Читать книгу Gypsy - Кэрол Мортимер, Carole Mortimer - Страница 4

‘SHAY.’

She didn’t turn at the sound of that voice, her gaze unwavering from the long wooden box being loaded on board the small jet in front of her, all that remained of her five years of marriage, the broken and twisted body of her husband Ricky being flown from America back to the Falconer estate for burial in the family plot.

‘Shay.’

She didn’t want to turn to the owner of that rich baritone voice, didn’t want him here at all, interrupting a moment that belonged completely to Ricky and herself.

‘For God’s sake, Shay!’

For God’s sake! She wanted to turn and shout at him that if it weren’t for God she wouldn’t be here now, that if it weren’t for God Ricky wouldn’t be still and lifeless inside that oblong box they were even now securing inside the plane, that he would be beside her as he had always been, the love they felt for each other their greatest happiness! But she didn’t turn and say any of those things, knew that if she once gave in to that hysteria she would lose the one thing that was keeping her in one piece; her belief that even though life could be cruel, none of them had any choices, it was all, ultimately, decided for them.

She finally turned as the doors closed on Ricky’s coffin, coolly facing the man she knew was responsible for dealing with the authorities and paperwork to get Ricky’s body out of the country they had made their home for the last three years, and back to their native England; she certainly hadn’t had anything to do with it, too numb to deal with details like that. No, she had known only Lyon Falconer could have managed such organisation in the few weeks it had been since they had found Ricky’s body, had known he was in California somewhere using the indomitable Falconer influence to take his brother home in the family jet. She also knew the two of them had nothing to say to each other, had informed her lawyer that she didn’t want to see Lyon when he had told her the other man was in the country.

Lyon Falconer. He hadn’t changed at all in the last three years, lean and muscular despite being very close to his fortieth birthday, his tawny hair styled just over his ears and down to his collar in a way designed to look casual, that very casualness indicative of its expensive cut. His arrogantly harsh face was lean and craggy, dominated by narrowed tawny eyes, his nose long and straight, his unsmiling mouth a forbidding line, the squareness of his jaw as uncompromising as ever. The tailored, dark three-piece suit and cream silk shirt pronounced him for exactly what he was, a successful businessman, although its formality in no way detracted from his lean muscularity, his power not just of the physical, a single-word command from him having been known to daunt even his most powerful of adversaries. And Shay knew she was far from being that.

But she wasn’t the unsophisticated Shay Flanagan from Dublin any longer, the young girl not good enough to become a member of his élite family. She had been a Falconer herself now for over five years, was this man’s sister-in-law, had gained in confidence almost beyond recognition since this man had first noticed her ebony head among his London personnel. At least, she hoped she had, feeling the first stirrings of inadequacy she had known in a long time, a very long time.

Not that any of that showed as she and Lyon faced each other across the tarmac, the black silk dress adding height and slenderness to the already five feet nine inches she was in the high-heeled sandals. The soft ebony of her shoulder-length hair was hidden beneath the silk hat, the lace pulled down to partly obscure her face, the purple depths of her eyes unadorned by anything but naturally long black lashes. There were classical lines to her face; high cheekbones, small pert noise, generously wide mouth, the latter feeling as if she hadn’t smiled in months. As indeed she hadn’t!

And she didn’t smile now, her gaze steady on that autocratic face. ‘Lyon,’ she greeted coldly.

‘Shay, you look—’

‘Like hell,’ she drawled mockingly, wanting no insincere compliments from this man. She looked exactly what she was, a recently widowed woman.

Lyon looked momentarily annoyed, the emotion quickly controlled and masked. ‘As usual, your presumption of what I was about to say was incorrect,’ he bit out harshly.

‘Really?’ she derided, turning to walk up the steps that led to the luxurious interior of the waiting jet, knowing the crew were merely waiting for them to come aboard before they obtained clearance to take off.

‘You’ve changed, Shay.’

She stiffened at the surprise in Lyon’s voice, had known he would follow her up into the plane, the door even now being secured behind them, only the hostess Jenny stopping them from being completely alone, something Shay knew she would avoid whenever she could. She and Lyon Falconer had nothing to say to each other, they never had.

