Family Secrets

But she’d been their baby for a long time, right up until Andy-Paul’s birth. Did the middle child feel as if her place had been usurped by her parents’ midlife baby? She’d been spoiled before Andy-Paul; was she simply jealous now?

Somehow he didn’t think so. There were many Lyon-family secrets, things known by some, but not talked about. Had Sharlee’s family deliberately excluded her from that knowledge?

“we’re there.”

She spoke, as if she couldn’t wait to get away from him. He pulled to the curb but reached across to stop her from jumping out. She turned a rebellious face toward him.

“May I come in for a drink?”

He was sure she’d refuse him. He saw “no!” in her face, saw her lips moving to form the word.

And heard her say carelessly, “Sure, why not? Even us poor folk can afford to keep a bottle of cheap vodka around.”

He could hardly believe it when she led him inside the building.

DURING THE DRIVE HOME, questions had trembled on the tip of her tongue, but she’d bitten them back. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her plead for explanations.

Besides, there probably weren’t any. He couldn’t possibly know more about her side of the family than she did, even though she’d been gone for such a long time.

She knew all the important stuff: how her great-grandfathers, Alexandre Lyon and Wendell Hollander, had started the radio station together; how Alexandre’s two sons, Paul and Charles, had been drawn into the business while their sister, Justine, was left out entirely; how Paul Lyon had married Margaret Hollander and carried on the family dynasty.

Sharlee’s grandparents had seen the opportunities and launched the television station in 1949 while Charles took over the radio side. Twenty-five years later, Sharlee’s mother, Gabrielle, had met the heir, André, and fallen in love.

It had all been sweetness and light and smooth sailing, as far as anyone had ever indicated to Sharlee, everyone doing their duty while leading exemplary lives of public and private service. It raised her blood pressure just thinking about it. Hadn’t anyone ever wanted to kick up their heels?

Or maybe it was sitting next to the man who’d done her wrong that was raising her blood pressure. Because something was sure making her palms damp and her chest tight.

So when Dev asked if he could come in for a drink, she was all set to turn him down cold when she realized that would be a cowardly response. She was his equal now, a grown woman, instead of a starry-eyed kid. She didn’t have to run and hide from Dev; she could meet him and beat him at his own game.

Whatever the hell that was.

Once inside her apartment, she mixed a couple of vodka-and-tonics, then pointed him to the love seat, misnamed piece of furniture that it was. She herself perched on the folding chair.

He’d taken off his jacket and unbuttoned his sleeves. Now he raised his glass and said, “Cheers. To an evening I’ll never forget.”

She arched a brow and lifted her own drink. “Cheers. To an evening I never thought would happen.”

They drank. She could feel her tension rising. She wouldn’t have thought that she’d ever have another civil conversation with him, let alone share a dinner and allow him into her apartment. What he’d done to her had been utterly unforgivable. Even if she was the forgiving type, he’d be beyond absolution.

She’d really like to give him a taste of his own medicine, though. She started to speak, started to ask him straight out, Dev, why did you do it? Why did you turn your back on me when—

“I’ve got to give it one more try.” His words cut right through her thoughts. Setting his glass on the floor by his feet, he unbuttoned his shirt collar and tugged off his tie. “Isn’t there anything I can say to convince you your grandmother isn’t playing games, isn’t trying to trick you, is worried sick about your grandfather?”

“No.”

“How about my chances to convince you your parents love you and want you back in the fold?”

“No.” There went the old blood pressure again.

“That your sister would like to share her happiness with you, and your brother would simply like to get to know his big sister?”

“No!” She gulped down a big mouthful of her drink.

“Dammit!” He picked up his own glass but simply held it before him between both hands, a picture of frustration. “What is it about Colorado you’re so crazy for? Wanna explain that?”

“It isn’t New Orleans.” She glared at him. “Besides, I went to school in Colorado. I feel comfortable here.”

“So? I went to Harvard, but I couldn’t wait to get back home.”

“I also have a job, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Is it a great job?”

“How do you define ‘great’? I’m a journalist, which is what I’ve always wanted.”

“WDIX hires journalists.”

