An Honorable Man Read online

  The occasional glimpse of the Sebring’s bumper disappearing around one of the frequent curves verified she hadn’t lost him, not that there was much danger of that. The single-lane road through the canopy of trees didn’t afford Ben Nash many places to turn off.

  She’d been following him since they’d left her mother’s home and he’d done the unexpected, taking a turn that led away from his downtown hotel.

  Her mother’s assertion that her father hadn’t known Allison Blaine should have signaled an end to Ben Nash’s investigation, but Sierra wasn’t taking anything for granted. If following him was the only way to find out if he meant to leave town or continue nosing around, so be it.

  She maneuvered her Lexus through a hairpin curve before the road abruptly straightened, leading downhill to a four-way stop. Beyond the intersection was a bridge that spanned an offshoot of the Lehigh River. Ben Nash’s convertible idled at the stop sign.

  “Shoot,” she said aloud, easing her foot off the gas. No vehicles were on the road between them. If he looked in his rearview mirror, he couldn’t miss her.

  The intersecting road was clear of traffic, yet his car didn’t budge. Sierra slowed her Lexus to a crawl. It moved inexorably forward, gaining ground by the second, getting closer and closer to his car.

  Just as she was running out of following distance, the driver’s side door of the stopped car swung open. Ben got out, then jogged toward her with athletic grace, not bothering to close the door behind him.

  She looked left, then right, but all she could see were trees, empty road and the mountain laurels that seemed to be everywhere in the spring. The only way to avoid a confrontation was to swing into a U-turn and hightail it up the hill, back the way she’d come. With Ben moving toward her, though, she might run him over.

  “Oh, great.” She closed her eyes in mortification, opening them in time to see him standing at the window making a circular gesture.

  Surrendering to the inevitable, she pressed the button that automatically rolled down the driver’s side window. He braced one hand against the car and leaned down, his face filling the window opening, his eyes once again covered by dark shades.

  She couldn’t be sure whether the intoxicating scent she breathed was the outdoors, Ben’s warm skin or a combination of the two.

  “I’m headed to Indigo River Rafters to talk to Frank Sublinski,” he announced.

  Of course. According to the newspaper story, Annie’s father had been the one who’d found Allison Blaine’s body. She should have predicted his destination.

  She tried to cloak her interest with a toss of her head. “What makes you think I care?”

  “You’ve been following me for the past ten minutes.”

  She started to deny it, then thought what was the use. Even James Bond would have had difficulty keeping under the radar on the Poconos’s back roads.

  “So?” It was the only response she could come up with under pressure.

  One side of his sensuous mouth lifted. “So I’m flattered.”

  “Flattered?” She shook her head. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m not following you because I’m attracted to you.”

  He cocked his head, his eyebrows raising above the rim of his sunglasses. She couldn’t see all of them but knew his brows were perfectly shaped, like his mouth. His lips were full for a man’s, the upper one marked with a sensuous bow.

  “You’re not?” he asked. “I seem to remember you bringing up mutual attraction. Something about trying to get me to ask you back to my room. Am I wrong?”

  “No.” She winced at her honesty, her eyes shifting away from him. “I mean, yes.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.” His voice was low, similar to the purr of her idling car engine.

  She inhaled and made herself look at him. A mistake. With his eyes covered by those damnable shades, her gaze fastened on his lips, reminding her of their kiss. It had been one hell of a kiss. She cleared her throat. “Despite this fantasy you’ve concocted, I was following you to find out what you’re up to.”

  “You could have asked.”

  She watched his lips move, then jerked her gaze back up to his sunglasses.

  “There aren’t many things I’d refuse to do if you asked,” he added in that same low, sexy voice.

  Heat started low in her belly and spread. She lifted her chin, desperate to douse it for her self-preservation.

  “If you get to the river before me, wait to talk to Frank Sublinski until I get there.” Her voice sounded artificially loud and stilted, but that was better than shaky and aroused.

