Free The Last Honest Woman by Nora Roberts Page A

you're being a mother. I don't have much experience there."
    "It's just so hard when you're the only one to make the rules and the decisions… and the mistakes." She combed a hand through her hair in an unconscious gesture that had it settling beautifully around her face. "Sometimes, late at night like this, I worry that I'm too hard on them. That I expect too much from them. They're just little boys. Now I've sent them off to bed, Chris sniffling and Ben sulking, and—"
    Dylan interrupted her. "Maybe you're too hard on their mother." She stopped, stared at him, then looked at her tea again.
    "I'm responsible."
    And that was that, he could hear it in her tone. He started to drop it, to leave her to her own unhappiness. But whatever he thought of her, whatever he didn't think of her, he knew she was devoted to her children. "Look, I don't know a lot about kids, but I'd say those two are pretty normal and well adjusted. Maybe you should congratulate yourself instead of dragging out the sackcloth."
    "I'm not doing that."
    "Sure you are. You'll have the ashes out any minute."
    She waited for the annoyance to come, but it didn't. Instead, she felt the guilt fade. "Thanks." At ease now, Abby warmed her hands on her cup. "I guess it helps to have a little moral support from time to time."
    "No problem. I hate to see a woman sulking in her tea."
    She laughed, but he couldn't be sure if it was at herself or at him. "I never sulk, but I'm a real champ at guilt. There were times when Ben was going through his terrible twos when I'd call my mother just to hear her tell me he probably wasn't going to be a homicidal maniac."
    "I'd have thought you'd talk to your husband about it."
    "That wouldn't have done any—" She cut herself off. It was late, and she was tired and much too vulnerable. "I'll make you that coffee," she began, and started to stand.
    "I don't want you to wait on me." He had his hand on her arm, and though the touch was still light, it was enough to keep her from moving away.
    She felt, incredibly, impossibly, an urge to just turn into his arms. She wanted to be held in them, to have him fold her to him and ask no questions. But of course he would. He would always ask, and she couldn't always answer. Abby held her ground and kept her distance.
    "And I don't want you to interview me now."
    "You've never mentioned Chuck in the area of fatherhood, Abby. Why is that?"
    "Maybe because you've never asked me."
    "So I'm asking now."
    "I told you, I'm not in the mood for an interview. It's late. I'm tired."
    "And you lie." His grip tightened just enough to make her heartbeat unsteady.
    "I don't know what you're talking about."
    He was sick of evasions, sick of looking at her face and knowing the truth wouldn't be there. "Every time I touch on certain areas you give me these tidy answers. Very pretty and well rehearsed. I have to ask myself why. Why do you want to whitewash Chuck Rockwell?"
    He was hurting her. Not her arm—she could barely feel his fingers on her—he was hurting her deep in places she'd deluded herself into believing were safe. "He was my husband. Isn't that answer enough for you?"
    "No." He could hear the emotion trembling in her voice. So he'd push, and he'd push now. "The theory I've come up with is, the better he looked, the better you looked. And if your marriage seemed to be going well, Janice Rockwell was happy. Chuck was her only son, and somebody was bound to inherit all that money."
    For the second time he watched her face pale, but this time he recognized rage, not fear. It ripped through her; he could feel it just by the touch of his hand on her arm.
    He wanted it He wanted to tear holes in her composure and get to the truth. And to her.
    "Let go of me." Her voice vibrated in the quiet kitchen. Behind them, a log broke and tossed sparks against the screen. Neither of them noticed. "I want an answer first."
    "You seem to have them already."
    "If you want me to believe otherwise, tell me."
    "I don't