The Last Honest Man

by Lynnette Kent

  Equally important, she intended to dance with Tommy Crawford. Frequently. And she intended to lure him into a dark part of the gardens for at least ten minutes of wild and crazy kisses. Maybe a little more than mere kisses. She’d leave the guy some freedom of choice.

  To that end, she had decided to alter her usual style. No cleavage tonight, no long length of leg left to view. Tonight was about imagination. And Tommy, she hoped, had a really good imagination.

  Without mousse and spray, her hair was soft, touchable, its natural wave allowed free play around her face, with only a sequinned clip for control. Her makeup sparkled, designed to lure a man rather than demand that he notice her eyes, her mouth.

  The dress was deceptive. Dark blue lace created the top layer, cut close to her throat, with long, narrow sleeves and a figure-skimming shape that fell into folds around her feet. Underneath, the lining matched her skin tone almost exactly. So a man would be forgiven, even encouraged, to believe that she wore lace…with nothing else at all.

  To enhance the effect, she arrived just a little late, and took her time strolling through the Botanical Gardens, enjoying the atmosphere, both natural and decorative. Fairy lights studded the smaller trees, but since this weekend was the height of the fall color season, the leaves shone yellow, red and gold rather than green. White luminaries lined the paths, giving a glow to clusters of chrysanthemums and pansies planted in the flower beds. Beyond were the shadowed paths she intended to explore with Tommy, deep within the magnolia grove, or underneath the pines. She shivered in anticipation and turned back toward the lights.

  Following the sound of a band, she arrived at the amphitheater, a slight bowl of grass at the center of the garden. Tall red-and-white amaryllis flowers, grown in glass containers sprinkled with gold, decorated the tables and stood banked against the stage where the band played. A wooden dance floor had been leveled in the center, with dining tables arranged around the edges. Already couples were dancing, champagne glasses in hand. The raffle table had been set up opposite the stage, flanked by the car some lucky person would win plus a display of the other prizes. Tall lanterns and heating elements gave light and warmth to the crowd—after last week’s cool snap, the weather had warmed up nicely. Women should be able to show off their bare shoulders for a little while, at least.

  While Sam invited one man to think she’d bared everything.

  Heralded by a symphony of delicious aromas, Cass Baker’s Sugar and Spice catering trucks were parked discreetly to the side. A small army of servers was unloading platters, bowls and mountains of food onto long serving tables, supervised by Cass herself in a black, sequin-spangled dress under a big white apron.

  “What a bash.” Rory Newman had come up beside Sam as she stood watching. “Only time I guess I’ll ever see something this fancy is when I get assigned to the photo detail.” He brought his camera to his eye. “Smile.” Sam obliged, and he snapped the picture. “Reporter Samantha Pettit will do whatever’s required to get her story, even doll herself up in a million-dollar dress and hobnob with the stiffs. You look hot, babe.”

  “Thanks. The sight of you in a tux leaves me nearly speechless.”

  “A lot of women I know say that. So what’s happening?”

  “Just scoping out the situation.”

  “Waiting for Tommy Crawford, you mean. He drove in as I walked up from the parking lot. You should get your shot any second now.”

  In fact, as she turned toward the entrance, Tommy stepped through the arch of gold, white and red balloons. His gaze met hers and he gave her the sidelong smile that was the first thing about him she’d come to love. Then he glanced at her dress. His jaw dropped, his eyes went round. He fidgeted with his tie, as if he suddenly couldn’t breathe.

  “Yes,” she whispered, and sent him her most seductive smile.

  The fun was about to begin.

