The Last Honest Woman by Nora Roberts

do with it.
    She made a second trip outside and returned for the rest of the horses. After she'd finished in the barn, maybe her head would be clear. Then she'd know the right way to handle Dylan.
    She remembered the morning when the sun had been bright and hard on her face and he'd held her. Wanted her. She could still remember the way his eyes had looked, the way his mouth had felt when it had brushed against hers. For a moment, for one indulgent moment, she'd wished he could be someone she could depend on, someone she could confide in. That was foolish. She'd known before they'd met that he had a job to do. So did she.
    By the time she'd finished with the first stall, her skin was filmed with sweat. The pitchfork seemed heavier than usual as she lifted it to start on the next.
    "Seems to me you ought to hire yourself a couple of hands."
    Dylan stood just inside the door, the sun at his back, his face in shadow. Abby stopped long enough to squint at him. "Does it? I'll take it under advisement."
    He picked up a pitchfork but just leaned on it. "Abby, why don't you drop this masquerade—you know, the struggling little homemaker who works from dawn to dusk to keep her family going."
    She leaned into her work. "I'm trying to impress you."
    "Don't bother. The book's about Chuck Rockwell, not you."
    "Fine. I'll drop the act as soon as I get rid of this manure."
    So she had claws. His fingers tightened on the worn wood handle until he deliberately relaxed them. He wanted to get to her, but he had to keep control to do it. "Listen, as long as things don't jibe, the book goes nowhere. Since we both want it to move, let's stop playing games."
    "Okay." Because she needed to rest a moment, she stopped and leaned on her pitchfork. "What do you want, Dylan?"
    "The truth, or as close as you can get to it. You were married to Rockwell for four years. That means there are parts of his life you know better than anyone. Those are the parts I want from you. Those are the parts you were paid to give me."
    "I said I'd talk to you when the tape was running, and I will." She turned back to the stall. "Right now I've got work to do.''
    "Just drop it." Dylan grabbed her by the lapels and spun her around. Her pitchfork went clattering to the concrete. "Call back whoever usually takes care of this business and let's get to work. I'm tired of wasting time."
    "My staff?" She'd have pulled away, but she didn't think she had the strength. "Sorry, I gave them the month off. If you want to work, bring your little pad and tapes out here. My horses need tending."
    "Just who the hell are you?" he demanded, giving her a quick shake. He was no less surprised than she when her knees buckled. Keeping his grip firm, he braced her against the stall. "What's the matter with you?"
    "Nothing." She tried to brush his hands away but failed. "I'm not used to being knocked around."
    "You get jostled more on the subway," he muttered. She made him feel like a rough-handed clod, and he hated it. He let her go.
    "You'd know more about that than I." Infuriated with herself, she bent down to scoop up the pitchfork. When her head spun, she grabbed the side of the stall for support.
    Swearing, Dylan took her by the shoulders. "Look, if you're sick—"
    "I'm not. I'm never sick, I'm just a little tired." And pale, he realized as he let himself really look at her. He yanked off his glove and held a hand to her face. "You're burning up."
    "I'm just overheated." Her voice rose a bit with her panic at being touched, even though being touched was exactly what she needed. "Leave me alone until I'm finished in here."
    "Can't stand a martyr," he mumbled, taking her by the arm.
    It was rare, very rare, for Abby's Irish heritage to break through in sheer blind rage. She'd always left that to the rest of her family and calmly worked her way through difficulties. This wasn't one of those times. She yanked her arm away and shoved him hard against the side of the stall. The strength she'd