swallowing hard. “Can we talk?”

“Sure thing.” He looked across at the reception desk, where his cousin and sole employee stared at him with her mouth open. “’Morning, Bonnie. Let me know when my first appointment gets here.”

“Your first…?” She might well be confused, since she knew damn well he didn’t have any appointments today. But he lifted an eyebrow and she got the message. “Sure, Tommy. I’ll buzz you.”

He glanced back to Sam Pettit and smiled. “Right this way. Would you like some coffee? Bonnie makes a pretty decent brew.”

“Sounds good.” Her voice was deep, a little rough for a woman, and rubbed shivers over his spine.

“Sugar? Cream?” Tommy prayed the milk in the fridge hadn’t gone sour.

“Black, thanks.”

“That’s easy.” He poured them each a mug and put Sam’s in her red-taloned hand, then led the way to his office across the hall. “Have a seat.” His room was spectacularly neat, which might indicate a genius for organization but only represented, Tommy hated to admit, a lack of business. Shutting the door, he went to the chair behind his desk and sat down. “Now, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Sam eyed him over the rim of her mug as she took a sip, which allowed him to concentrate on her light gray eyes framed by dark, thick lashes. Hypnotic, to say the least. “You know why I’m here, Tommy. Tell me about Adam DeVries.”

“Nice guy. I’ve known him pretty much all our lives. We graduated in the same high school class—1989, New Skye High.”

“And he’s running for mayor.”

“That he is.” Her scent filled the room, a combination of danger and invitation that made his head swim.

“Why?”

Tommy sank back in his chair, letting the mug of coffee warm his palms, the steam fill his nostrils in defense. “I think it’s a little early to put out position papers.”

“But you can tell me what his motivation is.”

“Why do you want to write an article on motivation?”

“Because, from all I can gather, DeVries is different from every other politician in town. Maybe the whole state. He’s a dark horse coming up from behind. I think my readers will be interested in this race.”

“So do I. But the flag hasn’t dropped yet, Sam. We’re announcing Adam’s bid on Labor Day weekend with a big rally. I’ll send you free tickets.”

“The paper will give me tickets.” She leaned forward to put her mug on his desk, and he got a glimpse of the curves of her breasts just underneath the top she wore.

His mouth went dry. A gulp of hot coffee did not help. Sam eased to her feet and adjusted the strap of her purse. “Well, if you’re not going to deliver, then I’ll let you move on with your day.”

Tommy set down his own mug and joined her on the other side of the desk. “You don’t have to pout.”

She grinned and stuck out her red lower lip. “I will if I want to.”

“Oh, I’m sure of that. You’ll do anything you think you can get away with.” They’d met a number of times in the year she’d been in town, and he was always amazed to realize she was shorter than he, even in high heels. Since he wasn’t a big man—only five-seven—that made Sam Pettit, well, petite.

“Damn straight, I will.” She turned in the open doorway and brushed back the spiky black bangs in her eyes. “Remember, Tommy. I never back off.”

Watching her walk down the hall, noting the sway of her hips in that short skirt, Tommy let his mind dwell on situations in which he would be thankful if Sam Pettit never, ever backed off.

“Whew.” He went to pour himself a big glass of ice water, drank it all down, then poured another.

Bonnie came to the door. “Everything okay, Tommy?”

“Everything’s fine, sweetheart.”

“You sure? That woman looked like she could be real trouble.”

Tommy took another long gulp of water. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

So he hoped, anyway.

SAM DROPPED INTO THE driver’s seat of her Mustang, slammed the car door and revved the engine into the red zone before calming down enough to pull out into traffic. She had places to go, people to see who would actually cooperate when she interviewed them. But instead, she drove aimlessly around New Skye for a while, trying to get herself under control.

What did she have to do—proposition the man? Show up in a raincoat, garter belt and stockings and flash him in the reception area? Wouldn’t that sweet little thing at the desk be shocked?

