Читать книгу Gypsy - Кэрол Мортимер, Carole Mortimer - Страница 5

‘GOOD GRIEF, Matthew!’ Shay’s exclamation was instantaneous on seeing him. ‘What have you been doing to yourself?’ She looked askance at the sling supporting his immobile arm.

The awkwardness she had envisaged upon entering the Falconer house again was forgotten in her concern for Matthew. His wheelchair had moved silently across the hall carpet as he came to meet them in the entrance hall, Shay shocked to see how pale he was, almost as white as the bandage on his arm beneath the sling.

Matthew Falconer had been in a wheelchair when she had first been introduced to him six years before, an explanation for his incapacity never offered by any of his family, although she had heard from the office grapevine when she still worked for Lyon that Matthew had been injured in a skiing accident at the age of nineteen, his legs severely damaged, and had been in a wheelchair ever since.

She had also learnt, from experience, that Matthew’s inability to walk in no way detracted from his masculinity, or his ability to put a person in their place with a few well-directed words! After a few minutes of being in Matthew’s dynamic presence people tended to forget he was in a wheelchair, the electronically-operated machine having so many gadgets on it he could perform practically anything an able-bodied man could do—except, of course, walk.

‘Can’t you think of a better greeting than that after all this time, Gypsy?’ he drawled wryly, pain having etched lines into his handsome face over the years that shouldn’t really have been there on a man of only thirty-five.

Gypsy. It was a long time since she had heard that particular nickname, two long heart-breaking months! The three younger Falconer men had taken the space of one afternoon to come up with the name Gypsy for her; Lyon had instantly hated it, refusing to call her it. But Ricky had continued to use the name after they were married, and hearing it now brought tears to her eyes.

‘Matthew.’ She bent and kissed him warmly on one rigidly hard cheek.

He managed a tight-lipped smile. ‘You always were an affectionate little thing,’ he muttered. ‘Too affectionate on occasion.’ He shot a sly glance at the stone-faced Lyon.

She had forgotten Matthew’s cryptic, sometimes cruel, sense of humour, holding back her own smile with effort; one thing the Falconer men could never be attributed with was tact!

Matthew turned fully to his older brother. ‘The two of you came back alone?’

Shay turned in time to see Lyon’s warning look, instantly feeling a ripple of apprehension down the straightness of her spine. Lyon was displeased with his brother for asking the question, and she had a feeling she was the reason for his annoyance with Matthew.

‘Yes,’ he replied tersely, dismissively. ‘What happened to your arm, Matthew?’

The younger man shrugged. ‘The controls of this stupid machine went haywire for a while and I hit the ground,’ he told them with self-derision. ‘It’s nothing serious, just a sprain.’

‘You didn’t mention it when I telephoned yesterday,’ Lyon scowled.

‘I said it’s only a sprain,’ Matthew bit out tautly. ‘I’m in a wheelchair, Lyon, not senile! I don’t need you fussing over me like an old woman every time I accidently cut myself shaving!’ He looked at the older man challengingly.

Who would eventually have won the silent battle of wills Shay wasn’t sure; Lyon was obviously the stronger-willed of the two, but Matthew had his pride on his side. Even feeling the interloper, as she did, she couldn’t let the senseless battle go on.

‘Could I have a cup of tea, do you think?’ She cut across their tension. ‘I’m feeling a little weary.’ Her eyes hardened as she looked at Lyon. ‘I think you might be better having coffee,’ she told him with sarcasm. ‘A whole pot of it!’ she added before strolling through to what she knew was the main family lounge, the décor different from what she remembered, in green and cream now, but otherwise the room was just as elegantly comfortable as she remembered it.

Matthew was still chuckling as he followed her into her room. ‘Been drinking, has he?’ he mused.

‘Just a little,’ Shay drawled.

‘You always did have a strange effect on my big brother.’ He grinned his satisfaction with the fact.

‘I don’t care to be discussed as if I weren’t present.’ Lyon strode across the room to pour himself a glass of whisky from the cut-glass decanter.

‘Oh, we know you’re here,’ Matthew taunted. ‘But what about Neil?’

Lyon’s mouth compressed into a thin line as he turned and rang for the maid. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow,’ he supplied abruptly, turning to the young woman who entered the room so that he could order Shay’s tea.