‘I’m twenty-four now, Lyon, not eighteen,’ she dryly stated the obvious, taking her seat in the lounge area, smoothly crossing one knee over the other, her legs long and silky, turning gently to smile her thanks to Jenny as she brought her a glass of iced tea, not questioning how the other woman knew of her preference; the Falconer staff were paid, very handsomely, to know the needs of the Falconer family before they were even aware of them themselves. Shay turned away with indifference as the small blonde woman lingered over giving Lyon his neat whisky; obviously Lyon still had the power to attract women in their droves!

Tawny eyes flashed with specks of green as Lyon angrily sensed her derision. ‘I didn’t just mean physically,’ he rasped as Jenny disappeared into the galley.

She calmly reached up to remove her hat, placing it on the seat beside her, her neck long and slender, her hands equally so as she brailled the neatness of her severely-styled black hair. ‘I grew up, Lyon, if that’s what you mean,’ she drawled dismissively, turning to look out of the window as the small jet began to taxi towards the runway. ‘Marilyn isn’t with you?’ She arched perfectly curved brows at him, her slender hands, adorned only by her thin gold wedding band, folded neatly on top of her fastened seat-belt.

Lyon’s mouth tightened. ‘No, Marilyn isn’t with me,’ he bit out.

‘I just thought, she is the family lawyer …’

‘One of them,’ he confirmed gratingly.

‘And your wife,’ Shay added tauntingly.

‘Yes,’ he acknowledged abruptly. ‘But I’d really rather not discuss her right now.’

Navy eyes sharpened to purple. ‘As you wish,’ she nodded distantly. ‘You came alone, then?’

‘There was no reason for anyone to accompany me. Our lawyer in Los Angeles was able to deal with anything that had to be done.’

‘Of course, David Anders,’ she nodded again, having worked closely with the American lawyer herself the last two months, coming to the airport today as per his instructions, knowing he had managed to secure the release of Ricky’s body. She had hoped Lyon wouldn’t be sharing the flight with her, although she had known it was a futile hope; the haughty head of the Falconer family wouldn’t rest until his youngest brother was back in England where he felt he had always belonged, even if Ricky’s body were now lifeless.

‘He did a magnificent job,’ Lyon said curtly, his mouth grim.

‘Yes,’ she acknowledged, her face suddenly looking stricken.

Lyon was alert to the sudden change in her. ‘You still don’t like flying?’

‘I hate it,’ she answered pleasantly, sipping her tea, not showing now even by a tremor of her hand how her senses lurched at the acceleration of the jet engines as they prepared for take-off.

‘Perhaps it would have been better if you had remained in Los Angeles—’

‘And not come to England?’ Her eyes flashed her anger at the suggestion. ‘Ricky may have been your brother, Lyon,’ she said icily, ‘but he was my husband, and I want to be there when you have him put in the ground!’

Lyon winced noticeably. ‘The last two months of waiting have been a strain for you,’ he bit out. ‘This journey can only be causing you more pain.’

He didn’t know the half of the pain she had suffered in the past two months, she had made certain he wouldn’t know, had remained alone in California after Ricky’s plane had crashed in the mountains, all the time hoping that he had survived the crash, that by some miracle he had lived when the light plane he had been piloting had gone down during a freak thunderstorm in the mountains. It was the ‘somewhere’ that had caused all the pain, no one knowing exactly where the plane had gone down, Ricky and the plane remaining undetected until three weeks ago. Until that time she had lived with the hope, not sleeping, not eating, anxiously waiting for news from the people she had paid to continue searching for him after the authorities had given up. David Anders had informed her that Lyon had flown over briefly after the accident had been reported, that he had been convinced by the authorities that there was no way Ricky could have survived the crash in the area he had gone down. Shay had refused Lyon’s request to see her then, would have refused to be with him now if it were in her power to do so. But it wasn’t.

‘I can cope,’ she told him distantly.

‘I’m sure you can,’ Lyon nodded grimly. ‘God, Shay!’ He fumbled with the fastening of his seat-belt as her skin turned a sickly green as the plane parted with the ground, striding across the cabin to her side as the plane ascended dramatically.

She looked up at him with uncomprehending eyes. ‘You aren’t supposed to do that,’ she said dazedly as he came down on his haunches beside her, her hands looking pale and delicate as he took them into his warm, much larger ones.