At the thought, Sam’s fury gave way, and she laughed, hard and long. The only other choice was to cry. She’d met Tommy Crawford more than a year ago, at a chamber of commerce luncheon, and she’d been trying to get a date with him ever since. His skeptical, irreverent attitude, his wary eyes, his sidelong smile, had captured her heart from the first moment. She liked his compact build and his sandy hair, his scholar’s slouch and his square, limber hands. She arranged to bump into him as often as possible, had exchanged her ordinary looks for a version of vamp, bought the most expensive perfume New Skye had to offer. Nothing seemed to work. The man remained oblivious. Or indifferent.

She pounded her fist on the wheel. No, that was not possible. He found her funny. He thought she was sexy—after that maneuver in front of the desk, she’d seen his eyes glaze over. For some reason, he simply wasn’t connecting what he felt with the possibility that they could have a relationship. Sam knew Tommy Crawford was a smart man. So why was he missing the point?

Now he would be managing Adam DeVries’s campaign—the worst possible news, as far as Sam was concerned. On the one hand, she’d get plenty of excuses to talk to Tommy. But her job as a reporter demanded objectivity. Even animosity, if that’s what it took to get the facts. She and Tommy would be on opposite sides from Labor Day until the election. He’d be trying to present his candidate in the best light, and she’d be trying to find every single dirty detail to offer the public. Not a recipe for romance, by any stretch of the imagination. If she did enough damage, she might make an enemy of Tommy Crawford for life.

When what she really wanted was simply to marry him and live happily ever after. Was it too much to ask?

On a day like today, with yet one more rejection to her credit, Sam was afraid that the answer to her sad question would be a flat and final “You got that right.”

THURSDAY NIGHT, ADAM followed the directions he’d received from Willa, Phoebe Moss’s receptionist, and headed south out of town into horse country. When he arrived at the last turn fifteen minutes ahead of his appointment, he concluded that Phoebe must drive on the slow side. Or maybe, as his mother had mentioned on more than one occasion, he drove too fast.

No matter what the clock or the speedometer read, though, he hadn’t failed to notice the sign announcing L. T. LaRue’s latest triumph—the farmland he would use to build that low-income housing project for New Skye. Filled with trees and set on a gentle slope, Adam’s site had been nearer to town and a bus route, for the benefit of those who didn’t own a car. If LaRue operated true to form, he would no doubt simply mow down all the pine trees bordering the tobacco fields, pave the flat landscape and put up the most utilitarian building possible.

Shaking off what he couldn’t—for the moment—change, Adam slowed down and turned his truck onto Bower Lane. Pines lined the road on both sides, their high branches casting shadows across the asphalt, making the evening seem almost cool. Behind the trees on the right, a herd of cows grazed a wide pasture, freshly green with yesterday’s rain. On the left, comfortable ranch homes nestled in the piney shade.

Peaceful, pastoral. After a day spent standing in the hot sun on unshaded building sites, arguing with subcontractors and suppliers, Adam could appreciate why Phoebe Moss had chosen to live this far out of town. He’d look forward to coming out here…for any reason besides speech therapy.

The sign for Swallowtail Farm stood about a mile down Bower Lane on the left, just as the receptionist had said. The metal frame gate opened across a gravel drive. Adam followed the meandering track over the dips and rolls of the land to a small brick house. The front porch and windows looked out over the fields he’d just passed, with a barn off to the right in the back. He could see Phoebe coming from the barn and across the grass in front of the house to meet him. To begin the session.

Trying to delay that moment as long as possible, Adam climbed out of his truck and walked to the pasture fence, where a group of horses cropped lazily at the short, wiry grass. The evening air still held the heat of the day and the animals weren’t moving much, but all of them looked up as he approached. Their dark eyes surveyed him with interest for a moment, then the four heads bent to continue grazing.

“What do you think?” Phoebe stepped up beside him. Her head just reached his shoulder, which seemed to ease a little of his tension, for no sensible reason he could think of. She didn’t meet his gaze, which also served to make him less nervous.

“I-I c-can’t d-decide which is the m-most b-b-beautiful.” Talking wasn’t so hard, if he didn’t feel he was being watched, being judged.