  They were at a stop sign with the sun shining down on them, for goodness’ sake.

  “Done.” He smiled, tapped the top of the rolled-down window and sauntered back to his car. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his rear end among the finest she’d ever seen.

  She groaned.

  In college she’d had boy-crazy friends who were always talking about pheromones and instant attraction, which she’d never experienced herself.

  Until now.

  Why did it have to be with Ben Nash?

  POLKA MUSIC FILLED the warehouse-type building that housed Indigo River Rafters, causing Ben to reassess his opinion of Frank Sublinski before they’d even met.

  He would have expected a man who’d spent most of his life outdoors to be listening to country music.

  The last tour group must have already come off the river and gone, because he and Sierra were the only ones in the shop. If not for the unlocked door and the lively beat of the polka, the business would have seemed closed.

  “Interesting choice of music,” Ben remarked to Sierra.

  She stood half a body length away, nearer the shelf of suntan lotions than him. Since their arrival, she’d been careful to keep at least that much distance between them at all times.

  “Mr. Sublinski’s from Poland,” she said. “He visited his family last summer. Since then, Annie says he plays polkas all the time.”

  That was the first thing she’d said to him since they’d arrived. He thought about casually moving closer, but didn’t want to crowd her, not after her inadvertent admission there was something between them. He couldn’t say for certain what he wanted of her except her good opinion. He wouldn’t get that by forcing her to acknowledge truths she wasn’t ready to face.

  “He probably misses his family.” Ben knew what that was like, except in his case there’d been no remedy for missing his mother. The only place he could visit her was the graveyard.

  “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by talking to him,” Sierra said, edging even farther from him.

  “What any reporter hopes for,” Ben said. “The truth.”

  “My mother told you the truth. My father didn’t know Allison Blaine.”

  Ben didn’t have any strong cause to doubt Rosemary Whitmore aside from a healthy skepticism she was aware of everything that had gone on in her husband’s life. Telling Sierra that wouldn’t serve any purpose.

  “Then my motive’s the same as it’s always been. I’m trying to get to the truth of why someone sent me that e-mail,” he said.

  “Hello? Somebody there?” A gray-haired man with a wiry build and deeply tanned skin appeared from the back of the shop, speaking loudly to be heard above the music. His face relaxed into a smile. “Oh, hey, Sierra. What brings you out here?”

  When she started to answer, he put up his index finger. “Wait ’til I turn off my polkas. See this CD player? Annie gave it to me for my birthday. Best present I ever got.”

  He pressed a button on the player and the shop abruptly went silent. Not for long. Frank Sublinski wasn’t a large man, but he had an infectious energy that filled up a room.

  “I haven’t seen you since Annie’s wedding and that was back in February.” He kept his focus on Sierra as he moved toward them, traveling with a slight limp. “How have you been?”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Sublinski,” Sierra said politely. “How about you?”

  �
�Can’t complain ’cept I dropped a kayak on my foot today. Hurts like the dickens. And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Frank?” He shook his gray head. “Everybody else does, and we’re practically family.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Frank. Not ‘sir.’” He indicated Ben with a nod of his head. “Who’s this you’ve got with you? Your new boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” Sierra sounded authoritative, but her cheeks were turning pink. “I don’t have a new boyfriend.”

  “I thought Annie said…” The shop owner’s voice trailed off and he stuck out a hand to Ben. “Never mind. I’m Frank Sublinski. And you are?”

  Ben told him, providing as many details as possible without mentioning Sierra’s late father.

  Frank leaned with his back against the counter, keeping his weight off his sore foot. “Yeah, I found her. A sad business that was. I’m kind of isolated here. Didn’t know the whole town was looking for her. I woke up early to get in some fishing before I opened up shop and hiked downriver to one of my favorite spots. And there she was.”

