"Nora Roberts - [O'hurleys 01] - The Last Honest Woman [TXT]" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

thirty he'd unhinged the career of a senator with an unreported Swiss
bank account and aspirations to higher office. Now she had to handle
him.

And she would. After all, he would be on her turf, under her roof. She
would feed him information. The secrets she wanted kept secret were
locked in her own head and her own heart. She alone had the key.

If she'd learned nothing else as the middle daughter of a pair of
road-roving entertainers, she'd learned how to act. To get what she
wanted, all she had to do was give Dylan Crosby one hell of a show.

Never tell the whole truth, girl. Nobody wants to hear it. That's what
her father would have said. And that, Abby told herself with a smile,
was what she'd keep reminding herself of over the next few months.

A bit reluctant to leave the open road and the ram, Abby turned her
horse and headed back. It was almost time to begin.

Dylan cursed the rain and reached out the window again to wipe at the
windshield with an already-drenched rag. The wiper on his side was
working only in spurts. The one on the other side had quit altogether.
Icy rain soaked through his coat sleeve as he held the wheel with one
hand and cleared his vision with the other. He'd been mad to buy a
twenty-five-year-old car, classic or not. The '62 Vette looked like a
dream and ran like a nightmare.

It probably hadn't been too smart to drive down from New York in
February either, but he'd wanted the freedom of having his own car--such
as it was. At least the snow he'd run into in Delaware had turned to
rain as he'd driven south. But he cursed the rain again as it pelted
through the open window and down his collar.

It could be worse, he told himself. He couldn't think of precisely how;
but it probably could. After all, he was finally going to sink his teeth
into a project he'd been trying to make gel for three years. Apparently
Abigail O'Hurley Rockwell had decided she'd squeezed the publisher for
all she could get.

A pretty sharp lady, he figured. She'd snagged one of the hottest and
wealthiest race car drivers on the circuit. And she'd hardly been more
than a kid. Before she'd reached nineteen she'd been wearing mink and
diamonds and rolling dice in places like Monte Carlo. It was never much
strain to spend someone else's money. His ex-wife had shown him that in
a mercifully brief eighteen-month union.

Women were, after all, born with guile. They were fashioned to
masquerade as helpless, vulnerable creatures. Until they had their hooks
in you. To shake free, you had to bleed a little. Then if you were
smart, you took a hard look at the scars from time to time to remind