‘Are you going to faint?’ he asked briskly.

Shay’s eyes widened at the suggestion. ‘No!’ she denied—and promptly did so!

She came round with a slow groan, turning over to bury her face in the pillow as she lay on the double bed in the converted bedroom off the lounge area, Lyon standing with his back towards her, staring out of the small window as they flew above the blanket of fluffy-white clouds.

She had wanted to remain so composed, had once sworn this man would never see any sign of weakness in her again. Collapsing in the way she had had definitely been weak! But she hadn’t cried when they told her Ricky’s plane had gone down, nor during the following two months, not even when they finally found him still seated in the crashed aircraft, his neck broken from the impact with the ground; surely she was entitled to one fainting fit? She just wished it hadn’t been Lyon who had been the one to witness it!

She swung her feet to the carpeted floor, her shoes neatly beside the bed, putting up a trembling hand to her mussed hair, smoothing it before Lyon turned suddenly, aware of her return to consciousness, his eyes narrowing as her head went back challengingly.

Shay could have no idea how vulnerable she looked, would have been dismayed if she had known, and Lyon was aware of that. Shay had grown up in the last six years, had grown more beautiful too, and he had to clench his hands at his sides to stop himself from reaching out for what had once so nearly been his. She had been his brother’s wife since then, he hadn’t seen her for three years, and yet he only had to think of her to ache with an unrequited desire, knew that he ached with that desire even now.

He could still remember the first time he had seen her, her long hair untamed, purple eyes alight with laughter as she giggled with some of the other typists before silence fell over the room as they realised the head of the company had walked in to their office with one of the directors. The other girls had quickly looked away and got on with their work, but purple eyes had remained on him curiously. Such open interest from one so young hadn’t been something he had experienced before. God, he had already been thirty-three then, past the age of instant attraction, especially with such a child. Or so he had thought …

‘I’m sorry,’ she was saying now, her composure back in place. ‘I’ve disliked flying even more since it was the way Ricky died.’

Lyon could feel the agony of jealousy over his young brother rip through him, hadn’t known a day go by without feeling that same jealousy since Ricky had announced his intention of making Shay his wife. Ricky may be dead now, but Lyon still couldn’t forgive his young brother for marrying the girl he—The girl he had wanted, damn it!

This beautifully elegant woman might not be that girl—but he still wanted her!

To Shay he looked as coldly remote as usual, none of the cauldron of emotions burning so hotly beneath that surface-cool exterior in evidence. He was a cold-hearted bastard, always had been and always would be. It was a pity he and Marilyn couldn’t make more of a success of their eleven-year marriage, there was no doubt they made the perfect couple!

‘I should have thought of that,’ he murmured abruptly. ‘This just seemed the quickest way …’

‘And after waiting all this time I’m sure you just wanted to get Ricky home so that you can bury him!’ She slid her slender feet into the black sandals before standing up, feeling at too much of a disadvantage sitting on the bed.

‘Shay!’ Lyon rasped.

‘Sorry,’ she drawled in a bored voice. ‘But you and Ricky were never close, I just assumed …’ She shrugged dismissively.

‘Too damned much,’ he scowled darkly. ‘The whole family has been deeply shocked by Ricky’s death.’

The ‘whole family’ consisted of two more brothers, Matthew and Neil, born between Lyon and Ricky, Lyon’s wife Marilyn, and numerous aunts and uncles—and all of them looking up to, and ultimately guided by, Lyon. He was the unchallenged head of the Falconer empire, each member of the family working for that empire. Even Ricky, despite his differences with Lyon, had run the American office, that distance between the two brothers allowing a certain respite from the bitter arguments they used to have when Shay and Ricky lived with the rest of the brothers in the mansion the Falconer brothers called home.

‘I’m sure they have,’ she said dryly. ‘Do you have the funeral arranged?’

His mouth tightened with irritation. ‘I called Matthew yesterday and asked him to make the necessary arrangements,’ he admitted grudgingly.

She nodded, as if she had never doubted he would have everything under control. There was only one thing he had never been able to control, and that had been his anger towards her. He had never been able to forgive her for marrying his younger brother and so becoming one of his prestigious family. No doubt, now that Ricky had finally been pronounced dead instead of merely missing, Lyon would see that she ceased being recognised as a member of his family. Only she didn’t intend letting him do that to her, had no intention of bowing gracefully out of their lives.

