The Last Honest Woman

by Nora Roberts

  along, and traveling had become difficult. We were living with his mother in Chicago. At first- at first he managed to fly back fairly often. I think he was happy, maybe a little awed at the idea of being a father. In any case, he was attentive when he was home, and be encouraged me to stay in Chicago and take care of myself. He tried, really tried to ease the uncomfortable relationship I had with his mother. There were long separations."

  She looked back, remembering those weeks, months in the luxurious house in Chicago, long idle mornings, quiet afternoons. It seemed like a dream, one in soft focus but with surprisingly sharp edges.

  "I was content and rather pleased with myself. I decorated the nursery and took up knitting- badly." She laughed at herself as she remembered her fumbling attempts. "I figured I had just about everything under control. Then one day I found one of those gossip papers on my bed. I've always wondered if Janice left it there." Abby shook that away, it hardly mattered.

  "There was a picture of Chuck and this really beautiful woman, and a short, nasty article."

  She looked out the window and watched the trees bend a little. "I sat there, big and clumsy and nearly eight months pregnant. I was crashed and betrayed and absolutely certain the world was over. Chuck came home at the end of the week and I tossed the paper at him demanding an explanation."

  "He gave you one."

  "He was angry that I'd believe a story like that. He called it trash and threw it in the fire. He didn't defend himself, so I was abruptly in the position of apologizing. Do you understand?"

  He thought he could picture her, fragile and alone. His anger only burned brighter. "Yeah, I understand."

  "I was one month away from having a baby, and scared to death. I decided to believe him, but of course I knew, because I'd seen it in his face, that he was lying. I accepted the lie. Do you understand?" Why did she keep asking that? Why was it so important? She pressed her fingers against her eyes a moment and swore not to ask again. "I think by accepting it I only hurt him."

  "You believe if you'd had a showdown then it would have stopped."

  Her eyes were solemn. "I'll never be sure."

  "And there were other women."

  "There were others. Remember that Chuck and I weren't living together under normal circumstances and that our physical relationship had deteriorated. He was a man who needed victories, but as soon as he'd achieved them, he needed more. If you could try to understand that even as a child he was under tremendous pressure to succeed, to be the best-to be number one."

  Weary of it all, she let out a little sigh. "Because of that, he required constant reassurance that he was the greatest After a while, I don't think I gave him that. In any case, I'd thought-hoped-that after Ben was born we'd settle down. But I knew, or should have known, when I married Chuck, that he was far from ready to settle. There was an ugly little scandal with one of the groupies. She wrote me letters, threatened to kill herself if Chuck didn't marry her. That's when we bought this place. Chuck was upset because things had gotten out of hand. It was an attempt to make it up to me, to Ben, maybe to himself. But then there was another race."

  "You didn't go with him."

  "No. For a while I concentrated on making a home. I felt he needed one. The fact was, I needed one." She watched the smoke from Dylan's cigarette curl slowly toward the ceiling. "During that time, after Ben was born and before I became pregnant with Chris, I began to realize that our marriage wasn't working, that Chuck and I were only pretending it had ever worked. He came home. He'd won in Italy. He wanted to sell the farm. We had a terrible fight about it. While we were fighting, Ben toddled in. Chuck just went wild. He yelled at Ben, who was crying."

  She dragged a hand through her hair as the misery of that memory came back to her. "Ben was barely a year old. I lost my temper and told Chuck to get out. He got in his car and went tearing up the road. I calmed Ben down and finally got him to sleep.

  "It was late and I went to bed. I didn't expect Chuck to came back, I didn't care. But he came back." Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper. As he watched her, Dylan realized she wasn't talking to him any longer. She was exorcizing her own ghosts. "He'd been drinking. He never drank very much because he couldn't handle it well, but this time he'd been drinking heavily. He came upstairs and we argued again. I was trying to get him to go sleep in one of the guest rooms so he wouldn't disturb Ben. He was too furious and too drunk to listen to reason. He said I'd never been any kind of wife, and less of a lover. He said I only cared about Ben and the farm. God, it was true. It hadn't always been but he was right and I wouldn't admit it. He said it was about time I learned what it was a man wanted from his wife. What it was a man expected and was entitled to. So he shoved me back on the bed- and he raped me," she said flatly as Dylan stared at her. "Then he cried like a baby. He left before dawn. A few weeks later I found out I was pregnant."