“I know what you mean. Cristal, the black filly, is young and spirited, a teenager you envy for her energy. Brady, the bay closest to us, is just an all-around great guy. Really laid-back. Robinhood, the red one—we call it chestnut—is at the height of his power as a male.” She chuckled. “Even though he’s a gelding, Rob thinks he’s hot stuff. And Marian is simply gorgeous. That pale gray coat with the pewter mane and tail is terrific. You should see her gallop across the pasture. Like watching the wind.”

Adam glanced at her and caught the curve of her smile. “H-have you al-always h-had h-h-horses?”

Still without looking at him, she shook her head. “I took lessons, because my parents thought it was the socially correct thing to do. But I never had one of my own until I moved here.”

“The l-life s-suits you.” Phoebe seemed a part of the landscape, as natural an element as her animals. Tonight, her long hair flowed freely, like the manes and tails of the horses, in a complicated range of colors from silver to maple. She wore a dark tank top that showed off muscular arms and a graceful throat, shorts that left her pale legs bare, and some kind of clog shoe that obviously did a great job of shaping the muscles in her calves. Adam was surprised to recognize the flicker of interest stirring inside him, a warmth curling deep in his belly that he could only call desire.

“I couldn’t be happier,” she said in response to his awkward compliment. She glanced behind him. “Do you mind dogs?”

He hesitated too long. “Uh…”

Phoebe’s eyes widened, and she stepped quickly behind him. “Galahad, no! Gawain, Lance, no!”

Adam glanced over his shoulder to see three dogs bounding toward him, a Golden Retriever and two other breeds he wasn’t sure of. As he turned and braced for the assault, Phoebe called, “Down, boys. Down!”

Like magic, the three dogs dropped to the ground, noses resting obediently on front paws, tails wagging wildly. Their eyes were eager and friendly.

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe said breathlessly. “I should have asked you sooner. They wouldn’t hurt you. But they can be too much. Especially if dogs make you nervous.”

“N-no. N-n-not n-nervous.” Though it sure sounded that way. If he tried to explain, she’d send him to a shrink. As his parents had when he was ten. And again at thirteen.

“Let’s go inside and leave these three out.” She opened the door of the screened porch on the end of the house. “You stay,” she told the dogs. “Stay.” The animals stared pitifully at her, tongues hanging long in the heat, but when she motioned Adam inside and then stepped in herself, they stayed on the grass.

Moving across the concrete floor, Phoebe opened the inside door. “Air-conditioning is a gift from God.” She led the way through a darkened laundry room to the bright kitchen. “What can I get you to drink?”

“W-water’s g-g-great.” He looked around with interest. Phoebe kept an old-fashioned kitchen, with natural oak cabinets, a big table with a scarred top, and a couple of pie safes used for storage. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling in front of the window looking over the pasture, and wildflowers filled colorful jars on the windowsill above the sink.

“There you go.” She handed him a tall, thick glass filled with ice cubes and water. “Let’s sit down.” Waving him toward a chair across the table, she pulled one out for herself and sat. “It’s time for us to get to work, right?”

Dealing with the dogs would have been easy, compared to this. Adam took a gulp of water and tried to ignore the twist of fear in his belly. “Whatever you s-s-say.”

OVER THE NEXT THIRTY minutes, Adam’s frustration level climbed steadily. Phoebe had thought she was prepared for the usual first-session difficulties. But somehow she couldn’t remain unaffected by this client’s struggle.

Fifteen minutes before the scheduled end of their session, Phoebe pushed her glasses up on her nose and then set her hands flat on the table. “That’s good. You read the whole paragraph with much softer consonants, and your long vowels are improving. Let’s stop on a high note.”

Adam shook his head. “I-I d-d-didn’t h-hear any imp-p-provement. I-I’ll r-read it a-again.”

She took the card away from him. “No, you won’t. I’m the therapist and I call the shots.”

His mouth tightened even as he clenched his fist and punched the table. “I-I d-don’t h-h-have m-much t-t-t-time.”

Phoebe leaned over and placed both her hands over that rigid fist. “Here’s your first homework assignment.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “H-h-homework?”

