Family Secrets

For a moment she really thought she could do that and then her natural curiosity surged to the fore. She just had to know who was asking for her. She rose.

Everybody in the shabby newsroom stared at her.

“I’ll go see who it is,” she said airily. “Then I’m going over to City Hall, just to let them know I’m on the job.”

She felt the weight of their attention as she crossed the room, but she ignored it. Her thoughts were on the mysterious person who knew Charlotte Lyon.

It had to be someone from New Orleans. She hadn’t told a soul there that she’d dropped the “Lyon” entirely. She refused to coast on the reputation of her family and their New Orleans media empire. She’d made that crystal clear by turning down one enticing job offer after another at WDIX-TV since graduation.

So who had tracked her down and why?

As she turned the corner, the reception area came into view. She missed a step, stumbled, caught her balance. Devin Oliver stood by the desk, in threequarter profile while he spoke to the receptionist in his lovely Louisiana drawl. The blonde stared at him with mouth agape and an expression of awe on her face.

Ah, but Dev looked good. Dark curly hair spilled over his forehead and those sculpted lips were curved in an enticing smile. He wore khakis and a yellow knit shirt open at the throat, biceps bulging beneath the sleeves.

She knew she hadn’t made a sound and yet he turned and his gaze met hers. His eyes were as dark as his hair—almost black, fathomless, mysterious. For a second they just stood there, looking at each other over twenty feet and almost a decade.

When he smiled and started toward her, she knew she was in big trouble.

SHE WOULDN’T GET AWAY from him this time, as she had on the Fourth of July. She was going to have to talk to him whether she wanted to or not. Of course he might not like what she had to say, but that was better than the game of hide-and-seek she’d seemed intent on playing when she was in New Orleans, which was most infrequently.

That was what had finally made up Dev’s mind about coming to Colorado: curiosity. He could tell she wanted to run again by the way she stepped back so quickly, by the way those beautiful hazel eyes widened, but there was no where to go with the receptionist watching so avidly.

Sharlee looked good, though, in pale linen slacks and a red silk blouse, which tightened across her breasts with the force of a quick breath. She’d matured in the years she’d been avoiding him; her blond hair was a shade darker, her breasts were fuller, her hips more enticingly rounded.

Her face had matured, as well, accenting high cheekbones and lips fuller and even more tempting...

She pulled herself together and the hazel eyes frosted over. “Why, Devin Oliver, as I live and breathe. I suppose you’re going to tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

He loved her exaggerated Southern charm. “No.”

“Then what on earth...?”

He glanced around, noticed the receptionist still staring at them. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

“Why?” So suspicious.

“Hey, if you don’t mind all your coworkers listening in—”

“This way.”

She whirled around and led him down a poorly lit hallway at a rapid clip. He followed, admiring the swing of her hips, the set of her shoulders. Charlotte Lyon was a class act, all right.

They entered a small lounge complete with soda and junk-food machines, a microwave, an old refrigerator and a sign that read: It’s a Newspaper’s Duty to Print the Truth and Raise Hell. A middle-aged woman stood before one of the machines, obviously trying to make up her mind. Charlotte tapped her on the shoulder and smiled.

“Amy, dear, I’ve got to do an interview in here.”

“But I don’t know what I want.” The woman screwed up her face at the enormity of her decision.

“The pretzels.” Charlotte took the coins from the woman’s hand, plunked them into the slot, then punched the appropriate button. “Health food. No fat.” She placed the small bag into the woman’s hands. “Enjoy.”

“Oh, Sharlee, you always know!” Chuckling, the woman carried her pretzels out of the room.

Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. “Have a seat.” She indicated one of the mismatched chairs. “And tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Okay, Charlotte, but—”

“And please don’t call me Charlotte!” She grimaced. “I’m Sharlee, now—Sharlee Hollander.”

Her words hit him hard because he was the one who’d given her that nickname, the only one who had ever consistently called her that. “You really are pissed off at your family,” he said.

She stiffened her spine and those beautiful breasts rose again. “I have no intention of discussing my family with you, Devin.”

“Sorry. They’re my family, too—more or less.” He glanced around. “Mind if I have a Coke?”