  Her hand trembled as she ran it through her hair. "That's honest, Dylan. That's the truth." She focused on him again. "Should I tell Chris that he was conceived the night his father forced himself on me? Is that the truth I owe my son?"

  She didn't wait for him to answer, but stood slowly and walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER Eight

  He couldn't work. Dylan stared almost resentfully at his typewriter, but he couldn't bring himself to put words on paper. The words were there, jammed tight in his head. The emotion was there, still churning through him. He could remember, point by point, precisely what had happened throughout the afternoon and evening.

  When Abby had walked out of the kitchen, he'd just sat there staring at the tape, which had continued to run. Shocked? How could he say he was shocked? He'd taken off his rose-colored glasses years before. He knew how ugly life could be, how violent, how petty. He'd chipped his way into lives before and found the sores, the scars and the secrets. They didn't shock him, and they had stopped affecting him a long time ago.

  But he'd sat in the kitchen a long time, where the scent of coffee had still lingered. And he'd hurt. He'd hurt because he could remember how pale her face had been, how calm her voice had sounded when she'd told him. Then he'd left her alone, knowing privacy was what she'd wanted.

  He'd driven into town. Distance, he'd told himself, would help. A journalist needed distance, just as he needed intimacy. It was the combination of the two that brought truth and power to a story. And wasn't it always the story that came first?

  The air had warmed, though the wind was starting to kick up to welcome March. Snow was just a memory on the still-soggy ground. Spring was beginning to push its way through. And when spring faded the book should be finished. He no longer knew precisely how.

  When he'd come back, the boys had been home from school. They'd been playing in the yard, racing with the dog and each other. Dylan had sat in the car for a few moments, watching them, until Chris had rushed over to invite him to play catch.

  Even now, hours later, Dylan could remember just how bright Chris's face had been, how open and innocent his eyes had looked. The little hand had gripped his with absolute trust as he'd begun to ramble on about his day in school. Someone named Sean Parker had thrown up at recess. Big news. Ben had said something childishly obscene about Sean Parker's dilemma, and Chris had giggled until he'd been ready to burst.

  They'd raced around the back and had barreled into the kitchen. Standing behind them, Dylan had seen Abby at the stove. When she'd turned, their eyes had held for one long moment. Then she'd fallen into the predinner routine with the easy efficiency he'd come to expect from her.

  He'd waited for the tension, but it hadn't come, not then, not during dinner, not later when she'd played a board game with the children and he'd been drafted to join them. Normal was the order of the day, and if it was forced, even he couldn't tell. She'd seen the children off to bed, then had retreated to her room. She'd been there ever since.

  In his own room, he found it impossible to get settled. What was he going to do? He had the makings of a tough, hon
est story in the palm of his hand. Romance, betrayal, sex, violence. And it wasn't fiction, it was real. It was his job to write it and to write it honestly, thoroughly.

  He remembered how trustingly that small hand had fit into his.

  Swearing, Dylan pushed away from his desk. He couldn't do it. It wasn't possible to put down in black and white what Abby had told him that afternoon. No matter how he wrote, no matter how carefully he phrased it, it would be ugly, hollow, unforgivable. And the child was so beautifully untouched and open.

  It shouldn't matter. All the instincts that had driven him through his years of reporting, all the skill that had made his biographies hard-edged and genuine, pushed him to the truth. But he could remember the way a small boy had grinned and lifted his arms for a hug. He remembered Ben sitting alone and sulky on a bed surrounded by tiny men. And he remembered how Abby had linked her fingers with his and made him feel whole.