“WDIX hires pretty faces.” She’d long since convinced herself that the pencil press was vastly superior to electronic talking heads.

For a moment he just looked at her, his disappointment clear. Then he said, “Sharlee Lyon—”

“Hollander.”

“Whatever—you’re a snob. In fact, you’re a reverse snob, which is even worse.”

She couldn’t believe he’d be so unfair. “I’m probably the only member of my family who isn’t a snob.”

His mouth tightened. “You really don’t know your own people, do you?” Draining his glass, he set it on the floor again and rose. “At least think about your grandmother’s request.”

“It wasn’t a request. It was an order.”

“I don’t care what you call it. I want you to think about it.”

“Not a chance.”

“Charlotte...!” He clenched his hands into fists, controlling himself with visible effort. “No one has ever been able to rile me the way you do,” he said as if it pained him to admit it. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“If I do.” she said, feeling a flash of vindictive pleasure, “it certainly isn’t because I try.”

“No?” He took a step toward her. “There are a lot of different ways to get to somebody. It isn’t always in anger. Once...”

Her mouth felt dry and she took another swallow of her drink. “I don’t want to hear about ‘once,’ ” she said. “What’s past is past.”

“Think so? I wonder.” He moved toward her, his dark eyes glittering with determination.

Sharlee wanted to run. She wanted to turn around and bolt into her bedroom and slam the door. But that was what a child would do, and hadn’t she been trying to convince him, and by proxy her parents and grandparents, that she hadn’t been a child in a long time?

She raised her chin and stood her ground. “Give it up, Dev. You don’t do a thing for me anymore.”

“No? And all evening I’ve been thinking otherwise.”

Her pulse leaped. “That’s your problem.”

“It’s no problem at all.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. She could pull away, shove his hands aside. She could scream at the top of her lungs if she wanted to and the weight lifter across the hall would be in here before Dev knew what hit him.

Or she could face him down. Look him in the eye and let him see that this approach wasn’t going to get him anywhere. “If you think you’re scaring me, you’re wrong,” she informed him.

“Why would I want to scare you?”

He slid one hand up the slope of her shoulder until he touched her bare skin beyond the collar of her blouse. His thumb stroked lightly on the indentation at the base of her throat and she wondered if he could feel her racing pulse.

She held steady. She didn’t love him anymore. She didn’t even like him anymore; certainly, she didn’t trust him.

“You’re wasting your time, Devin. I’m way beyond that, where you’re concerned.”

The movement of his lips mesmerized her to the point that his words only registered belatedly. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“About what?” Oh, she was handling this just fine!

“Whether any of the old feelings still exist. Whether there’s the least little spark left.”

“I’m not a bit curious about any of that.” But she was! She was dying to know what it would be like to...to kiss him again, nothing more. She wouldn’t think about the rest of it—if she could avoid it with his hands on her the way they were now, stroking, coaxing.

“You lie.” He leaned so close it took all her willpower not to flinch. “We’re not kids anymore. You wonder if it will be the same, worse or better. My money’s on better.”

“My money’s on...indifferent.” He was taking control away from her and she had to get it back. “Why don’t we just find out?”

She put her arms around his neck—careful of the drink she still held in her right hand. Looking into his eyes with all the insolence she could summon, she pressed her lips to his.

And for that instant, she was in control. Moving her mouth against his in little nibbling kisses, she felt her confidence growing. All right; it was just all right, nothing more. She could step away anytime she wanted, confident that...

He came to life as if exiting some twilight zone, pressing his lips against hers as if he wanted to devour her. Sparks raced along to her nerve endings and she tasted trouble.

This was the man who’d taught her to kiss—not given her the first one, but taught her how powerful a kiss could be. There was no way on earth she could resist the deluge of memories or the stunning sensations that made her right hand relax...

He jumped away from her. “What the hell?” Twisting, he pulled the shirt away from his back.

The wet shirt.

It took her an instant to realize the ice and liquid in her glass had soaked him. All that cold must have been quite a shock.

She stared at him, mortified, trying not to giggle.

He glared. “Did you do that on purpose?”

As if she’d been able to think straight enough to plan such a revenge. It was ludicrous. She smiled, shrugged, hoped he’d believe she’d had that much presence of mind.