“If you want to move fast, you have to practice. Now, listen.” Gently, she massaged his fingers, his wrist, the back of his hand. “You tense up when you speak. You make a fist and use it to get you through blocks. I want you to think about relaxing this hand when you talk.” As she continued to stroke and knead, his grip loosened. “There doesn’t have to be anyone else around. Say whatever comes to mind. Recite poetry, song lyrics, your grocery list. But think about keeping this hand open and soft.” Finally, his palm was revealed, his fingers gently curved. Phoebe laid her palm gently against Adam’s. “Say something to me.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his brows now drawn together, his blue eyes narrowed with effort. His mouth opened and his fingers tensed.

“Relax.” She stroked her fingertips over his.

Again he tried to speak, and again his fingers tightened. Finally, after several more attempts, he managed a sound. “N-n-n…”

Phoebe waited, her palm resting in his.

“N-n-n…n-n-ni…” Adam squeezed his eyes shut and drew a shaking breath. “N-n-ni…n-nice.”

Smiling, Phoebe squeezed his hand with both of hers. “Exactly. You don’t need this hand as much as you think you do. So practice talking without it.”

When she went to withdraw, though, his fingers caught hers. “Th-thanks,” he said quietly, holding her gaze with his own.

Even without the smile, he was a mesmerizing man. She found herself lost in his eyes, all too aware of his skin touching hers. Suddenly, the air conditioner didn’t seem to be doing a very good job of cooling the house.

The loud chime of the clock in the other room woke Phoebe from her trance. “Nine o’clock—you’ve definitely worked long enough for one day.” She pulled her hands from his, got clumsily to her feet and took their water glasses to the sink. “Construction starts very early in the summer, doesn’t it? Because of the heat?”

“S-sure does.” He crossed the kitchen on the way to the screened porch. “I-I’ll b-be at w-work b-by s-six.”

“And you have such a long drive back to town.” She followed him to the porch door, where Gally, Gawain and Lance waited patiently. “Um…let me take them to the barn. I’ll be right back.”

He held up a hand. “D-don’t. I j-just haven’t sp-spent any time w-w-with d-dogs for y-y-years. It’s ok-k-kay.”

Whether by instinct or intelligence, Gally, Gawain and Lance stayed still as Adam stepped outside. He didn’t try to pet them, didn’t even look at them as he walked by.

“Stay,” Phoebe told them, as a precaution. Then she caught up with Adam on the driveway. “Are you sure this is a good time? I’m still building my practice, and I have open appointments almost any hour of the day.”

The night was very warm, with a high humidity that carried a thousand different scents—grass and horses, the wild magnolias blooming in the woods, the roses she’d planted near the barn, and an indefinable accent that simply said “country.”

Adam took his keys out of his jeans pocket. “N-no. I-if it w-w-works f-for you, I-I l-l-like this arrangement.”

“Okay, then.” Above them, stars had begun to pop out in a not-quite-dark sky. “I’ll see you Monday? Same time?”

He looked across the pasture, and then his gaze returned to her face. “W-would I-I-I m-make m-more pr-progress if I-I c-came t-t-tomorrow, t-t-too?”

Her heart began to flutter. “I…well, I think you would. There are s-some intensive p-programs that go for f-five s-straight d-days. We c-could try.” The thought of seeing him again so soon had started her own stutter acting up. Phoebe swallowed hard, trying to relax, to recover her self-assurance.

Her effort fell flat in the face of his wonderful smile. “G-good.” He took a deep breath. “Th-this r-r-really is a n-nice p-place. M-makes m-me feel b-better, just b-being here.”

She nodded. “M-me, too.”

“S-smart w-woman.” He gave her a two-fingered salute and headed toward the truck. “S-see you t-tomorrow night.”

“Adam?” He turned back, brows lifted in question. “W-would you chain the g-gate closed when you g-get outside?”

His white teeth flashed in the dark. “N-no p-problem.”