  They'd gotten to him. Dylan dragged a hand through his hair. There was no use pretending otherwise. Inside him was a tug-of-war that they'd created and he was still fighting. He'd forgotten the cardinal rule, the one he'd teamed in his first week as a pool reporter: don't get involved. Well, he was involved, and he had no idea how to draw back.

  The hell with drawing back.

  Without giving himself a chance to think it through, Dylan walked out of his room, crossed the hall and knocked on Abby's door.

  "Yes, come in."

  She was sitting at a small writing desk, finishing a letter. She glanced up, then set it aside as if she'd been expecting him.

  "We need to talk."

  "All right, close the door."

  He closed it, but he didn't speak at once. There was no barrier between them now, no recorder that made everything profession and ethical. What was said now would be between the two of them. Or more accurately, he realized, for the two of them. He wasn't certain how it had come down to this. Like a man walking down a dimly lit road, he walked over and sat on the bed.

  The room was quiet, soft, feminine-as she was. If there had been violence here, it had long since been eradicated. She'd locked it away, he realized, because she wouldn't let her life or the lives of her children be destroyed by it. By putting the knowledge in his hands, she'd made him responsible. Something within her had reached in and discovered the compassion that made him accept the responsibility.

  ''Abby, you know I can't write what you told me this afternoon."

  A wave of relief rolled over her. She'd hoped, she'd dared to trust, but she hadn't been sure. "Thank you."

  "Don't be grateful." In some ways he felt he could deal with her resentment more successfully. "I'm going to write plenty that you won't like."

  "I'm beginning to think it doesn't matter as much as I once believed it did." She looked beyond him to the tiny pattern of flowers that was repeated over and over again in the wallpaper. Life was like that, patterns that repeated. She'd tried to change them without looking at the overall picture. "You know, I thought the children needed an image to look up to, to be able to say, 'This is my father.' The more I think about it, really think about it, it's more important that they be proud of themselves."

  "Why did you tell me?"

  She looked at him-at the man who had finally changed the pattern. How could she explain? She'd found kindness in him where none had been expected. He'd worked beside her though he hadn't been required to. He'd been warm and generous with her children. He had cared for her when she'd been ill. She'd found the kindness beneath the tough exterior, and she had fallen in love with it. With a half sigh, Abby picked up her pen, unconsciously shifting it from hand to hand.

  "I can't tell you all the reasons. Once I started talking, it just came, all of it. Maybe I needed to say it out loud now, after all these years. I've never been able to before."

  There was a paperweight by her hand, pale pink flowers encased in glass. Fragile to look at, difficult to shatter. "You didn't tell your family?" Dylan asked.

  "No. Maybe I should have. You go through all these stages-shame, self-reproach, fury. I needed to work them through."

  "Why in God's name did you stay with him?" He thought of the money again, of the woman in mink and diamonds. He no longer wanted to believe that was the reason.

  She looked down at her hands. The wedding ring had been gone for a long time, and the bitterness had faded even before that. "After-after it happened, Chuck was devastated. He was miserably sorry. I thought we might salvage something out of that awful night. For a while we nearly did. Then Chris was born. Chuck couldn't look at him without remembering. He'd look at the baby and he'd resent him because of the way he'd come into the world, because Chris reminded him of his own weakness, maybe his own mortality."

  "And you? How did you feel when you looked at Chris?"

  The smite came slowly. "He was so beautiful. He's still beautiful."

  "You're a remarkable woman, Abby."

  She looked at him, surprised. "No, I don't think so. I'm a good mother, but there's nothing remarkable about that. I wasn't a good wife. Chuck needed someone who'd pick up and go on a moment's notice. He needed someone who'd race with him. I was too slow."

  "What did you need?"

  Now she looked at him, her expression blank. No one but her family bad ever asked her that. And the pat answers wouldn't come. "I'm not sure what I needed, but I'm happy now with what I have."