“Be my guest.”

“You want one?”

She shook her head. “I just want to know why you’re here.”

“Your grandmother sent me.”

That stopped her cold. She sat down hard, as if her knees had buckled. “Grandmère?” she repeated faintly.

“That’s right.” He dropped coins into the machine and carried the can of soda to the table.

“Why?” She looked completely confused.

“I’m supposed to talk you into moving back home.”

“To Lyoncrest?” The very idea seemed to appall her.

He nodded. “Your grandmother wants everyone close because...well, because she’s worried about your grandfather.”

“No, she isn’t.” Her expression hardened. “Okay, he’s had a couple of heart attacks, but that was years ago. She just wants me under her thumb again—under everybody’s thumb. Well, it ain’t gonna happen.”

He’d rarely encountered such certainty. “Even if I say please?” he wheedled, wanting to make her smile.

His ploy almost worked. Her eyes widened and a little of her tension seemed to diffuse. “You can say please and stand on your head,” she said tartly. “My answer is still an unequivocal, unqualified, unambiguous no. I must say, I’m surprised you’d let Grandmère talk you into this.”

“I like your grandmother,” he said.

“I like her, too—in fact, I love her. But neither she nor anyone else is going to run my life ever again.”

That got his back up a little. “She’s not running my life, if that’s what you’re implying. I just happen to think family is the most important thing we’ve got going for us. Maybe if you just go home for a visit—”

“New Orleans isn’t my home anymore,” she interrupted. “It hasn’t been for a long time.”

“Okay, if that’s how you feel.” He stood up. “I’ve done my duty, you said no, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s that. So how about joining a stranger in town for dinner, as long as I’m here?”

Before she could respond, a rumpled twenty-something guy stepped into the room. He eyed Dev curiously. “Sharlee, Bruce wants to brief you for a planning-commission advance.”

“Now?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Okay, thanks, Eric.” She stood. “I’ll just be a minute, Dev.”

“Take your time.”

She left the room and he sat back down, automatically opening the can of soda and raising it to his lips. Sharlee Hollander, or whatever she chose to call herself, was really holding back. He, Dev Oliver, would sure like to know what was going on in her head.

BY THE TIME she rejoined him, Sharlee had it together again. He’d blindsided her; she hadn’t been able to believe he could act as if nothing had ever happened between them, even after all this time.

Not that it mattered. She no longer knew Dev Oliver. When she had, he’d been a college student full of the same kind of ambition that drove her. He could have changed of course, but she figured he had to be alert just to survive at WDIX.

She hadn’t wanted to know him, not after the way he’d treated her. Over the years she couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever really been interested in her at all or if he just wanted the Lyon heiress. Certainly he’d backed off the minute he realized he’d miscalculated.

To this day she puzzled over which it was. Why he’d felt it necessary to send her a note that would rankle until the day she died. She’d memorized the hateful words and could still recite them, ending with: “We’re young. Someday we’ll both look back on this and laugh.”

He should live so long!

But did she want to have dinner with him?

A quick mental calculation told her that she had approximately seven dollars to last the six days until payday, without breaking into an already meager savings account.

On her salary, a free meal was not to be scorned. So she swept into the employee lounge and stopped short at the sight of Dev on one of the vinyl sofas talking to a photographer. He looked up and smiled.

His smile had always devastated her with its honest pleasure. Or at least, it had when she was young and foolish.

The photographer also saw her and stood. “Nice guy,” he said to Sharlee. “Take him on the tour, why don’t you? Everyone’ll enjoy meeting him.” He nodded at Dev. “If you’re around long enough, I’d be glad to take you out on one of my assignments. I think you’d find it real interesting.”

“I’m sure I would.” Dev sounded completely sincere.

When the photographer had gone, Dev patted the sofa beside him. She responded by taking a quick step back.

“Now where were we when we were so rudely interrupted?” she inquired, as if she really didn’t remember.

“I’d just invited you to join me for dinner—an expensive and delicious one, I might add.”

“That’s right. And I was just asking myself why I should. I mean, if you’re just going to nag me on Grandmère’s behalf, I’d be better off alone with a cheese sandwich.”