‘And Neil, how is he?’ she enquired coolly, finding Neil, at thirty-two, very like Ricky, with his blond good looks and easy-going charm, Matthew’s colouring slightly darker, and at thirty-five Ricky had told her he was becoming more like the eldest Falconer every day.

‘We aren’t here to exchange social pleasantries, Shay,’ Lyon told her impatiently.

‘I’m well aware of the reason we’re both here, Lyon,’ she rasped bitterly. ‘And if you would rather we spent the next nine hours in silence then I can assure you I’m more than agreeable.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ he said with barely controlled violence. ‘But it’s been three years since we saw each other, do you really have nothing better to talk about than Neil and Matthew?’

‘The weather?’ she scorned.

Tawny-coloured eyes became like burnished gold. ‘Hell, Shay, can’t we even be polite to each other now?’

‘Were we ever?’ she derided in a bored voice.

‘Once,’ he muttered, his gaze suddenly intense.

If he expected to disarm her he was disappointed, one thing the School of Hard Knocks and Snubs had taught her was invincible poise, and she had learnt that lesson well, from his own family mainly. ‘That was such a long time ago, Lyon,’ she dismissed indifferently.

‘And you’ve forgotten it?’ he scowled. ‘All of it?’

‘Of course not,’ she drawled. ‘Didn’t you ever read page one hundred and twenty-three of Scarlet Lover?’

‘You put me in one of your damned books?’ Lyon demanded incredulously.

‘You didn’t read it?’ she reproved, moving through to the lounge as he didn’t seem to be going to, knowing he would follow her. He did, standing glowering in the background as she smiled her thanks at Jenny for replenishing her glass of iced tea. ‘You really should have done, Lyon.’ She turned to mock him.

‘So it would seem,’ he bit out, glaring at the stewardess as she hovered in the room with them. ‘Don’t you have a meal to prepare? Or something?’ he added darkly.

‘Er—no. I mean, yes—sir.’ Jenny looked taken aback, had worked for the Falconers for the last seven years, and not once before had Lyon lost his temper with her in this way. Of course, this was a sad occasion for the family, and everyone had always known of the friction that existed between Lyon and Ricky’s wife, Shay. ‘Excuse me.’ She made a hasty retreat to the galley, closing the door behind her.

‘Jenny doesn’t appear to be accustomed to your bad humour,’ Shay mocked, sinking gracefully down into one of the comfortable armchairs, once again crossing one elegant knee over the other, unconsciously emphasising the slender beauty of her legs as she did so.

‘Meaning you are?’ Lyon rasped, very aware of all of this woman’s beauty, and despising himself for it. She had once made her dislike of him more than obvious, to want her now, especially now, was pure madness on his part.

‘Oh, yes,’ she derided. ‘Don’t you remember?’

‘I remember a lot of things that happened between us in the past—’

‘Strangely, I don’t,’ Shay cut in firmly. ‘You really should have read Scarlet Lover, Lyon; I was sure you would have recognised yourself.’ She smiled briefly, inwardly, not at or with Lyon. ‘Ricky felt sure you would want to sue me!’

‘Could I have done?’ he asked tightly.

‘I doubt it,’ dismissed Shay coolly, her humour gone as quickly as it had arisen. ‘Of course the man’s name was Leon de Coursey, and he did have blond hair and tawny eyes too, was about the same age—’

‘And was he a despoiler of young maidens too?’ Lyon rasped harshly.

‘No.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘But he was married!’

‘Shay—’

‘You never did tell me how Neil is,’ she interrupted his angry outburst.

‘He’s well,’ Lyon dismissed curtly. ‘But we were talking about one of your books—’

‘Amazing, isn’t it,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘At twenty-one I suddenly discovered I had a talent for writing.’ She still found the fact that she was a bestselling author awe-inspiring.

‘And making money,’ Lyon put in derisively.