Once again Shay had sensed Lyon’s reluctance to discuss Neil in front of her. ‘Is Neil away?’ she probed softly.

Matthew gave Lyon a censorious look. ‘You haven’t told her?’

‘Obviously not,’ he drawled. ‘For God’s sake, Matthew,’ he scowled belligerently. ‘It isn’t the sort of thing you just blurt out in the middle of a flight that Shay was already finding such a strain!’

‘Hell, Lyon, you’ve been in Los Angeles almost three weeks,’ Matthew criticised.

‘During which Shay flatly refused to see me,’ Lyon rasped harshly.

Shay felt no regret for that decision, had no desire to spend any more time in his company than she needed to. ‘Where is Neil?’ she asked tautly. ‘Has he been hurt in some way? God, he isn’t dead too …?’ She gasped as that horrific thought occurred to her.

‘No, of course he isn’t dead,’ Lyon snapped. ‘Your fertile imagination is running riot!’

‘Then why won’t you tell me where he is?’ she demanded impatiently. ‘Why all the secrecy?’

‘Because he’s in Los Angeles,’ Lyon muttered.

‘Los Angeles …? But—’ She broke off, a cold stillness slowly creeping over her, her hands clenching at her sides, the long lacquerless nails digging into her palms. She didn’t feel any pain from the wounds she was inflicting, knew another pain that far superseded it. ‘He’s running the Los Angeles office, isn’t he.’ It was a statement, not a question, the deep purple of her eyes her only show of emotion now.

‘Shay—’

‘Isn’t he?’ she directed the question at Lyon, ignoring Matthew’s attempt to reason with her. ‘Answer me, damn you!’

Tawny eyes darkened furiously at her dictatorial tone. ‘Yes, he is—’

‘You bastard!’ Her hand unclenched long enough to move up and slap him hard across one arrogant cheek, the white fingermarks she left livid against his tanned flesh as he remained immobile after the attack.

‘Shay!’

‘You replaced Ricky with him,’ she accused disgustedly, once again ignoring Matthew. ‘One brother is dead, never mind, I have two more I can send in his place!’ she said heatedly, bright spots of colour in her otherwise pale cheeks.

‘Shay—’

‘Excuse me,’ she at last acknowledged Matthew’s efforts to speak to her, ‘I have to get out of here before I’m sick all over the Persian rug!’ She swallowed convulsively, breathing deeply in an effort to hold in the nausea. ‘I take it I’ve been given the suite I once shared with Ricky?’ Her eyes flashed warningly at Matthew.

‘It’s always kept prepared in case you or Ricky came home for a visit,’ he frowned. ‘But I thought this time you might prefer—’

‘I prefer the suite I shared with Ricky,’ she told Matthew forcefully. ‘It’s one of the rare places in this house that holds no bad memories for me!’ She hurried from the room, her head held high.

‘LET HER GO,’ Lyon instructed his brother as he would have followed her, his lips barely moving as he stood rigidly still, shifting suddenly, throwing the contents of the glass to the back of his throat before refilling it, welcoming the burning sensation as the alcohol hit his empty stomach.

‘Haven’t you had enough of that for one day?’ Matthew watched him concernedly.

‘Not nearly enough.’ Lyon grimly drank the second glass straight down too.

‘Getting drunk isn’t going to help the situation,’ his brother spoke soothingly, his hazel eyes troubled. ‘And it’s going to give you one hell of a headache in the morning!’ he added derisively.

Lyon scowled. ‘I’ll worry about that then,’ he bit out.

‘Worry about it now, Lyon, and tell me what happened on the flight here; Shay was as taut as a violin string when she arrived.’ Matthew shook his head.

‘Nothing happened.’ Lyon achingly recalled the hours he had sat feet away from Shay, only a thin door separating them physically; mentally it might as well have still been the Atlantic!

‘Nothing?’

‘No,’ he confirmed abruptly. ‘We barely talked to each other.’

‘Then why was she—like that?’ Matthew looked puzzled.

‘Doesn’t she have the right?’ Lyon groaned. ‘I have sent Neil to Los Angeles to replace Ricky—’

‘What else could you do?’ Matthew said impatiently. ‘Shay is going to realise, once she calms down, that you had to send someone in his place to run the Los Angeles office.’