He grinned and shrugged. “If you’re trying to get me to promise not to talk about home and hearth as the price of your companionship, I’m afraid I can’t oblige.” His expression softened. “We share a history, Sharlee, no matter how either of us feels about that now. We grew up together, loved the same people, struggled with the same problems. I don’t think I could spend an evening with you and not fall back on that.”

He was right of course. She couldn’t, either. So many questions she wanted to ask him, so many things she didn’t know. Perhaps over dinner she’d find an opening.

Or perhaps not. In any event, she’d get a good meal out of it—and he wouldn’t be able to return to New Orleans thinking he had intimidated her.

“I suppose it would be all right,” she said, the words coming slow. “Where do you want to go?”

“You pick. You know the territory. I don’t.”

She thought about the opportunity. “There’s a great place up in the mountains. It’s a bit of a drive but worth it.”

“I’ve got nothing but time.”

He rose and, before she could react, took her hands in his. She pulled back with all her strength but short of yelling for help, she was his prisoner.

“Thanks,” he said, looking into her eyes. “You’ll have to tell me where to go, though.”

Oh, if only!

CHAPTER TWO

SINCE HER OLD CLUNKER of a car was on its last legs, Sharlee had no choice but to let Dev pick her up that evening. She’d planned on meeting him at the front door of her building, but he was twenty minutes early and she got caught without her shoes by his knock on her door.

Without alternatives, she let him in—not that there was anything wrong with her apartment. It was clean and neat as a pin.

Which was a situation relatively easy to maintain since she had almost no furniture. Why bother? Nothing in her life seemed very permanent.

So all she had in her living room was a portable television, a love seat she’d bought used from a friend, a laptop computer—her pride and joy—on a folding card table with a folding metal chair, and dozens of books and magazines piled on nearly every surface and in stacks on the floor.

The kitchen was in better shape but only because the apartment came with stove and refrigerator. Her bedroom—which he was never going to see—had one twin-sized bed and a rickety bureau, bought at a garage sale, which had more than enough room for her small wardrobe.

“Make yourself comfortable while I grab my shoes,” she said, more an indictment of his unseemly early arrival than a genuine invitation. God, no one was uncool enough to be early.

“Sorry to be so early,” he said without a trace of remorse. He looked around. The expression on his face could only be labeled astonishment. He’d obviously expected more.

While he checked out her humble abode, she checked out him. She’d tried to forget how good-looking he was. Slim-hipped and broad-shouldered, he looked great in a lightweight summer suit and a blue shirt with striped tie. In fact, he looked sensational, although now that she thought about it, she realized there was something different about him. It took her a moment to figure out what it was.

Then she had it: his hair was much longer than she’d ever seen him wear it, actually curling below his ears. Somebody must be relaxing the rules at WDIX, she thought with amusement.

Brushing her blue skirt across her thighs, she stepped into low-heeled go-with-everything pumps. She’d refused to get really dressed up for him, since she had nothing to prove. Why should she care what he thought of her, her wardrobe or her lifestyle?

“I’m ready,” she said. Straightening, she found him looking at her with a puzzled frown on his face.

“Where’s your furniture?” he asked.

“I’m into minimalism,” she countered.

“Boy, have you changed.”

She resisted the urge to smile. “I planned this, you know.” She gestured at her sparse surroundings. “It’s all the rage.”

“In Colorado, maybe.” He turned toward the door. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes. I warned you it’s quite a way, didn’t I?”

“Chère, if you don’t mind, I don’t mind.”

All the way up the mountain, she tried to forget he was already calling her chère, just like he used to.

SHARLEE KNEW GOOD FOOD—how to eat and appreciate it, not how to cook it.

Growing up in a family that employed a full-time cook and included a classy restaurant among its endeavors, she’d learned early to appreciate quality.

Unfortunately she could no longer afford a heck of a lot of quality. She’d dined only once before at The Fort and that had been a good year ago, again on somebody else’s ticket.

There wasn’t a chance she’d miss this opportunity. Without a qualm, she instructed Dev to aim the rental car west into the mountains.