  Frank’s expression tightened at the memory. Ben tried to blot out his mental image of what the older man must have seen. His palms stung, making him realize his short nails dug into the skin as he clenched his hands into fists. He relaxed his fingers.

  “Could you tell what had happened to her?” Ben asked.

  “She fell from the overlook. That was pretty clear from where I found her,” Frank said. “The police chief agreed with me.”

  “Alex Rawlings?”

  “How did you know I was talking about Alex?” Frank asked. “Alex retired…must have been ten years ago.”

  “I read the Indigo Springs Gazette story,” Ben said.

  “Then you already know as much as I can tell you,” Frank said.

  “I read the story, too,” Sierra said. “The newspaper implied she was taking photos and lost her balance.”

  Frank straightened from the counter. “That’s not the way it was. It’s been so long I forgot about the newspaper reporter getting the part about the camera wrong.”

  Ben tensed. “Wrong how?”

  Earlier yesterday at the library wasn’t the first time Ben had read the newspaper account of his mother’s death. Years ago, before his father had moved across the state from Pittsburgh to start a life with another woman, Ben had discovered a yellowed copy of the article hidden inside a hardback copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. He’d picked up the book to read because it had been his mother’s favorite.

  “The camera wasn’t hers,” Frank said. “It was mine. I took it along that morning to get a shot of the sunset. Must have dropped it when I found her.”

  Ben took a step backward, staggered by Frank’s assertion. He’d always believed his mother had gone to the overlook to photograph the scenery yet now realized his sole source of information in that regard was the Indigo Springs Gazette.

  Things that had never quite made sense seemed even more suspicious now. His mother had disappeared at dusk, which he supposed could have yielded some interesting images for a photographer who knew what she was doing. If that wasn’t the case, why had she been at the overlook in the gathering gloom? Had she been meeting somebody?

  “Had you ever seen Allison Blaine before that morning?” Ben asked.

  “Nope,” Frank said.

  “Did you remember hearing anything about her? Like, for example, if she’d become friends with any of the town residents?” Ben avoided looking at Sierra when he asked the question, although he could sense her disapproval.

  “Can’t say that I did.” Frank shook his head while his eyes narrowed. “Why? Are you thinking she wasn’t alone at that overlook when she fell?”

  “Anything’s possible.” His peripheral vision picked up Sierra stiffening in disapproval.

  “Then why wasn’t there more of an investigation?” Frank asked.

  Why wasn’t Dr. Ryan Whitmore ever investigated?

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Ben replied.

  “Far be it from me to tell a big-city reporter how to do his job,” Frank said, “but it seems to me you’re chasing shadows.”

  With Ben’s supply of questions exhausted, they left the shop a short time later. The trees that grew near the flowing river cast shadows over the grassy parking lot. It was dusk, the time of day his mother had died.

  “Why didn’t you just ask him if he’d heard any rumors linking my father to Allison Blaine?” Sierra walked quickly toward the spot where they’d parked their cars side by side, her steps seeming as angry as her words. “It’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t want to put words in his mouth.”

  “Yet you had no trouble letting an anonymous e-mail put thoughts in your head.”

  “I haven’t reached any conclusions yet,” Ben denied. “I’m keeping my mind open.”

  She glared up at him. “Is it open to the ulterior motive of the person who sent you that e-mail?”

  “I’ll know the answer to that question once I figure out who sent it.” He stopped beside her car and decided to go for broke. “I got the impression earlier you might have a guess as to who that might be. Want to share it with me?”

  “You’re wrong,” she said, her eyes darting away from his. “I don’t have a clue.”

  She was lying. He knew that as clearly as what her answer would be if he asked her to dinner. He asked anyway.

  “Would you like to go out with me tonight?”

  “You’re unbelievable.” She got in her car and banged the door shut. She started the ignition, slammed the gearshift into Drive and gunned the engine so abruptly the tires kicked up dirt and grass as she pulled away.