She looked at him unemotionally. ‘That too, although it isn’t as much as it might seem. But I must admit I like to look on people’s faces when they realise I’m Shay Flanagan, the author of those historical sizzlers. I hope you’re duly grateful about the fact that I didn’t drag the Falconer name into my disreputable career,’ she continued scornfully. ‘Ricky assured me Grandfather Jonas would have turned in his grave!’

‘Considering the fact that my father, his only child, was born illegitimately, I don’t think Grandfather Jonas would have any right to criticise,’ Lyon drawled. ‘What happened on page one hundred and twenty-three in the book, Shay?’

She had known he wouldn’t be diverted by the deviations in the conversation. ‘I’ll get you a copy,’ she promised casually.

‘I’d rather you told me now,’ he insisted roughly.

Shay shook her head firmly. ‘I never discuss my work with anyone.’

‘But if I feature in one of your books—’

‘I didn’t say that you did,’ she contradicted coldly. ‘Page one hundred and twenty-three is a very explicit sex scene—and we once had a lot of those,’ she added hardly.

‘You were married to Ricky, couldn’t you have used your—times, with him?’ Lyon grated forbiddingly.

‘I said it was a sex scene, Lyon, not a love scene,’ Shay said crushingly. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind,’ she stood up, ‘I think I should like to go into the bedroom and rest for a while.’

‘Shay …!’ His hand snaked out and captured her wrist as she would have walked past him.

She looked at him unemotionally. ‘Please, don’t cause a scene, Lyon.’

‘And if I do?’ he challenged.

‘You remember my Irish temper?’ she said calmly.

The hand that wasn’t holding her wrist moved up to the scar on his right temple. ‘Vividly,’ he drawled dryly.

Shay’s gaze moved to the small white scar, remembering how she had once thrown a cup at him, a fine china missile that had smashed when it made contact with his head, blood dripping down his face from the gash it made. ‘I can see that you do,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Well, I may appear calm and collected to you,’ she spoke pleasantly, ‘but if you don’t release me there are one or two glasses in here that I could use instead of the cup.’

Lyon looked at her sceptically, and then with grudging admiration as he saw she was in earnest, slowly released her arm. ‘You little hell-cat,’ he murmured in fascination.

She didn’t show any emotion for the name he had once called her at more intimate moments in their past relationship. ‘Ricky preferred to think of me as fiery.’ She felt an inner satisfaction as Lyon’s mouth tightened at the mention of her intimacy with his brother. ‘I prefer to think of it as an aversion to being pushed around.’ Shay stepped back from him. ‘I won’t be requiring any dinner,’ she informed him coolly. ‘Perhaps you could have Jenny wake me when we get to England?’

Tawny eyes narrowed. ‘You intend sleeping for the next eight hours?’

Shay shrugged narrow shoulders. ‘Why not?’

‘I thought we could talk, become reacquainted,’ he grated.

‘Reacquainted, Lyon?’ Her smile was one of genuine amusement. ‘Were we ever acquainted?’

His mouth tightened at her mockery. ‘We were lovers, damn it!’

‘Is that what you would call it?’ she scorned. ‘After being married to, and in love with, Ricky, I have a much different name for what we once were. Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t wish to be disturbed.’ She walked past him into the bedroom, closing the door on his rage at being dismissed so autocratically, knowing he wouldn’t disturb her, that he was too angry to follow her.

Now that she was alone, away from those all-seeing tawny eyes, she didn’t have to keep up the pretense any more, sitting down heavily on the bed, wrapping her arms about herself as she shuddered with reaction.

Oh Ricky, she silently cried, why aren’t you here to take care of me, to love me! Twenty-eight was too young to die, especially when he had so much to live for.

She knew her husband would have enjoyed this verbal sparring with Lyon, that he had reveled in their animosity, the clash of characters between the two brothers only becoming so heatedly intense after she and Ricky were married. They were all aware of that, the relationship between herself and Lyon no secret from the rest of the family. Ricky had never been angry about her and Lyon, only angry for her. Especially after reading Scarlet Lover.

She had written the manuscript during the days once Ricky had gone to work, hadn’t told him about it, embarrassed at her own imagination, only allowing him to read it after it was completed. She had known the exact moment he reached page one hundred and twenty-three, had watched him anxiously, her breathing becoming constricted at how still he had suddenly become.