The Fort lay just off the interstate near Morrison, perched on a red-rock hillside. Sharlee knew all the details from her previous journey here: how the structure had been patterned after Bent’s Fort, an 1830s’ fur-trading post in southeastern Colorado, how it had been constructed of 80,000 mud-andstraw adobe blocks. Since its opening in 1963, kings and presidents had dined here—and an occasional impoverished reporter.

The 27-star flag flying over the entrance was the American flag used before Texas was annexed to the union in 1845. The round tower to the left of the entryway was used for wine storage and tastings—she knew because she’d asked.

All this and more she related enthusiastically to her companion, finishing with, “I just love this place! Talk about history!”

“Do you come here often?” Dev inquired as they entered the courtyard.

“I wish.” She cocked her head to better hear the eerie sounds floating through the still evening air. “That’s Indian flute music,” she said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “It is, but don’t change the subject. If you’re so crazy about this place, why don’t you come here more often?”

Might as well tell him the truth, she decided. “Because I can’t afford it on my salary. Tonight’s different—Grandmère’s paying.” She gave him a quick questioning look. “She is, isn’t she?”

“Would it make a difference?”

She considered. “Why should it?” she decided. “You’re a rising young television executive. You can afford it.” She led the way toward the door cattycomer to where they’d entered the courtyard.

“Actually—” he took her elbow to slow her headlong rush “—that’s not quite accurate, but I’ll explain later.”

She darted a startled glance over her shoulder, wondering what there was to tell. Further speculation was lost as they entered another century where they were greeted by staff in costumes of the fur-trading period—calico shirts, boots and pants. Escorted through a maze of rooms, they were finally seated on the patio out back.

The last rays of the sun lowering over the mountains gave a soft warm glow to their surroundings, and the air smelled fresh and fragrant. Admiring the fountain carved of pink Mexican limestone, Sharlee couldn’t keep from smiling.

She’d always been interested in history; it had been her college minor. She liked this place so much that her defenses slipped as her pleasure mounted.

She pointed to the south. “There’s Pikes Peak,” she said. “We’ll see the lights of Denver to the east as soon as it gets a little darker.”

He nodded, indicating the cannon just beyond the patio. “I guess you can’t have a fort without a cannon. D’you suppose that thing really works?”

“No, sir.” The busboy, dressed like a nineteenth-century fur trader responded as he filled their water glasses. “That’s Bertha, our six-pounder. Last time she was fired, modern powder blew out her innards.”

“That’s a shame.” Dev sounded amused. “What’ll we do in case of attack?”

The kid grinned. “We still have Sweetlips. She’s a twelve-pounder and that baby can still speak up. She’s fired once in a while on special occasions.”

The busboy finished his work and moved on. Dev looked around appreciatively and she was gratified to note his interest.

“I’m glad you picked this place,” he said. “It’s great looking but...” He raised his brows. “How’s the food?”

“Wonderful.” She dipped her head so she could peer at him obliquely. “Don’t think I’m not aware of the chance I’m taking, bringing you here. I just wanted to show you that we have nice places in Colorado, too.”

“Come on, Sharlee, you’ve never been afraid to take chances.”

That threw her. “I...” A menu was slipped onto her plate by the waiter. Dev’s intense gaze met hers and she fought the shiver that started in the vicinity of her backbone.

She had changed. This was the only chance she intended to take with him—ever, ever, ever!

THEY DRANK CONCOCTIONS touted as authentic to the fur-trading period 150 years ago; they ate sallat, an old-fashioned name for salad. The pièce de résistance was buffalo tenderloin, leaner and sweeter than beef, they agreed, although they could also have opted for elk or musk ox or even ostrich. The entrée was accompanied by potatoes dressed with onion, corn, red and green peppers and beans, which their server identified as Anasazi cliff-dweller beans, harvested from plants grown from nine-hundred-year-old beans found by archaeologists in Colorado.

And they talked—cautiously at times, easily at others, but never about anything that mattered: the weather, the mile-high altitude, the lack of humidity, his flight into Denver International. Finally, when the conversation wound down and she couldn’t eat another bite, she looked at him through the shadows and said, “Earlier you were about to tell me something about the life of a rising young executive?”