  He sighed. He couldn’t blame her for believing his motive for seeking her company was to learn more about her father.

  It would be much, much simpler if that were the only reason.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE INTERIOR OF Quincy Coleman’s house was nothing like Sierra had imagined. Terra-cotta tile and creamy walls provided a backdrop for overstuffed furniture covered in fabrics of rusts, tans and browns.

  The overall effect was casual and soothing instead of elegant and unapproachable, which was how Sierra had always thought of the Coleman residence—and the man who lived there.

  “I knew Annie was getting somebody to fill in for her on the committee, but nobody told me it was you,” Quincy said after he’d ushered her inside early Sunday afternoon.

  A small, trim man in his sixties who’d been president of the local bank before he retired, Coleman was dressed in khaki slacks, loafers and a long-sleeved, button-down shirt open at the collar. It wasn’t exactly casual wear, but Sierra couldn’t remember the man who’d despised her father wearing anything other than a suit.

  At that moment, she almost hated Ben Nash. If he hadn’t come to town with his incessant questions, she wouldn’t feel compelled to do some detective work to determine if Coleman had sent the e-mail that had brought the media to Indigo Springs.

  She wondered where Ben was right now and why she hadn’t seen him snooping around that morning. She’d had breakfast a second time at Jimmy’s Diner, this time sitting at the counter, before attending church. Both were logical places for him to show up.

  She thrust Ben Nash out of her mind and focused on Coleman.

  “I didn’t tell Annie I could do it until this morning.” Sierra kept her true motivation to herself. She fully intended to confront the unpleasant little man. But not yet. First she needed to figure out what he was up to.

  “That explains it. Allow me to be the first to welcome you.” Coleman smiled at her, the only time Sierra could remember that happening. It was quite a nice smile, with his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Everybody’s in the family room except Charlie Bradford. Our new mayor couldn’t make it. My wife’s not home, but she put out quite a spread before she left. Feel free to help yourself.”

  Quincy had reconciled with his
wife last summer after he’d disappeared and Mrs. Coleman had been part of a frantic search to find him. Most people in town had suspected foul play, but it turned out Quincy had been stranded after having fallen off a motorbike and broken his leg.

  It seemed ironic that she was in Coleman’s house because of another person who’d turned up missing in Indigo Springs. Allison Blaine hadn’t been as lucky as Quincy, but Sierra seriously doubted her death had been anything other than accidental. No matter what Ben Nash’s presence in town implied.

  “Let’s have a round of applause, everyone. More help has arrived,” Coleman announced in a loud, cheerful voice when they reached his family room.

  The four people already in the room clapped. A curly-haired woman Sierra recognized as the receptionist at Sara Brenneman’s law firm placed her fingers at either side of her mouth and whistled.

  “Hi,” the woman with the curly hair said brightly. “I’m Laurie Grieb. We went to high school together, but you probably don’t remember me. I was sort of a dork back then.”

  Sierra couldn’t recall her from high school, which seemed unforgivable. She should say something, but couldn’t think what. She nodded and smiled, disappointed in herself.

  There were murmurs of greetings from the others in the room. Sierra knew all of them by name. Sara sat on the sofa between Laurie Grieb and Jill Jacobi, an occasional bartender at the Blue Haven Pub who’d always had a friendly smile and some nice words since she’d moved to town not even a year ago.

  The fifth member of the committee, seated in an armchair slightly apart from the group, was Chad Armstrong. He had on the same dark slacks, gray dress shirt and muted tie he’d worn to church, where she’d been careful to avoid him.

  “Nice to see you here, Sierra.” There was little inflection in Chad’s voice, preventing Sierra from determining if he really meant it.

  She prayed her throat wouldn’t clog, the way it had every other time she’d seen him since the breakup.

  “Hello, Chad.” Thank goodness she didn’t falter under his intense scrutiny, no doubt brought on by that show she and Ben Nash had put on in front of the Blue Haven.