Lyon stared up the stairs Shay had so recently ascended, the scent of her elusive perfume still in the air. ‘Someone, yes,’ he acknowledged bitterly. ‘But it didn’t have to be another Falconer.’

‘You make us sound like something contagious,’ Matthew derided dryly.

‘I think to Shay we are,’ Lyon nodded, wondering if he would ever be able to shut out the agony of knowing Shay considered him to be the lowest creature on earth. It was there in her voice every time she spoke to him, in every glance she gave, and there was nothing, nothing, he could ever do to vindicate himself in her eyes. ‘All except Ricky, of course,’ he acknowledged tightly.

Ricky was dead, his own dear brother, although the twelve years’ difference in their ages had meant they were never really as close as he and Matthew had always been. Still, Ricky had been his brother, and the only thing he could think of right now was that Shay was no longer married.

He had to be sick, or drunk, or both. Probably both. He would never have admitted these feelings, even to himself, if his defences hadn’t been down. A man was dead, a brother he had loved, and all he could think about was how good it had once been to make love to the woman who was now his widow!

‘Lyon?’

His tormented gaze focused on Matthew. ‘She’s more beautiful than ever!’ he rasped.

‘Yes,’ Matthew agreed softly.

His mouth twisted with self-derision. ‘I’d hoped that she wouldn’t be.’

‘Gypsy was destined to be always beautiful,’ Matthew remarked thoughtfully. ‘She’s like a pure-bred racehorse; long supple lines and a glossy coat.’ He grimaced at the description. ‘Only Shay has ever been able to make me wax lyrical like that; I wonder if we have any Irish in us?’

‘Shay brings out uncharacteristic emotions in most men,’ Lyon remarked with bitterness.

Matthew’s expression was mocking as he arched dark blond brows. ‘What emotions does she still bring out in you, big brother?’

‘None of your damned business!’ Lyon scowled, not willing to admit to anyone the torment of knowing Shay was so close to him once again. He found himself wanting to keep reaching out and touching her just to see if she were real or a figment of his tortured imagination. And then those purple eyes would rake over him contemptuously, and he would know it wasn’t all a dream!

‘I had a feeling it wouldn’t be,’ his brother drawled derisively.

Damn Matthew, he always had been able to see and guess too much. Being in a wheelchair might have physically incapacitated him but his other senses worked overtime. Matthew saw, and understood, too much!

‘Isn’t it time you told me exactly what happened to your arm?’ prompted Lyon determinedly.

Now it was Matthew’s turn to scowl, his humour fading completely. ‘I don’t need reminding of the embarrassing episode,’ he snapped. ‘One of the maids found me sprawled out in the study, and I had to suffer the humiliation of being dragged back into my chair by Hopkins! I’d really rather not talk about it right now.’

Lyon could understand his brother’s feeling of helplessness at having their butler haul him back into his chair; Matthew had never accepted the restrictions of his incapacity well, had mastered everything for himself so that he never had to rely on other people. Lyon had no doubt that if it weren’t for Matthew’s injured wrist he would have managed to get himself back into the chair and wouldn’t have mentioned the incident to anyone.

He walked to Matthew’s side. ‘Okay, we’ll discuss the progress you’ve made on the Thorpe contract this last week—then we’ll talk about your fall.’

His younger brother glared at him. ‘You’re a determined bastard!’

Lyon grinned. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone who would argue with that!’

THE BASTARD, the lousy, unfeeling bastard!

The accusation resounded round and round in Shay’s head all the way up the wide spiral staircase and along the hallway to the suite she and Ricky had shared for the first two years of their marriage. She stiffened as she entered, finding a young maid unpacking her suitcases for her; she had always taken care of the apartment herself in Los Angeles.

The young woman straightened, a pretty blonde with mischievous blue eyes, although she looked more than a little concerned at the moment. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Falconer?’

‘I’m fine—er—?’ She looked at the other woman enquiringly.

‘Patty,’ she supplied absently. ‘You look—ill,’ the maid finished awkwardly.

‘Could you possibly come back and do that later?’ Shay ignored the query in the other woman’s voice.

‘Of course,’ Patty agreed instantly. ‘Is there anything I can get you before I go?’ She still looked worried by how pale Shay was.