He was sitting cross-legged on their bed, the manuscript spread out in front of him, looking up at her with pained eyes. ‘Leon de Coursey—’

‘I’ll change it.’ She ran to him, stricken. ‘I won’t send it to a publisher. It’s only rubbish, anyway,’ she dismissed. ‘It was just something for me to do while you were—’

‘It isn’t rubbish, you will send it to a publisher, and you won’t change a thing,’ Ricky told her intensely, his laughing blue eyes unusually serious. He cupped her face in his hands. ‘That was what it was like between you and Lyon?’

‘Lyon?’ she hedged unconvincingly. ‘I don’t—’

‘Darling, we’ve never lied to each other,’ he encouraged gently. ‘What we have together is—fantastic. What you had with Lyon, if de Coursey is him— and I believe he is—was something else entirely. It was primitive, savage—’

‘Yes, it was both of those things,’ she acknowledged bitterly. ‘We seemed to bring out those qualities in each other. But it was also destructive.’

‘It’s all right, darling,’ Ricky took her in his arms, holding her trembling body close against his arms, beginning to kiss her, the manuscript, and Leon de Coursey, or Lyon—the two had become confused in her mind by this time!—were forgotten in the heat of their passionate exchange.

But the next day Ricky had parcelled up the manuscript and sent it to a reputable publisher, and now the heated historical romances of Shay Flanagan were almost history themselves.

Just as her relationship with Lyon was also history, a painful part of her history she had tried to put behind her.

DAMN IT, what was she doing in there! Lyon shook with the rage of being instructed what to do as if he were one of the help. No one had ever, ever, spoken to him that way before! And all it had achieved was to make him want Shay more than ever.

More than anything he was curious about page one hundred and twenty-three of her book. Was Leon de Coursey the hero of her book or the villain? Knowing how Shay felt about him, de Coursey was the blackest villain there had ever been!

God, she had grown incredibly beautiful the last three years, he could feel his thighs tightening just at the thought of her. Had she undressed now that she was alone in the bedroom, was she naked even now, lying between those brown silk sheets, moving sensuously in her sleep as she always used to?

He had been haunted by those sounds she used to make as she slept, had woken up in a sweat more than once after imagining her there beside him, only to know the agonising disappointment of pent up desire when he found he was once again alone, that Shay now shared his brother Ricky’s bed, giving him all the passion she had once so freely given him.

He had never forgotten the look on Ricky’s face when he had first been introduced to Shay; his younger brother had looked as if it were Christmas and New Year all rolled into one, with Shay the glittering angel on top of the tree. To her credit Shay hadn’t looked at him the same way for several months, but finally it had come. Lyon could still feel the pain in his gut at knowing she was no longer his.

‘Lyon?’

He turned sharply, scowling. ‘What is it, Jenny?’ he asked tersely.

She smiled engagingly. ‘I wondered if there were anything I could do for you?’

He remembered other times he had received completely different offers from this beautiful woman, occasions when he hadn’t been averse to her providing him with the physical relief he needed, even on the bed in the adjoining room once. ‘A whisky,’ he requested harshly, ignoring how hurt she looked at his coldness. ‘And just keep them coming until we land.’ He was going to need to be numb from the feet up to cope with knowing Shay was only feet away from him after imagining every woman in his bed was her for the last five years.

‘And Mrs Falconer, can I get her anything?’ Jenny recovered quickly from his snub.

‘Nothing,’ he bit out, staring broodingly at the closed door to the bedroom.

He was still staring broodingly at the door, Shay on the other side of it, when they touched down at Heathrow Airport hours later.

HE HAD been drinking. She had known it the moment she came out of the bedroom to join him to leave the plane. Lyon wasn’t offensive, didn’t look or act drunk, but she knew he was one of those people who became more controlled after consuming alcohol, the tawny eyes narrowed, his mouth a compressed line of tension.

She spared him only a brief glance before turning to the mirror to put the hat back on her recently brushed hair, several tendrils having escaped as she lay sleepless on the bed. She had known she wouldn’t really be able to sleep, hadn’t slept without medical help since Ricky disappeared, but the thought of spending all that time alone with Lyon was abhorrent to her. But as she lay on the bed she had almost been able to feel his eyes burning her flesh through the closed door, and she clung to the sanctuary of the bedroom, preferring to save her energy—and emotional strength—for the ordeal of returning to Falconer House.

