The Last Honest Woman by Nora Roberts Page B

bed, watching her. And wondering.

Chapter Five
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    Sweaty, aching and disoriented, Abby woke. How long had she been asleep? Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, she tried to gather her reserves of strength. Her skin felt clammy, and she thought for a moment that the lining of her throat had been coated with something hot and bitter. She was forced to admit that whatever had hit her had hit her with both fists. Because she was alone, she moaned a little as she sat up. Then, studying the clock beside her, she moaned again. 2:15. She'd slept nearly four hours. Mr. Jorgensen. Desperate, Abby swung out of bed. The pounding in her head began immediately, along with a throbbing that seemed to reach every inch of her body. She realized she was damp with sweat. Abby snatched up her jeans, then leaned against the bedpost, waiting for the weakness to pass.
    They might still be here, she told herself. They could have come late and right now be standing in the barn, looking over the mare. Eve hadn't been groomed, but Jorgensen had already seen her at her best. And the vet—the vet was bound to vouch for the fact that the mare was strong and healthy. All she had to do was get dressed and go outside and apologize.
    Dylan strolled in, carrying a tray. "Going somewhere?"
    "It's after two." Though weak, it was definitely an accusation.
    "You got that right." He set the tray down on the dresser and studied her. The nightgown scooped low at her neck and drooped carelessly over one shoulder—one very slender, very smooth shoulder. The rest of her was just as slender, from the long dancer's legs to the high, subtly rounded breasts.
    A man was entitled, Dylan told himself, to feel a little tightening, a little heat, a little longing, when he looked at a half-naked woman and a rumpled bed. He just couldn't let it get personal. "Interesting," he murmured. "This is the first time I've seen you in something that isn't three inches thick."
    "I'm sure I look ravishing."
    "Actually, you look like hell. Why don't you get back in bed before you keel over?"
    "Mr. Jorgensen—"
    "An interesting little man," Dylan finished. Walking to her, Dylan took the jeans out of her hand and tossed them on a chair. "He talked about his horses with more passion than he did his wife." He eased her down on the bed as he spoke.
    "He's still here? I've got to go out and talk to him."
    "He's gone." With little fuss, Dylan arranged the pillows at her back.
    "Gone?"
    "Yeah. Open up. I managed to find this among the bottles of antiseptic spray and colored Band-Aids."
    She waved the thermometer away as she tried to concentrate on her next move. "I can call him and reschedule. Did you explain why I wasn't available? I can't believe I missed him. The vet… did the vet…?"
    Dylan stuck the thermometer in her mouth, then captured both her hands before she could pull it out again. "Shut up." When she started to mumble around it, he caught her chin in his other hand. "Listen, if you want to hear about Jorgensen you'll leave that thing in and keep your mouth shut. Got it?"
    She slumped back, nearly ready to sulk. He was speaking to her as she might to one of the boys. Seeing no alternative, Abby nodded.
    "Good." Releasing her hands, he went back for the tray.
    Abby immediately pulled the thermometer out. "Did the vet give Eve an exam? I need to—"
    "Put that thing back in or I'll leave you up here alone and wondering." After setting the tray on her lap, he stood waiting. He felt a nice sense of satisfaction when she obeyed. "The vet said Eve was in perfect shape, that he didn't foresee any complications, and you can expect her to deliver the foal within a week."
    She reached for the thermometer. He only had to lift a brow to stop her. "About the other mare, Gladys?" When she nodded, he shook his head. "Hell of a name for a horse. Anyway, she's just as fit. Jorgensen said to tell you if all goes well he'll call you to discuss terms after the foal's