‘I believe someone was getting me a pot of tea,’ Shay managed steadily, wishing the other woman would just go—before she broke down.

Patty nodded. ‘I’ll bring it up to you.’

Shay nodded her gratitude, afraid to trust her voice again, standing straight and proud until the other woman had left the room, her shoulders drooping dejectedly as soon as she was alone. Damn Lyon, damn him to the hell he belonged in! How dare he replace Ricky as if he had been of no importance, and with Neil of all people. Not that she had anything against Neil, after Ricky he was by far the most uncomplicated, and likeable, of the Falconer men. But by putting him in Ricky’s place he made Ricky seem of no consequence, as if he had already been forgotten by the Falconer family.

He would never be forgotten by her—he had been loving, honest, and open, the two of them friends as well as lovers. In fact, they had been friends first. How dare Lyon do this to Ricky’s memory!

‘Is it safe to come in?’

She spun round at the sound of that gentle voice, her stormy gaze locking with Matthew’s mocking one. ‘What do you think?’ Shay muttered.

‘I think a man, but particularly a Falconer, would have to be a fool to want to interrupt your privacy at this precise moment,’ he drawled.

‘And are you a fool?’ she asked hardly.

‘I think I must be.’ Matthew propelled himself into the room with his uninjured hand at the controls. ‘Although perhaps the fact that I’ve brought your tea with me,’ he indicated the tray balancing on his knees, ‘will soften your heart towards me. I persuaded Patty to let me bring it up to you,’ he explained.

‘Come in, by all means.’ Shay turned towards the dressing-table mirror, removing the hat, also taking out the single comb that held her hair in place, running her fingers through the feathered waves as it cascaded down past her shoulders. ‘But don’t expect a pot of tea to soften my attitude towards the Falconer men,’ she advised sharply as she turned back to face him.

Matthew looked at her admiringly, completely undaunted by her harshness. ‘You look magnificent when you’re angry, Shay. Like a heroine from one of your own books,’ he added challengingly, putting down the tray to pour tea for both of them, adding the milk but no sugar that he knew Shay preferred.

She frowned. ‘You’ve read one of my books?’

‘Not just one, all five of them,’ he revealed with satisfaction.

She swallowed hard. ‘I see,’ Shay said tightly. ‘Out of curiosity?’ she challenged.

His mouth twisted. ‘A person only needs to read one book by a particular author out of curiosity, five can only be read out of enjoyment.’

‘You like historical romances?’ she asked sceptically.

‘I like yours.’

She gave him a scornful look. ‘Don’t think you have to say that; Lyon felt no compunction in telling me he’s never even looked at one!’

‘You should know me better than that, Shay,’ Matthew reproved. ‘I’ve never been known to waste my time on worthless compliments.’

It was a valid criticism; Matthew, like all the Falconer men, could be brutally honest. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly.

‘No, you aren’t,’ he accepted good-naturedly. ‘You’re so damned angry at all of us at the moment you would like nothing better than to tell us all to go to hell.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘So why don’t you?’

Shay looked at the gleam in his eyes, his expression of relish. ‘You would like that, wouldn’t you?’ she slowly began to smile.

Matthew shrugged. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Lyon this—’

‘I’d prefer not to discuss Lyon,’ Shay cut in forcefully. ‘I’ve done my best to forget his existence the last three years, and once—once all this is over, I shall endeavour to forget him again.’

‘You might have done your best, Shay,’ Matthew said gently. ‘But it wasn’t good enough.’

Her gaze sharpened. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I said I had read all of your books, Shay; Scarlet Lover was a written tribute to what you had with Lyon.’

‘It was the story of a man who was never satisfied with one woman, who trampled over the feelings of all women! Damn it, that character wasn’t the hero of the book!’ Her eyes glittered emotionally.

‘Maybe not,’ Matthew conceded. ‘But you left the readers wishing he were.’

She flushed. ‘Only another man could consider that immoral alley-cat a hero!’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ he said softly, ‘but didn’t your editor try to get you to change the end of the book so that de Coursey did get the heroine?’

Her eyes widened. ‘How did you know that?’ she demanded agitatedly.

‘You may have avoided coming back here to visit us the last three years,’ Matthew taunted, ‘but Ricky came back alone a few times.’