“I guess I was.” He cocked his head and an intriguing little dimple appeared at one corner of his mouth. “Fact is, I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“A rising young executive.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “Papa didn’t fire you!”

“He wouldn’t, so I quit.”

“Because...?” She gestured, palm up, for him to explain.

“I wanted to try something else.” All of a sudden he looked uneasy. “I’m opening a restaurant in the Quarter with a friend.”

“Oh, come on, Dev. You expect me to believe that?” It made no sense. “If you wanted to go into the restaurant business, you could have worked at Chez Charles.”

“That’s just it, I couldn’t.” His gaze caught and held hers. “It was my first thought—family loyalty and the whole thing. Lyons stick together no matter what.” He grimaced. “Fortunately Alain wouldn’t allow it.”

Confused by the feeling she was missing something, she frowned. “Alain? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call your stepfather that before. You always called him Dad.”

“Yeah, but now that I’m all grown up I call him Alain.” He said it flippantly, adding, “I quit my job at WDIX and Alain wouldn’t hire me at Chez Charles, so there you have it. I’ve gone my own way and I’ve got to say I like it.”

“This is weird.” She shook her head. “Everybody in the family works at one or the other of the Lyon enterprises—except me of course. Even Leslie got suckered in to help with the fiftieth anniversary thing.”

“Now there’s two of us,” he said shortly. “Let’s change the subject. How come you’re living on just what you make as a reporter? I find it hard to believe you can’t afford to furnish your apartment or eat where you choose. The Sharlee I knew wouldn’t take that for five minutes.”

The comment hurt, even though once it would probably have been true.

Okay, would most assuredly have been true. “I don’t care if you believe it or not,” she said, “but it’s true. I want to make it on my own.”

“Yeah?” His handsome face creased in a frown. “Even so, why would you go so far as to deny your Lyon connections? You are what you were born into. We all are.”

“Because...because...” She wanted to tell him about the trust fund she’d been denied on her twenty-first birthday and how diminished she’d felt. But when push came to shove, she just didn’t trust him enough.

So she lifted her chin and met his curious gaze defiantly. “I was sick and tired of having so many bosses,” she said. “Everybody thought they knew better than I did what to do with my life. I felt smothered. Besides—” she grimaced “—I always get so defensive when I’m around my family. All that perfection just naturally wears down an ordinary person.”

“Perfection?” His brows rose. “Your family is far from per—”

He caught himself but not in time. What had he been about to say?

“If they aren’t perfect, they’ve done a great job of keeping their vices secret,” she said. She waited for him to respond; when he didn’t, she pursed her lips in disapproval. “Okay, what is it you’re not telling me? What do you know about my family that I don’t?”

“Nothing.” He laid his napkin beside his plate. “Well, maybe one thing. Sharlee, your grandfather’s health isn’t as good as you think it is.”

Her stomach clenched at the possibility he might be telling the truth, then reason asserted itself. “Grandmère just told you that to talk you into coming all this way,” she said. “I saw Grandpère in July and he looked great.”

“I hope you’re right.” Dev looked genuinely concerned. “In case you’re not, your grandmother wants him surrounded by all his loved ones, and that includes you. Is it too much to ask?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. Give it up, Dev. I won’t be manipulated like this.” But she felt a twinge when she said it. What if she was wrong?

“Dammit, Sharlee!” For the first time his poise slipped. “Whatever your complaints and grudges against your family, you owe them some consideration. They’re not a hundred percent wrong, you know. Life isn’t all black and white.”

“It is to me,” she shot back. “If they’d treat me like an adult, maybe. But that hasn’t happened so I’m not going back.” She stood up. “I don’t want to argue with you. I’m ready to leave if you are.” For a minute she thought he was going to argue. Then he, too, rose. “Whatever you say,” he agreed in a tight voice that wasn’t an agreement at all.

ALL THAT PERFECTION just naturally wears down an ordinary person.

He thought about her words on the drive down the mountain; he might as well brood because she wasn’t talking. Eventually it occurred to him that she was right about one thing: the family had kept her in the dark about their oh-so-very-human failings.