  "It's enough? The children, this place?" He rose and crossed to her. "I thought you were going to tell me the truth."

  "Dylan." He wasn't supposed to be so close. She couldn't think when he stood so close. "I don't know what you expect me to say."

  "Don't you?" Taking her hand, he drew her to her feet. He felt her fingers tremble and tightened his grip. "I don't want you to be afraid of me."

  "I'm not."

  "I don't want you to be afraid of what's between us."

  "I can't help it. Dylan, don't do this." She put her free hand on his arm. "I really couldn't stand making a mess of it. I think-I hope we're at the point of being friends."

  "We're past that point." He brought her hand to his lips and watched the surprise come into her eyes. "Has anyone ever made love with you?"

  Panic sprinted up her spine. "I-I have two children."

  "That's not an answer." Curious, he turned her hand over and pressed his lips to the palm. Her fingers curled and tensed. "Was there anyone besides Chuck?"

  "No, I-"

  His look sharpened, and his fingers tightened. "No one?"

  The shame came quickly, the price of failure. "No. I'm really not a physical person."

  In how many ways had Rockwell managed to humiliate her? Dylan wondered. Rage came swiftly, and he banked it. Noninvolvement? He was far beyond that now. He wanted to prove to her it could be different. Maybe, for the first time, he wanted to believe it himself.

  "Why don't you let me find out for myself?"

  "Dylan-" The words clogged in her throat as he brushed his lips over her temple.

  "Don't you want me, Abby?" Seduction. He'd never consciously seduced a woman before. Women had always come to him, knowing, experienced, expectant. None of them had ever trembled. He had a moment of panic himself. Did he have it in him to be careful enough, gentle enough, thorough enough?

  "Yes." She tilted her head to look at him. "But I don't know what I can give you."

  "Let me worry about it." With more confidence than he felt, he took her face in his hands. "For now, just take."

  He kissed her slowly, dreamily. Her hands lifted to his wrists and held on. It was that, that hesitant, vulnerable movement, that touched him in a way he'd never expected to be touched. The lamplight fell across her face as he tilted his head and nibbled lightly at her lips. She felt the pulse in his wrists speed up and tightened her hold. He wanted her, really wanted her. And God, she was terrified she'd disappoint both of them. He urged her closer. She stiffened.

  "Easy," he murmured, finding patience he hadn't been aware of possessing.
"Relax, Abby." He stroked soothingly until he felt her muscles give. Her hands went around his waist, hesitant, tentative. He felt the sweetness of the gesture shoot through him. He'd never looked for sweetness before, never expected it. Now, finding it, he didn't want to lose it.

  Slowly, easily, carefully, he made love to her with his mouth alone. Tasting, seducing, then relaxing, he drew her ever so gradually to him. He felt her hands clutch, then loosen at his back. When her mouth warmed and softened against his, he took her deeper. He felt her breath shudder, heard the low, quiet moan that came from wonder. For the first time in years, he felt the wonder himself.

  He slipped his hands under her sweater. When she jumped, he stroked and whispered promises he hoped he could keep. Her skin was smooth, her back long and slender. Need whipped through him quickly, painfully. He fought back.

  Inch by inch, he brought the sweater up until he could slip it off. It dropped at their feet.

  The panic returned. She was vulnerable now. Her breath was coming quickly, somehow clouding her brain. Didn't she have to think? How could she protect herself, how could she give him what he expected if she couldn't think? But his hands felt so wonderful gliding over her skin. Strong, patient, touching her when she needed so badly to be touched. Perhaps when they became demanding she would freeze up, but for now she could only feel the heat building.

  Then he led her toward the bed. Fear snapped back into place. "Dylan-"

  "Lie down with me, Abby. Just lie down with me."

  She held on to him as they lowered to the bed. She saw everything with perfect clarity, the pattern of roses repeated over and over on the walls, the dark spiral of the bedpost, the white square of ceiling. And his face. Nerves tangled and twisted until she was afraid she couldn't move. She struggled with them, trying to remind herself she wasn't a young, inexperienced girl, but a woman.

