The Last Honest Man

Tommy stepped in. “You just can’t keep a secret in this town. You want the first interview, Sam?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, when we’re up and running, I’ll give you a call.”

“You’re the campaign manager?”

“Who else?”

The reporter nodded. “I’ll remember. Keep me up to date on your schedule.” Behind Adam, the bell on the door jingled. “Gotta go.”

As she walked away, Tommy swore under his breath.

“W-what?”

“Her interview. She just sat down with L. T. LaRue.”

Adam’s gut tightened. “I g-guess they’re t-talking about him w-winning th-that public housing p-project.” The official announcement had only been made Monday, though the grapevine had predicted the city council’s decision several weeks ago. “D-d-dammit, I really w-w-wanted that c-contract for D-DeVries C-Construction. We would have d-d-done a g-g-good j-job for the p-people of this t-town.” He bounced his fist off the Formica tabletop. “LaRue will throw up s-something cheap and let s-somebody else d-deal with the hassle when the p-p-place starts f-f-falling apart.”

Tommy shrugged. “You don’t play footsie with Mayor Tate and the rest of the city council like L.T. does.” He kept an eye on the table across the room. “Don’t take ’em to dinner, pay for their golf rounds. Don’t cut ’em in on your deals, put an extra ten grand or so a year in their pockets. If you won’t play the game, son, I don’t know how you expect to get the prize.”

“J-just s-s-stupid, I g-g-guess. I thought a g-good plan, a low b-b-bid and a reputation for honest d-dealing would b-be worth s-something.”

“Your mistake. Meanwhile, it looks like LaRue and our Brash Female Reporter are having a grand old time together.” Jaw clenched, Tommy glanced down at the napkin he had shredded, then wadded the paper and pushed it to the side.

Adam risked a glance over his shoulder. “N-not for m-much l-longer, if I have anyth-thing to s-say about it. When I g-get elected m-mayor, you c-can damn well be sure th-things are g-gonna change in this t-town.”

His best friend and campaign manager reached over to shake his hand. “I’m with you, buddy. All the way.”

Abby brought their plates, and they allowed good food to distract them from the jerk and the journalist on the other side of the room. Rain fell steadily outside the plate-glass windows and the bell on the door rang almost constantly, until there were only a couple of tables in the diner left empty. Much as he liked Tommy’s company and Abby’s teasing, Adam wished he’d taken fast food home tonight. In a place as small as New Skye, where most people knew him and his family, this kind of crowd almost invariably meant running into somebody who wanted to chat. And Adam really didn’t do chat.

As a prospective candidate, he was realistic enough to admit that running for mayor invited the intrusion of a whole town of people into his life, people who would believe they owned his time and attention. His goal was to clean up New Skye government, and if that was the price he paid, so be it. Let him get the stutter under control and he’d talk all day long.

Tonight, he just wanted to eat in peace.

A hand fell lightly on his shoulder. “Hi, Adam.”

He nearly groaned aloud. Then he looked up from his slice of cake and barely kept his jaw from dropping. Phoebe Moss?

“H-h-hi.” Somehow, he’d never expected to see her out in the real world.

But here she was, smiling at him, and then at Tommy. “This looks like the place to eat tonight. Jenna and I thought we’d have it all to ourselves.” She nodded toward the tall blonde beside her. “This is Jenna Franklin, my business partner. Jenna, Adam DeVries.”

“Hi, Adam.” Jenna smiled as she shook his hand.

“J-J-Jenna, g-good t-to m-m-meet you. Th-this is T-T-Tommy C-Crawford.”

Tommy nodded. “Nice to meet you. Enjoy your dinners—Abby’s cooking is some of the best.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened at the obvious dismissal. Her smile disappeared. “Um…it was good running into you. I’ll see you—” Tommy shook his head, and she stopped for a second, then cleared her throat and glanced quickly at Adam. “I’ll see you around sometime. Enjoy your cake.”

The two women moved away, and Tommy went back to his dessert.

Adam nudged his friend’s plate with the tip of his knife. “Wh-what k-kind of b-brush-off was that?”

Tommy took a bite of deep red cake frosted with buttery icing. “You want to be seen talking to your speech therapist in front of the whole diner? Especially with L. T. LaRue and a reporter for the newspaper just across the room? We picked Phoebe Moss to begin with ’cause she’s new to town, can’t know all that many people. But if you start having dinner together, I can see the headline now—Mayoral Candidate Seeks Therapy Before Election Bid. What a start for the campaign.”

“R-running f-for mayor means b-being r-rude?”

“Winning the mayor’s race means being careful.” Then he shook his head in mock sorrow. “Though I do admit, I hate giving a cold shoulder to women as pretty as those. Just goes against the laws of nature, you know?”

“P-pretty?” Adam had been so tense this morning, Phoebe Moss could have had two heads and he wouldn’t have noticed.

His friend stared back at him. “When’d you go blind?”

Looking around, Adam found Jenna Franklin first, at a table almost directly in his line of sight. Phoebe sat across from her, in profile to his perspective. Studying her now, he found details from this morning coming back to him, characteristics he hadn’t realized he’d noticed. She reminded him of the woman on the cameo brooch he planned to give his mother for her birthday tomorrow, with that wonderful hair drawn back into a knot at the base of her neck, a high forehead and straight nose, a slightly stubborn chin. Her skin was pale and smooth, her mouth soft pink. He remembered, with perfect clarity, her kind gray gaze.