  ADAM GOT HOME LATE Saturday afternoon, after a full day of campaign events, with a headache pounding against his temples and absolutely no interest in spending the night making small talk—more small talk—with potential voters. There was only one person he wanted to talk to, but unless she’d left a message…

  “Hi, Adam, it’s Phoebe.” He let his chin drop to his chest in relief. Half the headache eased, just hearing her voice. “I am s-so s-sorry to have disappeared on you. Marian colicked yesterday and Jacquie luckily st-stopped by and f-found her before she could get too sick. But I couldn’t leave her, and she didn’t actually improve until this morning, at the v-v-vet’s office where we s-s-spent the night. Anyway, she’s much better now. I’m at home, planning to get a little s-sleep, then dress for the f-fundraiser. I’ll be at your house about s-seven o’clock. If you don’t open the door, I’ll understand.” A long pause followed. “S-see you later, I h-hope. Bye.”

  He dressed in record time, which included cleaning pasture dirt from last night off of his dress shoes, then stood at the window facing the parking lot, watching and waiting for the lime-green Beetle to arrive. Before Phoebe could get out of the car, he had opened the front door and come down the walk to meet her.

  She looked up in surprise when he arrived at her bumper. “Oh.” The uncertainty faded from her smile. “Hi.”

  She got out of the car and came toward him, her dress shimmering in the street lamps. He turned and walked beside her toward the house.

  “You’re not completely forgiven, you know.”

  “No?” In the hallway, she turned to face him.

  “No.” He shut the door with his heel.

  “What do I have to do to make amends?”

  “Trust me.”

  She looked away from him, fidgeting with the catch on her purse. “I don’t know, Adam. I mean…I do know you’re trustworthy. But—”

  “Yes, ‘but.’” He stepped close, took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the forehead.

  The doubt was there in her eyes as she gazed at him. And he couldn’t change her mind in a manner of minutes.

  “Tonight, though, is n-not the time to settle this. You’re too beautiful, all silver sparkles from head to toe. I’m going to take you to the Botanical Gardens and show you off.”

  “Show me off?” She gave a disbelieving laugh, and shook her head. “You’re crazy.”

  “Am n-not. See?” He turned her to face the big mirror hanging at the end of the hallway. The dark wood of the frame fashioned their portrait, a man in black behind a woman wearing a glittering dress that hinted subtly at the wonderful curves and planes underneath, her long, graceful throat revealed by a low neckline, her hair drawn up and sprinkled with stars. “N-not just good enough to be m-mayor,” he teased, bending to kiss the creamy, jasmine-scented skin at the curve of her shoulder. “We look damn n-near presidential.”

  Now when she stared at him, the stars were in her eyes. “You’ve already created a beautiful evening.” She put a finger to her lips, then placed it on his mouth. “Let’s go and enjoy ourselves.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE MAGIC LASTED FOR AN hour.

  For that one shining hour, the glitterati of New Skye danced and drank and admired one another and themselves under a star-flecked sky, in a garden turned wonderland. A hundred perfumes scented the air like an exotic lily. Music danced on the breeze, hummed in the blood. This was a night to remember.

  Cynthia approved. She stood with Preston at the lip of the amphitheater, near the balloon archway, and gazed over her creation, allowing herself a satisfied smile.

  “Pleased, my dear?” Preston adjusted the set of her mink stole on her shoulders.

  “I do believe I am. It’s quite a scene, don’t you think?”

  “Without a doubt. The town owes you a tremendous debt of gratitude.” He took her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. “As do I. You’re a remarkable woman, Cynthia.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I didn’t accomplish this by myself.”

  “But you could have, if you set your mind to it. Would you like to dance? Or
shall we find our table?”

  Before she could decide, a camera flash drew her attention to the latest arrivals. Framed by the gold, red and white arch of balloons, two couples stood side by side, frozen in place for the photographer’s benefit. The mayoral candidates and their escorts had arrived.

  “Shake hands, why don’t you?” the redheaded photographer called. “No hard feelings and all that.”

  Curtis Tate grinned genially enough and extended his hand toward Adam, in front of his wife and Phoebe Moss as they stood side by side between the two men. Adam hesitated, and the mayor’s grin began to falter. Finally, Adam took the offered hand and held it for the instant of the flash.

  “Great shot.” The photographer went in search of other prey. “Thanks.”