  "The light."

  "I want to see you." He kissed her again, eyes open and on hers. "I want you to see me. I'm going to make love to you, Abby. That's nothing that has to be done in the dark."

  "Don't-don't expect too much."

  He cupped the back of her neck and lifted her face toward his. "Don't expect too little." Then he silenced her.

  The kiss sent her spinning. It was hard and pungent. Her body, already tingling with panicked excitement, went hot with passion. The moan ripped out of her and into him. She felt, as she'd once imagined, the scrape of his face against her cheek. Dozens of pulses began to beat in a rhythm that drummed over and over in her head.

  She was driving him crazy. Couldn't she feel it? The way her body tensed and shuddered and relaxed, the way her hands reached and hesitated and caressed. He hadn't known he'd wanted her this badly. Not this badly. Now that she was here, warm and solid beneath him, he knew he had to think of her first and his own needs second.

  So he showed her. Restlessly, ruthlessly, he stroked his hands over her, feeling her arch, hearing her tangled breaths. He inhaled the passion rising to her skin, that musky, heady, womanly scent a man could drown in. The light slanted over her face so that he could see surprise, pleasure and desire mix and mingle. Impatient, he pulled off his shirt so he could feel his skin against hers.

  He was smooth. His torso was hard as iron, but the skin over it was soft. She could glide her fingers over it and feel his muscles tense. Strong. She'd always needed strength, but she'd found it only in herself. Patience. Once she'd nearly wept for patience, but then she'd stopped looking. Now she'd found it. Passion. She'd wanted it, craved it, then dismissed it as something she'd have to live without. Here it was, wrapped around her, burgeoning inside her. He moaned her name, and she was dizzy from the sound of it.

  His lips were on her breast. The muscles in her stomach contracted as he encircled the tip with his mouth. Unconsciously she pressed a hand to the back of his bead and arched under him. With teeth and tongue and lips he brought her an exquisite torture. Mindlessly she let herself go with it.

  He opened the snap of her jeans, but she didn't even notice. She felt the slow movement of his hands, the soft scrape of denim down her legs. She wanted to call out to him, but his name evaporated with a moan as his tongue skimmed over her thigh.

  She was beautiful. Her body was slim and subtly muscled, the legs long, the hips narrow. He wondered as he looked at her how she'd ever carried children. Somehow he could only imagine her as untouched. Then he began to see just how high he could take her. And how fast.

  The first peak rocked her with uncontrollable speed. Helpless, dazed, Abby gave a muffled cry. It seemed as though her body filled, then burned, then emptied. Struggling to right herself, she reached for him, only to have him send her miles higher.

  She was gasping for breath, pulsing with sensations she'd never experienced before. Were there names for them? she wondered frantically. Had anyone ever found the right words to describe those feelings? Her skin was so sensitized that even the brush of his fingertip sent her spiraling. He'd wanted to see her like this, floundering in her own pleasure. When he slipped into her, her eyes flew open. He saw the astonished pleasure in them before she reached out to bring him closer.

  Her hips moved like lightning, tearing down the control he'd laboriously built. Her fingers dug into his back, the short, rounded nails scraping his skin. She wasn't aware. And soon neither was he.

  It had never been like that before. No one had ever made her feel so complete, so important, so alive. Doors had been opened, windows raised, and the air that blew in was wonderful.

  She wanted to tell him but was afraid he'd think she was foolish. Instead, she contented herself with placing a hand over his heart. It was beating more steadily than hers, but it was beating very fast.

  It had never been like that before. No one had ever made him feel so real, so strong, so open. She'd turned on a light inside his head, and it shone dear and bright. He wanted to tell her but was afraid she'd think he was feeding her a line. Instead, he contented himself with drawing her against him.

  "Not very physical, huh?"

  "What?"