‘And he—he told you about the book?’ It was true, her editor had tried to get her to rewrite the end of Scarlet Lover, to make Leon de Coursey the hero, but she had refused, only her threat to withdraw the manuscript altogether making her editor accept that decision. But she hadn’t known Ricky had discussed it with anyone!

Matthew nodded. ‘He told me a lot of other things too, but I don’t think you’re ready to hear them just yet. I’ll leave you to drink your tea in peace.’ He put down his empty cup. ‘But, Shay,’ he paused at the door, ‘don’t be too hard on Lyon, he misses Ricky too.’

‘The two of them argued incessantly—’

‘I argue with Lyon too,’ Matthew insisted. ‘A lot of brothers argue, most siblings do, it doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. Don’t take out your anger and frustration on Lyon by making any assumptions concerning his emotions; I haven’t met anyone yet who has been able to work them out correctly—and that includes me,’ came his dry parting comment.

She had thought she knew Lyon’s emotions very well once, had believed he was in love with her. But like the fictitious character she had created in his image, he hadn’t cared about her feelings, or any other woman’s for that matter.

After she had seen him that first time, in the typing pool, Shay had looked out for him everywhere. Not that it did her much good, to the lower echelon in which she included herself he was a pretty elusive figure, keeping to the executive upper floors when he wasn’t travelling to his other offices in Europe and America; in fact she had a feeling his visit to the typing pool that day had been his first and his last. But he could occasionally be seen striding about the building with one of his executives, and Shay had made the most of those times, magnetised by the ruthlessness of his masculine beauty.

But she was only one of the many females who felt that way about the charismatic Lyon Falconer—almost every woman in the building, young and old alike, found him just as fascinating. In fact, visible employer or not, he was the main source of gossip among the female staff. It was from them that Shay learnt he was married, a fact, no matter how remote her own chances were of attracting him, that had caused her considerable pain. But the same grapevine had informed her that he and his wife were separated, that they had lived their lives separately for some time. All the women had agreed that a divorce took some time to effect, and that in the mean time Lyon Falconer was as good as single again, there for any woman brave enough to try and attract him.

Shay certainly wasn’t brave enough. At eighteen she had only been in London just over a year, having been brought up in Ireland by her grandfather since she was ten, her parents killed in a car crash at that time. The soft Irish brogue she had acquired during her seven years in Ireland had made her the recipient of considerable teasing when she first moved to London and began working in the typing pool of the Falconer company, the diversities of their many interests, the considerable property they owned, making them a good company to work for.

The brogue had all but disappeared during the next year, until it was just a lilt to her speech, giving her voice a charming sing-song effect. John Turner, one of the accountants for the company, claimed it was the magic of her voice that made him constantly hound her for a date. He was pleasant enough, blond and handsome, but he nevertheless didn’t appeal to her, although he refused to take no for an answer. The Christmas party was almost her downfall as far as he was concerned—instead she had jumped from the frying pan into the flames of hell!

It was a noisy party held in the spacious and attractive cafeteria, plenty of food supplied by the company, drink too, and a lot too much flirting between people who had no right to be flirting at all. Shay ignored the food, stayed away from the drink, and avoided the flirting whenever she could. That was until John Turner cornered her in the kitchen.

‘Well if it isn’t my little Irish colleen,’ he affected an amateurish Irish accent as he advanced on her.

She had escaped to the kitchen minutes earlier to get some air, the adjoining room smoke-filled and noisy as loud music played and everyone talked at once trying to be heard above it. ‘I’ve told you before, I’m not Irish,’ she said icily, pushing at hands that seemed to be everywhere at once.

‘With a name like Shay Flanagan?’ he scorned, managing to trap her hands against his chest as his arms held her immobile.

‘My father was Irish,’ she sighed. ‘Will you please let me go?’ The smell of the alcohol he had consumed made her feel nauseous.

‘If you give me a kiss I might think about it,’ he leered suggestively.

Shay grimaced her distaste of the idea, finding him only tolerable at the best of times, totally disgusted with his state of inebriation. ‘Let me go, John,’ she ordered in a firm voice.

‘And just what are you going to do about it if I don’t?’ he taunted.

‘Try me?’ Shay challenged softly.

In answer his arms tightened about her, his whisky-smelling breath fast nearing her mouth. It took only a second to lift her foot, place her stiletto heel on his toes, and grind down.

