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Authors: Nora Roberts
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as he was a driver. He did nothing by half measures." She gave a low, warm-sugar laugh. "Neither do I."
"Did it bother you that he was married?"
"No. I was there, she wasn't. Look, what kind of a marriage is it when people only see each other three or four times a year?"
"Legal."
He remembered she'd taken that good-naturedly enough, her only response a shrug. "Chuck was planning to divorce her anyway. The problem was that she had a stranglehold on his bank account. The lawyers were negotiating a settlement."
Dylan turned off the tape with a muttered oath. Not once during any of his conversations with Abby had she mentioned divorce. There was always the possibility that Rockwell had lied to Lori Brewer. But then, Dylan didn't believe the very sharp Ms. Brewer would have been duped for long. If divorce proceedings had been underway, Abby was doing her best to cover it.
Dylan hadn't pushed the point yet, nor had he brought up Lori Brewer. He was aware that once he did she would probably look at him as the enemy. Whatever he got out of her after that point would have to be pried out. So he'd wait. What he wanted from Abby had to be won through patience.
He pushed aside tapes of other drivers, mechanics, other women, and chose the one marked Abby. It didn't occur to him that out of all the tapes he had, hers was the only one not marked with just a last name. He'd stopped thinking of her as Mrs. Rockwell. The tape was from this morning, when he'd cornered her in the living room. She'd been folding laundry, and it had occurred to him that he hadn't seen anyone do that quiet, time-consuming little chore in more years than he could count. There'd been an old fifties record on the stereo, and the doo-wops and the sha-la-las had poured out as she'd sorted socks.
He remembered how she'd looked. Her hair had been pulled back in a ponytail so that her cheekbones stood out with subtle elegance. The collar of a flannel shirt had poked out of the neck of an oversize sweatshirt, leaving the curve and line of her body a mystery. She'd worn thick socks and no shoes. The fire had been crackling behind her, flames curling greedily around fresh logs. She'd looked so content and at peace with herself that for a moment he hadn't wanted to disturb her. But he'd had a job to do. Just as he had one to do now. Dylan pushed the play button again.
"Did racing put a strain on your marriage?"
"You should remember, Chuck was a driver when I married him." Her voice on the tape sounded calm and solid after Lori Brewer's honey-laced one, "Racing was part of my marriage."
"Then you enjoyed watching him race?"
There had been a lengthy pause as she'd given herself time to find the right words. "In some ways I think Chuck was at his best behind the wheel, on the track. He was exciting, almost eerily competent. Confident," she added, looking beyond Dylan into her own past. "So confident in himself, in his abilities, that it never occurred to me he would lose the race, much less lose control."
"But after the first eight or nine months you stopped traveling with your husband."
"I was pregnant with Ben." She'd smiled a little as she'd pulled a small, worn sweater out of the basket. "It became difficult for me to jump from city to city, race to race. Chuck was—" And there it was, Dylan noted, that slight variance in tone. "He was very understanding. It wasn't too long after that that we bought this place. A home base. Chuck and I agreed that Ben, then Chris, needed this kind of stability."
"It's hard to picture a man with Chuck Rockwell's image settling down in a place like this. But then, he didn't settle, did he?"
She had very carefully folded a bright red sweatshirt. "Chuck needed a home port, like anyone else. But he also needed to race. We combined the two."
Evasions, Dylan thought as he stopped the tape. Half-truths and outright lies. What game was she playing? And why? He knew her well enough now to be certain she wasn't stupid. She would have
"Did it bother you that he was married?"
"No. I was there, she wasn't. Look, what kind of a marriage is it when people only see each other three or four times a year?"
"Legal."
He remembered she'd taken that good-naturedly enough, her only response a shrug. "Chuck was planning to divorce her anyway. The problem was that she had a stranglehold on his bank account. The lawyers were negotiating a settlement."
Dylan turned off the tape with a muttered oath. Not once during any of his conversations with Abby had she mentioned divorce. There was always the possibility that Rockwell had lied to Lori Brewer. But then, Dylan didn't believe the very sharp Ms. Brewer would have been duped for long. If divorce proceedings had been underway, Abby was doing her best to cover it.
Dylan hadn't pushed the point yet, nor had he brought up Lori Brewer. He was aware that once he did she would probably look at him as the enemy. Whatever he got out of her after that point would have to be pried out. So he'd wait. What he wanted from Abby had to be won through patience.
He pushed aside tapes of other drivers, mechanics, other women, and chose the one marked Abby. It didn't occur to him that out of all the tapes he had, hers was the only one not marked with just a last name. He'd stopped thinking of her as Mrs. Rockwell. The tape was from this morning, when he'd cornered her in the living room. She'd been folding laundry, and it had occurred to him that he hadn't seen anyone do that quiet, time-consuming little chore in more years than he could count. There'd been an old fifties record on the stereo, and the doo-wops and the sha-la-las had poured out as she'd sorted socks.
He remembered how she'd looked. Her hair had been pulled back in a ponytail so that her cheekbones stood out with subtle elegance. The collar of a flannel shirt had poked out of the neck of an oversize sweatshirt, leaving the curve and line of her body a mystery. She'd worn thick socks and no shoes. The fire had been crackling behind her, flames curling greedily around fresh logs. She'd looked so content and at peace with herself that for a moment he hadn't wanted to disturb her. But he'd had a job to do. Just as he had one to do now. Dylan pushed the play button again.
"Did racing put a strain on your marriage?"
"You should remember, Chuck was a driver when I married him." Her voice on the tape sounded calm and solid after Lori Brewer's honey-laced one, "Racing was part of my marriage."
"Then you enjoyed watching him race?"
There had been a lengthy pause as she'd given herself time to find the right words. "In some ways I think Chuck was at his best behind the wheel, on the track. He was exciting, almost eerily competent. Confident," she added, looking beyond Dylan into her own past. "So confident in himself, in his abilities, that it never occurred to me he would lose the race, much less lose control."
"But after the first eight or nine months you stopped traveling with your husband."
"I was pregnant with Ben." She'd smiled a little as she'd pulled a small, worn sweater out of the basket. "It became difficult for me to jump from city to city, race to race. Chuck was—" And there it was, Dylan noted, that slight variance in tone. "He was very understanding. It wasn't too long after that that we bought this place. A home base. Chuck and I agreed that Ben, then Chris, needed this kind of stability."
"It's hard to picture a man with Chuck Rockwell's image settling down in a place like this. But then, he didn't settle, did he?"
She had very carefully folded a bright red sweatshirt. "Chuck needed a home port, like anyone else. But he also needed to race. We combined the two."
Evasions, Dylan thought as he stopped the tape. Half-truths and outright lies. What game was she playing? And why? He knew her well enough now to be certain she wasn't stupid. She would have
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