Surprisingly the outrage left his face. “Very good,” he said approvingly, “but that was still a rotten thing to do. You owe me, chère.”

The endearment was beginning to sound natural. “I don’t owe you diddly,” she said. Pulling herself together, she glanced pointedly toward the door. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”

“You’re not getting off that easy.”

If he put his hands on her again she’d... God only knew what she’d do, but she wasn’t eager to find out. “Devin—”

“You can make amends for that dirty trick by thinking about what I said earlier—about your grandmother, I mean.” He gave up on the shirt and quit trying to hold it away from his back. “Think about this sensibly and maybe you can find it in your heart to... Sharlee, I know you love your grandparents. Don’t let—I don’t know what it is, stubborn pride, maybe? Some grudge I know nothing about? Whatever’s made you so bitter, don’t let it stand between you and doing the right thing.”

With every word he spoke, her mouth tightened until it felt like a grim hard line. “Dammit, Dev, that’s not fair.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” he said. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

She had to get him out of here. “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

He let out a sigh. “Thanks. That’s all I ask. Call me in the morning? Here’s the number of my hotel.” He picked up his jacket and drew a business card from his pocket, dropping it on the card table.

She didn’t look at it. “All right.”

“Promise?”

“Yes! Now will you go?”

He went.

And as promised she thought... mostly about that kiss.

SHE CALLED HIM the next morning before leaving for work. He answered the phone sounding alert, even eager.

“Mornin’, chère. Nice of you to call.”

She wasn’t interested in idle chitchat. “About what you asked me to think about last night—”

“Tell me at breakfast,” he cut in quickly. “I saw a great-looking place between here and your apartment. I thought maybe we could—”

“We can’t!” She steadied herself. “Devin, my answer is no. N-o, no. Tell Grandmère I’m sorry, but it’s just impossible.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“No, you wait a minute. There’s no need for you to stay in Colorado any longer because I’m not going to change my mind. Thanks for dinner and goodbye.”

She hung up the phone without letting him respond, then stood there trembling. She’d done the right thing, the only thing she could do. She never wanted to see him again and now she probably wouldn’t.

When she closed the door to her apartment, the telephone was ringing, but she simply didn’t care.

Or maybe she was afraid to care.

CHAPTER THREE

DEV CALLED ROOM SERVICE and ordered breakfast, figuring he should fortify himself before passing on the bad news to Sharlee’s grandmother. She was probably expecting just such a call. Anyone who knew how damned stubborn Sharlee was would be.

But as he showered and shaved, he found himself wondering why he was so annoyed when she’d done exactly what he’d expected her to do all along. Whatever had alienated her from her family—and he didn’t believe for a minute that it was simply a pileup of minor irritations—had truly wounded her.

As he had. He’d known she wouldn’t be happy when he sent her that note almost ten years ago, but what else had he been supposed to do? His back was to the wall as surely as hers was. He’d spent the next year trying to smooth things over, but she’d refused even to talk to him. Until yesterday, he’d never been close enough to try.

Apparently she no longer gave a damn. The memory of that icy cold drink down his back sent a shudder through him. He’d thought she was responding to the kiss the same way he was. For her to be able to do what she’d done...

He couldn’t resist a wry smile, though. She’d gotten the upper hand, all right. To a man who enjoyed a challenge, that wasn’t entirely bad.

His tray arrived and he poured himself a cup of coffee. While the bacon and eggs cooled, he carried the cup to the window and looked down on the Denver Tech Center.

Hell, he might as well get the call over with so he could pack and head for the airport. Somehow he felt he was leaving a lot of things unsettled between himself and Ms. Hollander, but it apparently couldn’t be helped.

He dialed Lyoncrest and wasn’t surprised when Margaret herself answered the phone.

“Devin!” she exclaimed, her tone filled with hope he was going to have to dash. “You’ve seen Charlotte? Say she’s coming home.”

“I’ve seen her, Tante Margaret,” he said, “but I’m afraid she has no interest whatsoever in coming home. I’m sorry.”

There was a long silence and then she sighed. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, but I was so hoping...”