‘We can leave now, if you’re ready.’ Lyon watched her gloweringly.

She pulled the black lace of her hat down over her face before turning to look at him, knowing by the scowl on his face that he disliked this partial shield to her emotions. The time when she gave a damn what Lyon liked or disliked was long gone!

She gave a haughty inclination of her head, as coolly composed as when they had faced each other in Los Angeles all those hours ago, ignoring the hand he put out to guide her down the steps to the waiting airport cars, one for them, the other for the coffin containing Ricky’s lifeless body, the law deeming the funeral director with the car should take over now.

She bore the tedium of Lyon’s dealing with the passport officials with a bored look on her face, secretly wondering how much longer she could keep up this cool façade as the man seemed to linger over clearing them. It was true that the shock of losing Ricky had numbed her, that her independent career from the Falconer empire had given her a confidence she had hitherto lacked, but this act of cool emotionalism was causing more of a strain than she felt able to cope with. But not for anything would she admit to Lyon how all this was affecting her.

‘Could we hurry this up, please?’ Lyon suddenly pressed as the man continued to linger over checking their passports. ‘As I’m sure you can imagine, my sister-in-law is under severe strain.’

The man glanced sympathetically at Shay, receiving a wan smile in return, miraculously seeming to find no further delay with their documents.

Once out in the general flow of people at the airport, Shay felt her panic rising, flinching from the cameras as they clicked practically in her face as each newspaper representative tried to get the best picture of Richard Falconer’s widow, questions coming at them from all directions, the hand that grasped her arm making her pull away.

‘It’s me, you little fool,’ Lyon rasped, pushing his way through the reporters, pulling her along with him. ‘Where the hell is the damned car?’ he swore roughly as they emerged out into the English summer sunshine.

‘Mr Falconer—’

‘Thank God.’ He turned to the chauffeur gratefully, guiding Shay to the waiting limousine, the windows discreetly darkened for privacy.

‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Falconer.’ The man preceded them. ‘But there’s been a bomb scare, and the police are—’

‘Yes, yes,’ Lyon dismissed tersely, still running the gauntlet of the press. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’

‘Thank you, Jeffrey.’ Shay smiled at the man as he opened the back door for her, sliding inside and across the seat as Lyon climbed in next to her, cameras still clicking, the questions still coming until Jeffrey firmly closed the door, enclosing them in cool, silent peace.

‘I’d like to know how they found out when we were arriving,’ Lyon scowled heavily.

Shay had a more resigned view, knew that the press were always able to find out what they wanted to know. She had been badgered by the worldwide media as soon as Ricky’s plane went down, the last weeks a nightmare of trying to escape them, finally having to move from the apartment she had shared with Ricky the last three years and move into a hotel, security guards placed outside her room to protect her privacy and grief.

‘Does it matter?’ she sighed, the incident just another horror in the nightmare her life had become since Ricky’s crash.

‘Yes, it—No,’ Lyon amended with controlled violence as he saw the unconscious vulnerability in deep purple eyes, the pale skin beneath those fathomless depths looking bruised and translucent. ‘No,’ he sighed heavily. ‘I don’t suppose it does.’

Shay didn’t even question the way Lyon had stepped down from his undoubted anger at their arrangements being known by the press, shut him out of her mind completely as they began the drive to the house, grateful for the self-discipline she had learnt from her writing, needing mental as well as physical control to maintain the daily schedule of work she set for herself in order to meet her deadlines. It would have been so easy to have sat back and lived on Ricky’s wealth, to have treated her writing as a mere hobby to keep herself amused. But she hadn’t wanted that, had made it into a career. She felt an inner peace now that she had.

God, why was she wandering in this way! They would be at Falconer House soon, the scene of her greatest happiness, greatest humiliation, and finally her greatest pain.

It was a huge house, big enough for several families to live in comfortably, but she still didn’t know how she had managed to live there for two years after her marriage to Ricky, didn’t know how she was going to visit there now. Because visiting was all she intended doing. She couldn’t stay on there, not even if Lyon asked her to do so. And she knew that he was going to ask her to do just that, that it probably wouldn’t even be a request but an order. It was one she would enjoy disobeying!