The Last Honest Man

by Lynnette Kent

  “I heard on the radio that you lost that public housing contract to LaRue Construction,” Preston DeVries said as their salads arrived. “Couldn’t expect much else, I suppose.”

  Adam concentrated all his will on the one word. “No.”

  Aunt Diana put a hand on his arm. “Will losing this project ruin your business, dear?” Conversation around the room ebbed as everyone waited for the answer to the question they’d all heard. From a distant table, Theresa sent him a sympathetic frown, but there wasn’t much she could do to help.

  Again, Adam made the supreme effort. “Not at all. I’ve g-got p-plenty of work to d-do.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his dad’s grimace. The slightest hesitation in his speech, the smallest repetition or block, was always noticed. And regretted.

  Talk resumed in a buzz, but Adam put his fork on the edge of the plate and pushed his salad away. Aunt Diana turned to talk with the person on her right, which was a relief, but when Preston directed all of his attention to the teenage cousin on his other side, Adam understood quite clearly that he’d failed. Again. The folks on the opposite side of the table gently ignored him, no doubt thinking to spare him the shame of having to stutter across the flower arrangement. Some kind of chicken dish arrived, but he barely touched the food. Knowing that he was a disappointment to his father destroyed what little appetite he’d arrived with. The party bubbled around him, but he might as well have been marooned on a desert island. Hell, he might as well not have come to the party at all.

  Finally, the tables were cleared for dessert. Getting to his feet, Preston motioned for the cake to be brought in. “Cynthia, honey, happy birthday!” Then he looked at Adam. “Son?”

  Adam had been hoping to avoid this particular tradition tonight, with so many people listening. No such luck. But this, at least, he could do right.

  He drew a deep breath. “Happy birthday to you,” he sang to his mother, aware of every face in the room turned his way. The words were perfect, the pitch true. The words he couldn’t speak, he could sing. So he sent birthday wishes to his mother in a song.

  He’d sung solos in church choir since the age of five, and stuttered since he was eight, but that talent had never influenced his speech, no matter how many years of choral practices he endured. He only hoped Phoebe could change the pattern. In less than three months.

  When the verse ended, Preston gestured to the crowd and they all sang another round as Cynthia DeVries smiled and delicately wiped tears from her eyes. More champagne circulated with the servings of cake.

  Since his chair faced the doorway, Adam had a chance to watch the arrivals and departures of other diners in the restaurant. About nine-thirty, he looked up from the cake he was moving around his plate to check out the commotion going on in the entry area…and then wished he hadn’t.

  L. T. LaRue had come to the Vineyard for dinner. The mayor stood next to him, with an arm around LaRue’s shoulders, every few seconds patting him on the back. They’d come in through the bar in the back of the house, because they already had drinks in their hands. The hostess approached and led them to their seats—not in the rear parlor, of course, but in the front room directly across the hall from the banquet room where Adam sat.

  During the next hour, when he wasn’t watching his mother open her gifts and smile at the toasts made in her honor, Adam watched LaRue celebrate “winning” the housing project contract. The word should be “buying,” of course—a fact confirmed by the arrival of several city council members who joined the mayor’s party with every evidence of satisfaction at a deal well made.

  Preston DeVries leaned across the corner of the table. “The only way we’re going to get this town cleaned up,” he told Adam, “is to elect a new mayor.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet as guests prepared to take their leave. “I wish to God there was an honest man with the guts to take on that crook and give him a run for his money.”

  Adam swallowed hard. After setting an appointment for speech therapy, then actually showing up, this was the hardest moment he’d had to face since the day in the third grade when his dog died. “D-Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve already g-got that m-man.”

  “You don’t say? Who is it? I’ll be damn glad to write a check for his campaign, help get those crooks evicted.”

  Standing, Adam faced his father eye to eye. “M-make your ch-check out to m-me.”

  “You?” Preston’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t understand.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’ve already f-f-filed the p-papers. I’m running for m-m-mayor of New Sk-Skye.”

  His father stared at him, speechless, for a long moment. “Dear God, son,” he said finally, too loudly. “Surely you’re not serious! You wouldn’t do something that stupid.” His anxious brown gaze searched Adam’s face. “Would you?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  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 d
o 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.