“Y-you g-got it almost r-r-right,” he told Tommy.

“What do you mean?”

“Ph-Phoebe’s not p-p-pretty.”

“Not?”

Adam shook his head. “She’s b-b-beautiful.”

“DeVries!”

He gave Tommy a wry smile. “And r-r-right n-now she’s all that st-stands b-between me and t-total humiliation.”

To himself, he said, “And I hope to hell I can justify her effort.”

AFTER A HARRIED DAY SPENT trying to catch up with the work he’d missed on Tuesday as well as cover Wednesday’s quota, Adam arrived only ten minutes late for his mother’s birthday party at the Vineyard Restaurant.

Named for the grape arbor still maintained in back of the house, the elegant restaurant had only recently been converted by DeVries Construction from one of the town’s older homes. Adam took great satisfaction in the lustrous interior woodwork and, especially, the sliding pocket doors he’d installed to separate the front and rear parlors on both sides of the entry hall. To accommodate the sixty or so people attending tonight’s dinner, the two south parlors had been combined into one large room, where white-draped tables, fresh flowers and a violinist playing classical music set the refined tone that characterized every event his mother planned.

As Adam surveyed the crowd from an unobtrusive position near the bar, his brother clapped him on the shoulder with one hand and offered a glass of whiskey with the other. “I was beginning to wonder if you would show,” Tim said. “You and mom are usually the punctual ones in the family.”

Smooth as silk, a long sip of Maker’s Mark went down Adam’s throat. He lifted the glass in a belated toast. “Here’s t-to architects who ch-change their m-m-minds h-halfway through a p-p-project and then w-want to argue about who…who p-pays the c-cost of st-st-starting over.”

Tim returned the salute with his martini. “And to physicians who believe practicing medicine is a nine-to-five career, making life hell for the rest of us who know the truth.”

They stood with their backs against the wall, nursing their drinks until Tim spoke up again. “I heard on the news that LaRue won the housing project bid. Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well.” Adam shrugged. “He c-can’t w-win all the t-time.” And he won’t, once I get to be mayor.

His brother eyed him sharply, but took Adam’s unspoken hint and changed the subject. “Trust Mother to turn her sixtieth birthday party into a royal reception.” He brushed a hand through his sandy hair, always worn a little long because he forgot to take time off work for a haircut. “You’d think she was the queen of England. Somebody needs to remind her about that little disagreement we had, back in 1776.”

“Sh-she l-looks the p-part.” Tall and graceful, with thick silver hair in waves around her face, Cynthia DeVries had been beautiful all her life, but never more so than tonight. “And she d-does l-love the sp-spotlight. N-n-not to m-mention the g-glory, admiration and p-p-power that g-go w-with it.”

“Hence her involvement in every volunteer organization the town offers since as far back as I can remember. How many hot dog suppers did we eat as kids because dad was at the hospital and mom had a meeting?” Tim drained his drink. “She’s been president so often, she should run for political office. We could be talking about Senator DeVries. Or, hell, even President DeVries.”

Their sister joined them. “I’m afraid I must decline the nomination, being too young—thank God—to accept the office under current constitutional standards.” Theresa clinked her glass against Adam’s. “Good evening, boys. Are we having fun yet?”

“Aren’t we always?” Adam took another sustaining swallow of bourbon as he looked his sister over, from the top of her short, stylish dark hair to the red high-heeled shoes that matched her suit. “You l-look g-great tonight. As always.”

“Thanks, sweetie. You sure do know the right thing to say.” She kissed his cheek, giving him a whiff of expensive perfume, then moved to stand on his right, surveying the candlelit tables and chattering guests. “I am happy to celebrate Mother’s birthday. And a free meal at the town’s best restaurant is an opportunity not to be missed. Your guys did a superior job on the renovation.”

“We d-do our b-best.”

“You would have done a great job with the public housing project, too. I’m sorry to see LaRue get his way again.” Theresa shook her head in disgust. “Makes me ashamed to work for the city, watching people cave in to his bribes and threats.”

“Th-there’s an election c-coming up. M-Maybe th-things will change.” He had yet to tell his family about the campaign. Until his meeting with Phoebe Moss yesterday, he hadn’t known if he could actually go through with therapy. Even though Phoebe hadn’t promised success, she’d made him feel hopeful. The commitment to meet at her home was such a remarkable gesture, Adam felt certain she believed they would succeed.

“Maybe.” Theresa drew a deep breath. “There sure are a lot of people to smile at and talk nonsense with.” Straightening to her full height, as impressive as their mother’s, she tossed back the last of her wine and handed Tim the glass. “I guess I’ll get to work. I just might want these votes one day, when I run for district attorney.”

Tim put her glass next to his own on a nearby tray, then turned back to Adam, arms crossed, one shoulder braced against the wall. While Adam and Theresa resembled their mother and each other, Tim was the spitting image of their dad, right down to his lazy posture, sleepy gaze and slow, genial smile. “Fortunately, I don’t have to solicit votes for my job. When you’re having a heart attack, the cardiologist’s opinions, political or otherwise, don’t matter a damn. Want another drink?”

Before he could accept the offer, the clink of silverware on crystal heralded his dad’s suggestion that everyone find their seats for dinner. Adam checked the seating chart and winced when he found himself trapped between his aunt Diana, who always talked to him with a raised voice as if he couldn’t hear, and his dad. Not the recipe for a relaxing meal.

“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 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.