‘Why you little—’

‘That will be enough, Turner. It is Turner, isn’t it?’ queried an icy voice.

They both turned guiltily, Shay paling as she saw who the witness to the embarrassing scene had been, John looking ashen as he hastily moved away from her and turned to face their employer.

‘Yes—er—sir,’ he swallowed hard. ‘It was only a little harmless fun,’ he whined defensively.

‘I don’t believe miss Flanagan agrees with you.’ He turned to her questioningly.

Shay was dumb-struck, had never been this close to Lyon Falconer before, the tawny eyes as yellow as a cat’s, the ruthlessness she had sensed in him at first glance having given him lines of cynicism beside his nose and mouth, the latter faintly contemptuous as he took in her ruffled appearance.

‘Miss Flanagan?’ he prompted hardly at her silence. ‘If you would like me to leave the two of you alone again, then just say so,’ he taunted.

She blinked, recovering herself with effort. ‘I’m sure John would like to rejoin the party,’ she said quietly.

John looked disconcerted, frowning at her. ‘Don’t you want to come with me?’

Tawny eyes held her gaze, challenging her answer. ‘I think I’ll stay here for a while,’ she answered John but it was to Lyon Falconer she looked as she spoke, their gazes locked.

Neither of them seemed consciously aware of John Turner leaving, although Shay shifted uncomfortably once she realised she was completely alone with the man she had been gazing at longingly for months now. What to say to him, what could she say that would hold his interest for longer than it would take him to excuse himself politely and leave!

‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Dance?’ she repeated with forced nonchalance, certain he couldn’t be serious. But surely the request was taking the bounds of politeness too far? Besides, she hadn’t heard it was a quality he was known for!

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘Or what passes for dancing out there right now,’ he drawled.

She had seen for herself the erotic movements of the few couples that were bothering to dance; it had been one of the reasons she had escaped to the adjoining room. She certainly couldn’t imagine herself dancing with Lyon Falconer in that way! ‘I don’t think so,’ she grimaced.

‘No, possibly not,’ he agreed dryly. ‘A drink, then?’

‘I don’t drink.’ She shook her head.

‘Food?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

He shrugged broad shoulders beneath the expensively tailored suit, its chocolate-brown colour making his hair look a light tawny colour. ‘That would seem to take care of that.’ He turned to leave.

Panic rose up within Shay at the thought of his going. So she didn’t drink alcohol, and she wasn’t hungry, she could have pretended, damn it! ‘Mr Falconer!’ Her frantic call stopped him and he turned back to her with mockingly raised brows. It was then that she realised he had been playing with her, that he knew all the time she wanted to be with him, to spend time with him. He knew exactly what effect he had on her, on all women! She moistened her lips. ‘I just wanted to wish you a “Merry Christmas”,’ she lied, knowing she had been about to tell him she had changed her mind about the drink. But it was the fact that he knew it, that he had expected it, that made her contrarily change her mind.

He looked taken aback. ‘Merry Christmas?’ he repeated incredulously.

‘Yes,’ Shay confirmed brightly. ‘You see, I have to be leaving now.’

He frowned, totally disconcerted. ‘You have—someone, to go home to?’

She wasn’t leaving for Ireland until the following day, but she still had her packing to complete. Besides, she didn’t like to admit to this man how alone she was, somehow felt as if that were asking for his company. ‘I’m going away tomorrow,’ she smiled. ‘I have some last-minute things to do.’

A shadow seemed to pass over Lyon Falconer’s ruggedly handsome face. ‘I’m going away for the holiday period myself,’ he revealed abruptly.

Shay could imagine him on the ski-slopes of some exclusive resort, or possibly lazing on the beach of a South Sea island, or perhaps sailing the calm seas on a leisurely cruise. ‘I doubt if your idea of going away for Christmas is the same as mine,’ she drawled, her eyes aglow with humour.

His eyes narrowed, his mouth tightening at her derision. ‘I’m going to Bermuda.’

She smiled at her second guess being the closest. ‘And I’m going back to my grandfather’s home in Ireland, a small cottage, a real fire instead of an electric one, and a tree that sheds its pine-needles all over the carpet!’ It wasn’t until she began talking about it that she realised how much she had missed her home this last year, and how much she was looking forward to seeing it again.