“At least she didn’t have me thrown out of Colorado,” he said, trying to cheer her. “We actually managed to get through dinner last night without too many tense moments.”

“You had dinner together?”

He heard her hope spark again and was sorry he’d fanned it. “Yes, but that’s all we had. She’s happy here and just doesn’t want to leave. I thought I might just as well call the airport and see what flight—”

“No, don’t do that.”

He frowned. “Beg pardon?”

“Please try again. Devin, you cannot take no for an answer.”

“I can’t very well kidnap her and throw her on the plane,” he reasoned. “She’s got a job, she’s got an apartment, she’s got a life here.”

“She’ll have a better life here,” Margaret said. “As for her job—it’s at some dinky little newspaper, I understand.”

“That’s right, the Calhoun Courier. She seems to love it.”

“Naturally she wants you to think so.” The steel returned to Margaret’s tone. “But she must come home. If she won’t quit her job, I’ll do whatever is necessary to change her mind, up to and including buying that newspaper myself and firing her.”

Dev sat down hard on a handy chair. “You’re kidding.”

“I don’t kid about family, dear.” She sounded completely confident again.

“You’d really do that—buy the newspaper and fire her?”

“For Paul, I would do that and more. Please go back and try again. Say anything, promise anything, and then tell me everything.”

Dev hung up, wondering where this was going to end—and when.

SHARLEE WAS IN NO GREAT MOOD when she got into the office, so it took her a while to catch on to the fact that something was up.

Everyone was treating her too nicely, including Eric, who came in late and rushed over to present her with two chocolate doughnuts and a big smile.

“So how’s it going?” he inquired, lingering.

“Fine,” she said. She nodded at the doughnuts on a paper towel. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.” He licked his lips. “By the way, that really surprised us yesterday.”

“What did?”

“Oh—” he gazed at the ceiling “—nothing, if that’s how you want to play it...Ms. Lyon.”

So that was it; they’d figured it out. Everyone now knew that Sharlee Hollander was really a member of the famous Lyon family of New Orleans. As news professionals, they’d know about Paul Lyon and his slew of awards, about WDIX-TV and its anniversary, thanks to extensive coverage in news magazines and trade journals. All of a sudden, she’d gone from one-of-the-gang to one-above-the-gang.

Next they’d be asking her if she knew of any job openings at WDIX. Just one more way Dev had managed to ruin her life.

ERIC WATCHED Bruce Rivers creep out of his cubicle and look around surreptitiously.

“She gone?” Bruce asked him.

“Who?”

“Sharlee! Who’d you think I meant?”

Eric shrugged. He never had a clue what Bruce was thinking and neither did anyone else around here. “Yeah,” he said, “she’s gone. She’s got that planning-commission meeting and—”

“Don’t you think I know when Calhoun bureaucrats meet? Sheesh!” Bruce glanced around again. With his hunched shoulders and furtive eyes, he looked as if he was casing the joint. Gesturing for Eric to follow, he wheeled around and plunged back into his messy office.

Curious, Eric followed his boss inside.

“Shut the door!” Bruce hissed.

“Okay, but we’re the only ones in the newsroom.” And the office walls only went up about eight feet, leaving a two-foot gap on top, and half of those walls were glass, anyway, so forget secrecy.

Eric closed the door and looked around for someplace to sit. The most likely spot was a chair covered with a four-foot stack of old newspapers. Shoving them to the floor, he sat down. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Whaddaya know about Sharlee?”

Eric shrugged. “Well, I think she’ll turn out to be a pretty good news reporter.”

“Not that!” Bruce shoved back thinning brown hair. “I mean personally.”

“Oh.” Eric thought hard. “Not too much, actually.”

“I thought you dated her.”

“Yeah, a time or two.”

“So?”

“Well...she lives in an apartment on the north side of town. Not a bad location, respectable and all, but she doesn’t have much furniture. Her car’s a wreck, but then you know that because she’s late at least once a week because of it.”

“Yeah, yeah, what else?”

Eric grimaced. “She’s got expensive taste but tries to control it.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. “She would have.” He pursed his lips. “You know about that guy who came by to see her yesterday, right?”

“Everybody does.”