  The two couples separated immediately. Curtis and Kellie Tate came toward Cynthia. As she looked beyond them, Adam gave her a brief nod before leading his fiancée down the gentle slope toward the dance floor. They made a handsome couple: Adam was as polished as always, as precise as Cynthia had brought him up to be. The graceful design of Phoebe’s dress, subtly glittering in shades of silver and plum when she moved, combined with the sleek braid wrapped around her head to create an elegant impression.

  In contrast, Kellie Tate, wearing yellow taffeta and a gold-and-sapphire necklace, looked like an overblown rose.

  The comparison suddenly seemed unbearable. “Let’s dance,” she told Preston, taking his arm with a tense grip. He managed to delay long enough to shake hands with the mayor, but Cynthia refused to dawdle and thus escaped before she had to acknowledge what a greedy, ambitious woman Kellie Tate really was. Because to admit that she’d chosen such a woman as a tool, an ally…

  Brought her perilously close to recognizing the same qualities in herself.

  SAM HAD ACCOMPLISHED PART of her agenda. She’d definitely blown Tommy away with the dress. He’d been barely verbal for the first ten minutes they danced.

  Finally, he seemed to realize that more than lace covered her skin, and he started to relax. “I was thinking about yanking a cloth off one of the tables to wrap you in,” he confessed.

  “Could you do it without disturbing the dishes?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  She stopped dancing. “Let me see.”

  He rolled his eyes and pulled her close…closer. “Forget it. You’re more trouble than you’re worth, as it is.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t meant to sound so…sad. But she was tired of playing the game. “Well, thanks for the dance.” Jerking free of his hold, she left the dance floor at a near run.

  “Sam? Samantha.” Tommy came after her, but she was good at dodging through crowds. He didn’t catch up until she’d reached the edge of the grass bowl, the border between light and dark. “What are you doing? It was a joke, you know that. We always joke.”

  “Yeah, we always joke.” She faced the dark, thankful for waterproof makeup. “Don’t you ever get tired of being funny?”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  “How about being real?”

  She heard his sigh. “Real…hurts, Sam. Real scars.”

  “Real builds. And heals. If you let it.”

  He stood silently for a long, long time. Finally, he put his hand lightly on her elbow. “C’mon, let’s get back. There’s a party down there, and we’re missing the food.”

  Her turn to sigh. “Sure. Why not? I’ve got a job to do.” She turned and headed toward the tables, the crowd, the music. But she shook her arm free of Tommy’s hold.

  She wasn’t surprised when he got snagged by someone who wanted to talk about the campaign. Despite his grab for her hand, she gave him a fake smile and slipped away, walking blindly in an effort to escape the disappointment being with Tommy always caused.

  Being with Tommy but not with him.

  The buffet line had shortened considerably, so she decided she might as well bandage her wounded pride with calories. Carrying her loaded plate and a glass of champagne, Sam bypassed the tables near the dance floor to sit on a bench tucked into the curve of a flower bed. A drift of cigar smoke teased her nose, coming from the other side of the trees behind her—not her favorite smell, especially with food, and she almost got up to leave. Then the conversation accompanying the fumes caught her attention.

  “Come on, Curtis, stop worrying. The gap in the polls is closing, but not fast enough. He’ll never catch up before election day.” A man’s voice, familiar but not immediately identifiable, especially while he chewed on a cigar.

  Forgetting food, Sam tuned in. The mayor was worried about losing, was he?

  “Yeah, well, the gap wasn’t supposed to close at all. The guy can’t spit out a straight sentence, for pity’s sake.”

  “He played the vandalism low-key. If his girlfriend’s house wasn’t enough to warn him off, what can I say? I didn’t want to get too creative, ’cause that would increase the chances of getting caught. But you’ve got the reports on Phoebe Moss from the investigator in Atlanta, right? All we have to do is decide how to release the information.”

  “That’s what y’all keep saying. I’m still not seeing what use it is to attack the fiancée. She isn’t the one running for mayor.”