Watching him walk through the twilight, she allowed herself a moment of sheer gratitude for the beauty of a male body. She could imagine the pleasure of running her hands over Adam’s strong, bare back, his tapered waist, his tight rear end. Her breath shortened as she visualized the glory of lying with him on soft sheets, in a dark room with only moonlight as a lamp to light their exploration of each other. Adam would be a wonderful lover, sensitive and considerate, powerful and yet gentle at the same time. His hands would be so warm on her skin….

Phoebe herself was warm by the time the fantasy had run its course. She blushed even hotter when she realized that darkness had fallen completely while she’d stood like a statue, lost in her erotic thoughts.

“Lance, Gally, Gawain? Let’s go, guys. In the house.” She led them inside, made sure their water bowl was filled, then proceeded through her nightly routine, deliberately blocking all thoughts of Adam DeVries from her mind. Tonight was Lance’s turn for a brushing, which she completed while watching a dog show on TV. All three dogs got their teeth cleaned—good-natured Lance and Galahad the cheerful mutt didn’t mind too much, but Gawain, a high-strung Weimaraner, fought her every step of the way, as usual. Finally exhausted, with a day of work ahead, Phoebe had no choice but to go to bed.

In the dark and quiet of a country night, her thoughts refused to be controlled any longer, and she pondered long after the canines had settled into their baskets, after the house cats, Arthur and Merlin, had curled up in their respective corners on the bed.

Her strong sexual attraction to Adam wasn’t hard to explain. He was gorgeous, to begin with, and holding the session in her home created an unusual intimacy. She’d never before brought a client to her house, here or in Atlanta.

But she had worked with many handsome men, as colleagues and as patients. Dates hadn’t been rare in her life, until she moved to New Skye precisely to escape the social-climbing, influence-seeking connections that passed for relationships in her mother’s world. She hadn’t missed male company in the last year.

And I don’t now. Turning over yet again, punching her pillow and rearranging the covers, Phoebe renewed her resolve.

Yes, Adam DeVries was an attractive man—an attractive man who planned to run for mayor. She did not want a life lived in the public eye. She’d moved from Atlanta expressly to escape that kind of stress. Her personal goals were privacy, peace and self-reliance. With or without a man to share her life.

Maybe if Adam lost the election…

No, she wanted him to win, because he wanted to win badly enough to put himself completely on the line. She admired his dedication to the goal, was proud to think she could help him achieve it.

Over in the corner, Galahad snorted, then started in with his usual gentle snore. She smiled at the sound and tried, again, to relax.

Adam DeVries would never be more than a client. Thinking rationally now, she doubted they could even be close friends.

How could she have any kind of real relationship with a man who didn’t like dogs?

ADAM PARKED AT THE end of his parents’ driveway late Sunday afternoon, took hold of his jacket and climbed out of the truck into the stifling heat. As he shrugged into the coat, his sister’s black Miata slid to a stop just inches from his front fender. Theresa joined him on the walk up the drive to the house and asked the critical question of the day.

“Beef or chicken?”

Adam had already given the matter some thought. “I th-think I’m in t-trouble. B-beef.” He noticed his clenched right fist, imagined Phoebe’s soft touch and loosened his fingers.

“What did you do now? Mom hasn’t staged one of these mandatory Sunday dinners for a couple of years at least.”

He glanced sideways at his sister. “N-nothing.” His hand stayed relaxed.

“Except, maybe, decide to run for mayor without telling anybody?”

“Is th-that a c-crime?”

They reached the front door and Theresa pushed the bell. “In this family? What do you think?”

Their father opened the door. “Come in, both of you, come in. Tim just called to say he’ll be late and to go on without him.” Theresa got a hug and Adam a hearty handshake. “Your mother’s putting the finishing touches on the roast. She’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Theresa frowned as they went into the living room. “I should’ve been a doctor,” she muttered under her breath, for Adam’s ears alone. “Tim’s always sleazing out of dinner because of his patients.”

Adam grinned. “L-legal emergencies are k-kinda r-rare.”

“Maybe we could start having court sessions on the weekends.”