“He asked for Charlotte Lyon.”

“I know.”

“And Sharlee answered.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So she’s a Lyon!”

Eric took no offense. “You mean one of the New Orleans Lyons?” He jerked his head toward the newsroom. “Yeah, we figured that out.”

“The New Orleans Lyons,” Bruce repeated, his voice filled with awe. “The Voice of Dixie, a Pulitzer and that TV station...” Apparently too excited to sit still, Bruce leaped to his feet and began pacing around what small amount of open space his office offered. “I applied for a job there once. Didn’t get it.”

“Too bad,” Eric said, barely managing not to roll his eyes.

“Why do you suppose she kept it a secret?” Bruce looked personally affronted. “Why would she be using another name and hiding out in Colorado? I don’t get it.”

“Maybe she got into trouble and they disowned her,” Eric suggested tongue in cheek. “Maybe she ran away from home as a baby. Maybe she’s playing reporter as a lark. Maybe she was stolen by Gypsies!” He stood up, his interest in his erratic editor’s flights of fancy waning. “If that’s all, I’ve got comp time coming and I think I’ll take off.”

“Okay, whatever. You run along.”

Alone in his office, Bruce continued to pace. Sharlee Hollander, née Charlotte Lyon, was a good lifestyles editor and might even turn out to be a good news reporter. But surely she was worth more to him as a Lyon than as a dime-a-dozen employee.

He picked up the telephone handset and dialed information. The only Lyon he recalled by name was Paul, known from coast to coast. He dialed the number of this living legend and asked for him. After a few moments, a charming female voice with a soft southern accent came on the line.

“I’m afraid Mr. Lyon can’t come to the telephone at this time. I am Mrs. Paul Lyon. May I be of some service to you?”

THE SPECIAL SESSION of the city planning commission seemed to go on forever, but Sharlee didn’t mind. The most important item on the agenda—approval of a massive subdivision that would add thousands of new residents to a city already overburdened with services—was, unfortunately, the next to last item.

By the time she pulled into the parking space at her apartment, it was almost nine o’clock. She’d left home that morning just before eight and hadn’t been back since, so she was tired, as well as jubilant.

She could do this. She already had a strong lead floating around in her mind—

She froze, the key held suspended in front of the lock on her door. Had she heard a noise inside?

Straining every sense, she waited. She’d left her cell phone in the car—her office’s cell phone, in fact. She’d given up her own almost a year ago in favor of the new laptop computer since she couldn’t afford both. If she had that phone now, she’d call 911, and if it turned out to be a false alarm, she’d just live with it.

She heard nothing further so apparently it was nothing. Unlocking the door, she walked inside.

And stopped short.

Devin Oliver stood in the kitchen doorway, a wooden spoon in his hand and a frilly red apron—Sharlee’s Christmas gift from Leslie—tied around his waist. Neither of those additions made him look anything less than devastatingly sexy.

He waved the wooden spoon and said, “I heard you coming and put in the crawfish.”

Annoyed, she tossed her planning-commission packet and notebook on the card table beside the computer. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded. “You almost scared me out of ten years’ growth.”

He gave her an innocent brow-raised, wide-eyed response. “Isn’t it obvious?” He flipped the ruffle on his apron.

And smiled. His smile could melt diamonds.

“Not to me, it isn’t,” she snapped. “I never leave my door unlocked. How did you get in here?”

“Your neighbor across the hall. The neighbor who has your spare key.”

She couldn’t believe he’d talked his way past Brawny Bill Bolliver. “Why would he trust you?” she demanded. “You could have been a thief or an ax murderer. You could have been a maniac, for God’s sake.”

He looked hurt. “I’ve got ID.”

“So? Maniacs can have ID. Besides, you’re supposed to be gone.”

This simply wasn’t fair, she fumed. Seeing him had frightened her at first because she hadn’t realized who had invaded her space; now she was frightened because she did realize who it was. She’d thought him safely out of her life and wasn’t prepared to deal with the shock of finding him here.

“I changed my mind,” he said calmly. “Or rather, your grandmother changed it for me.” He turned back toward the kitchen. “Excuse me while I check my étouffée.”