  “We’re attacking the package, Curtis. Planting doubt about DeVries’s values, his priorities. When the voters go into the booth, we want them to see that name and think ‘Oh, yeah, he’s engaged to the therapist who mistreated that poor stuttering kid in Atlanta. What kind of man would take up with a woman like that? He probably kicks puppies and drowns kittens. I’m voting for the guy I know.’ And they make their mark by your name.”

  “They’d better. Kellie’s in perpetual PMS, thinking she’s not gonna be Mrs. Mayor anymore.”

  The other man laughed. “You have to admit, she’s got the killer instinct you need in politics. Hiring that detective was a brilliant idea. Did you give her a suitable reward?”

  “She wanted sapphires to wear tonight.” Behind Sam, the dry grass rustled as the mayor and his friend left their smoking room. “Smart lady, though—arranged the whole shebang before she told me the first thing about it. I’ve got my eye on a nice diamond necklace for election night.”

  “You’re a good man, Curtis.” They walked away from Sam without noticing her, two “gentlemen” joining the festivities below.

  The mayor put an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Thanks, L.T. I do my best.”

  LIKE CINDERELLA, PHOEBE gave herself over to the fantasy. For one night, fairy tales did come true, and the prince was hers to keep. Even the close encounter with Kellie Tate and her husband couldn’t dim the brilliance of this evening.

  “I didn’t imagine all of this,” she murmured as she and Adam swayed to the music.

  He bent his head to hear her better. “All of what?”

  She lifted her hand from his shoulder to indicate…well, everything. “The lights, the flowers, all of it. I sat in the meetings and heard the reports, but this is so much more.”

  “It’s just a p-party.”

  “No, it’s a mind-set. An organizational skill. Your mother may be…difficult…”

  “That’s one word for it.”

  “…but she has the same abilities as many CEOs. She can direct, delegate, inspire and create a good outcome with the force of her personality.” She moved back a little, the better to see his face. “I’m sure those are the qualities you’ll bring to the mayor’s office.”

  “You’re saying I take after my mother?” His brows lowered. “Thanks.”

  “Why else do you think you two have such trouble getting along?”

  Adam stared down at the woman in his arms, struggling to reject her assessment. And failing, because the truth was easily recognized. “Just be sure to kick me before I start sabotaging our children’s lives.”

  “Our children…” Phoebe’s jaw dropped and her eyes went wide.

  He gave her a wink, but before they could pursue the topic, a tap on his shoulder stopped their dance. Ad
am turned to see Samantha Pettit standing behind him. “Are you c-cutting in?”

  “No.” She grabbed his hand, and one of Phoebe’s, and drew them off the dance floor. “You won’t believe this.” Excitement flashed in her eyes, practically sparked off her skin. Her hand shook as she led them through the tables to the edge of the amphitheater, just beyond the lights. “I don’t. But I heard it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

  “Heard what?”

  “There’s good news, and there’s good news. Which do you want first?”

  “Sam…” Judging by her tone of voice, Phoebe shared his dislike of games.

  She dragged in a deep breath. “Right. Guess who engineered the vandalism at your construction sites. And Phoebe’s house?”

  Adam had thought about this and come to only one conclusion. “LaRue?”

  The reporter’s face fell. “You knew?”

  Phoebe gazed at him in horror. “My house, too?”

  He shrugged. “S-seemed logical.”

  “But you didn’t say anything?” Samantha rolled her eyes, then thumped the heel of her hand against her head. “Didn’t try to investigate?”

  “There was no p-proof. I thought the accusation would just c-confuse the c-campaign issues.”

  “You didn’t even tell Tommy?”

  The man in question joined their group. “Tell Tommy what?”

  “That L. T. LaRue had Adam’s work sites vandalized. And Phoebe’s house.”

  Now Adam met his friend’s laser stare. “That right, DeVries?”

  “We’ll talk about it later. Is this your big news, Samantha?”

  “No, actually. The big news is who hired that P.I. in Atlanta.”

  “The mayor?”

  “No. And—the really big news—not your mother, either.”