Their mother emerged from the kitchen. “Honey, how are you?” She hugged her daughter, stroking a hand over Theresa’s hair. “Have you had a hectic week?”

Adam found himself thinking of Phoebe, how the different colors of her long, wavy mane blew through and over one another as she stood with the horses in the pasture. He wondered if that amazing hair felt as soft as it looked.

“Son, I’m glad to see you.” His mother offered him an embrace, a good deal more restrained than Theresa’s. “Dinner is ready. Let’s sit down.”

The formal dining room, with its elegantly carved wainscoting, crown molding and woodwork, had inspired Adam’s own building efforts. But the antique mahogany table and his assigned chair—immediately to his father’s right—had been the setting for some of the most painful moments in his life.

He took his seat and dragged in a deep breath, glanced down and found his hand clenched on his thigh again. Phoebe’s voice came to him. Relax.

Adam tried. “S-smells g-great, M-Mother.”

Cynthia smiled. “Thank you. Your great-grandmother’s recipe for roast never fails.” She looked down the length of the table to her husband at the other end. “Shall we say grace?”

The four of them bowed their heads as his dad prayed. Then there was all the passing of dishes and carving of meat to occupy their attention, but Adam knew his moment was coming. His mother arranged her battle plans with the efficiency of a four-star general.

Sure enough, she attacked halfway through the meal. “Adam, the news you gave your father Wednesday night was surprising, to say the least. You filed papers with the board of elections to run for mayor of New Skye?”

He settled for one clear word. “Yes.”

“You didn’t think this was a matter for discussion with your family?”

That answer called for more than one word. “I’m s-still p-planning, M-Mother. I w-wanted t-to w-wait until the s-s-situation was s-set.” He was clenching his fist again, dammit.

“Your father says he suggested you reconsider. Have you?”

“N-no.”

Cynthia gazed at him, then set her fork down and folded her hands together on the edge of the table. “Adam, dear, as your family, we are patient with your…difficulty. We love you and we understand. But how can you campaign for public office? What chance do you have of actually winning? You’ll never be understood, or even listened to. As mayor, you would have many ceremonial public duties. How could you possibly execute those responsibilities, given your…challenges?”

In his head, Adam heard a line from an old TV commercial. He said the words almost in unison with the memory. “We th-thank you for your support.”

“I think we have fully supported you in your endeavors. Your father loaned you the money to start your business—”

Preston held up a hand. “Which the boy has paid back. With interest.”

His wife nodded. “Of course. I’m only concerned about the reception you’ll receive from the public, Adam. Crowds can be most unkind. I hate to see you exposing yourself to that kind of ridicule when it’s not necessary.”

“I-I think i-it i-is n-n-necess-sary.” Adam loosened his fist yet again. “D-Dad and I talked about this at your b-b-birthday d-d-dinner. This town n-needs honest l-leaders. I’m tired of c-c-corrupt g-government. S-since I’m the one w-with the c-complaint, I’m the one d-d-doing s-someth-thing about it.” By the end of the speech, his fist was pounding against his thigh. He uncurled his fingers enough to pick up his napkin and place it on the table. “Excuse m-me, p-p-please. I have to g-go n-n-now.”

The other three stood as he got to his feet. Preston put a hand on his arm. “Son, don’t leave mad. Let’s talk this over.”

“Sit down, Adam,” his mother commanded. “We haven’t finished talking. I have not given you permission to leave.”

But whatever his failings, he wasn’t a little boy anymore and he didn’t take orders, even from his mother. Adam shook his head and left the dining room. Theresa followed. “You can’t leave me here alone with them,” she whispered in his ear. “Mother will start on why I’m not married.”

With the front door open, he turned back and gave her a sympathetic smile. “N-nobody’s p-p-perfect.” He leaned close and kissed her cheek. “G-good luck.”

“Jerk.” But she grinned as she said it.

By the time he reached the truck, he’d taken off his jacket and tie and rolled back his shirtsleeves. Without thinking too much about the decision, he put the engine in gear, abandoned the perfectly groomed neighborhood he’d grown up in and headed south. To Swallowtail Farm.