An Honorable Man. Darlene Gardner
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“We both know why we got together tonight.”
“Mutual attraction,” Sierra whispered. A blush stained her smooth alabaster skin, and Ben would have bet anything she’d never come on to a stranger before.
“I’m definitely attracted.” He was intrigued, too, and determined to get to the bottom of the puzzle she presented. “Except I’d love some conversation. For me, there’s got to be more than lust at first sight.”
The pinkish color on her cheeks deepened to a rosy red before she tossed her hair back and held his gaze. The latter looked like an effort for her. “Then tell me about yourself,” she asked.
“What do you want to know?”
Her delicate shoulders rose, then fell. “What are you doing in Indigo Springs?”
“Creating memories—good ones, I hope.”
Dear Reader,
Five of my relatives are journalists who work for three different daily newspapers. The count would be six if I hadn’t abandoned the trade years ago to pursue writing novels. Any one of us could pontificate about the importance of truth. But should the truth always come out?
That question led me to create the character of Ben Nash, who receives an anonymous e-mail that gives him a chance to unlock the decades-old mystery of how his mother died. Ben is an investigative reporter driven to uncover and report the all-important truth. Will the fact that he’s falling in love with the daughter of the man who could be responsible for his mother’s death change anything?
An Honorable Man is the fourth of the five books in my RETURN TO INDIGO SPRINGS series. I hope you’ll enjoy revisiting familiar characters and meeting new ones.
Until next time,
Darlene Gardner
P.S. Visit me on the Web at www.darlenegardner.com.
An Honorable Man
Darlene Gardner
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
While working as a newspaper sportswriter, Darlene Gardner realized she’d rather make up quotes than rely on an athlete to say something interesting. So she quit her job and concentrated on a fiction career that landed her at Harlequin/Silhouette Books, where she’s written for the Temptation, Duets and Intimate Moments lines before finding a home at Superromance. Please visit Darlene on the Web at www.darlenegardner.com.
To print journalists.
May they survive.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
DO YOU KNOW WHAT really happened to your mother?
Ben Nash stared at the words on the computer screen. Blood rushed to his ears, obliterating the background noise in the Pittsburgh Tribune newsroom. It felt as though a vise gripped his heart, stopping his blood from circulating.
His mother had died nineteen years ago in a fall from a cliff in a Pocono Mountain town called Indigo Springs when Ben was twelve years old. He’d always been told it was an accident.
The return address on the e-mail was [email protected]. His mother had never used her married surname of Nash, preferring to be known as Allison Blaine.
He clicked the e-mail closed with a trembling hand and scanned his in-box, identifying a second message from the same sender. The subject header was identical: Your Mother. He sucked in a breath and pressed the button on his mouse.
Why wasn’t Dr. Ryan Whitmore investigated?
The Whitmore name was unfamiliar, as were most things associated with Indigo Springs aside from pain and loss. Ben’s maternal grandparents had retired to the town just months before the ill-fated accident to help friends start up a restaurant. After the tragedy they’d fled Indigo Springs, unable to deal with daily reminders of what had happened.
For Ben, though, the memories were ever present. An image of his mother, with her brown eyes warm with love and her lips curving into a tender smile, was imprinted on his mind as indelibly as an etching.
He checked the date and time at the top right-hand corner of the e-mail. Friday, 9:15 a.m. The second contact had been sent just minutes after the first. A scant hour ago. He hit Reply and typed a message of his own: Who are you?
Within moments, the e-mail popped back into his in-box with a Failure Notice heading. He scrolled through it, picking out the words undeliverable and user doesn’t have a yahoo.com account.
“Damn it,” he snapped.
“Something wrong, Nash?” Joe Geraldi, the managing editor of the Tribune, stood beside Ben’s desk.
With a trim build and a full head of prematurely white hair, Joe radiated a brisk energy, the force of which he directed at Ben. It snapped Ben out of his trance. “Where’s the IT department?”
Joe screwed up his lean, expressive face. “Geez, Ben. You’ve worked here for two years and don’t know where IT is?”
“I know IT’s extension.” Technical help was a phone call away, a godsend for a reporter habitually in a rush. This matter, however, needed to be dealt with in person. “Will you tell me where they are or should I ask someone else?”
“Second floor.”
“Thanks.” Ben rolled back his chair, got to his feet and strode toward the elevator past cubicles where other reporters talked on phones and typed on computer keyboards.
“Hold up.” Joe’s raised voice trailed him. “I need to talk to you.”
“Sorry. This can’t wait.” Ben didn’t break stride, which wouldn’t sit well with Joe. The two of them sometimes grabbed a meal together after working late, but Joe was, above all, his boss. Ben called back over his shoulder, “I’ll explain later.”
He nearly plowed into the diminutive editor of the business section, muttered a hurried apology and kept going. Bypassing the elevator, he ran lightly down two floors of stairs and emerged on the second floor. It was a neater version of the newsroom, with the piles of paper and files reporters typically kept on their desks largely absent. Flimsy walls separated the workspaces into cubicles. He stopped at the first one, where a young man wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans hunched over his keyboard.
“Could you help me trace an e-mail?” Ben asked.
The man looked up over his wire-rimmed glasses and leaned back in his chair. He had a shock of dark hair and an unlined, earnest face that communicated amusement. His jaw worked on a piece of gum and Ben got a whiff of spearmint. “First you’ll have to tell me who you are.”
“Sorry.” Ben rubbed the back of his neck, encountering cords of tension. He was often abrupt, but seldom rude. “Ben Nash. I work upstairs.”
“Oh, yeah. You wrote the series that ran in Sunday’s