‘You’re homesick,’ Lyon Falconer stated abruptly.

‘Yes,’ Shay confirmed huskily.

‘If you miss it so much what are you doing in London?’ he frowned.

‘My grandfather didn’t want me to marry Devlin Murphy,’ she recalled with a smile.

‘Devlin Murphy?’ the man across the room from her repeated sharply.

She nodded. ‘He lives next door to my grandfather.’

‘And you were in love with him?’

‘No.’ She laughed at the idea. ‘But my grandfather was afraid that I might be if I didn’t get away and see something of the world other than Ireland.’

‘And now that you’ve seen it?’

Her laughter faded, a sad look in deep purple eyes. ‘Now I know that although I love the place I could never settle for a small cottage in Ireland for the rest of my life, even it if does have a real fire,’ she admitted with a sigh of regret.

‘Nice to visit but you don’t want to live there,’ Lyon Falconer derided.

She became conscious of exactly who it was she was revealing her inner feelings to, stiffening slightly. ‘You’re very cynical,’ she told him without thinking, blushing fiery red when she did so.

‘But correct,’ he mocked.

‘Yes,’ she bit out. ‘I hope you have a nice time in Bermuda.’ Shay moved to brush past him as he still stood near the door.

He grasped her arm. ‘Come for a drive with me,’ he invited huskily.

‘A—a drive?’ She swallowed hard, his closeness unnerving her.

‘Yes.’ His gaze held hers, purple captivated by yellow cat’s eyes. ‘You don’t want to dance, you aren’t hungry, and you don’t drink, that only leaves going for a drive,’ he drawled.

‘But it’s late …’

‘Does that matter?’ he encouraged throatily.

Of course it didn’t matter! ‘Where will we go?’ asked Shay breathlessly.

‘Wherever fate decides to take us,’ he answered with surprising intensity. ‘Shay …?’

‘Yes?’ He was so close now their thighs were almost touching.

‘Do you believe in fate?’

After tonight she believed in anything! ‘I think so,’ she nodded.

He gave a sudden grin, looking younger, his hand sliding down her wrist to capture hers. ‘Then let’s see what it holds in store for us!’ He seemed to be challenging that fate, daring it to deny him something he wanted very much—and that something was Shay.

Shay should have known then not to become involved with a man who challenged life itself, who lived his life as if each moment were his last, should have run from him before he had the chance to hurt her. But she hadn’t run, had allowed him to pull her through the crowded adjoining room, into the lift and out to his waiting car, filling her with the same recklessness that had possessed him.

They hadn’t spoken as they drove, but there was none of the awkward silence between them that should have existed, the smiles Lyon sent her way filling her with a quiet glow of expectation.

He stopped the car near Regent Street, taking her hand to walk at her side down the dazzling street, the famous Christmas lights filling them both with a childish sense of the ridiculous, each picking out the unlikeliest items in the illuminated shop windows that they would like under their tree Christmas morning.

‘But what I’d really like,’ Lyon suddenly turned to growl, ‘is an Irish pixie with purple eyes.’

Colour flooded her cheeks as he held her intimately against him, making no secret of his stirring arousal as he moved his thighs against hers. ‘I’m too tall to be a pixie,’ Shay told him awkwardly.

‘One of the “little people" then,’ Lyon mocked her.

‘It’s the same thing,’ she said crossly. ‘And on Christmas morning I intend being under my own tree in Ireland, opening my own presents!’

‘Pity,’ he drawled, swinging her away from him. ‘What shall we do now?’

She pulled a face at the lateness of the hour. ‘I’m usually in bed at two o’clock in the—’ She broke off as she realised exactly what she was inviting with her thoughtlessly spoken words.

‘What an excellent idea,’ Lyon mocked. ‘Your bed or mine?’ He quirked dark blond brows.

‘Neither,’ Shay gasped. ‘I may have impulsively left the party with you, Mr Falconer,’ her Irish accent returned in her agitation, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to jump into bed with you!’

‘Why not? You want me, don’t you.’ It was a statement not a question. ‘I could see that you did the moment our eyes met across the typing pool that day.’

‘You—you saw me then?’ She looked up at him with startled eyes.

His mouth twisted. ‘It isn’t every day I encounter a purple-eyed pixie, especially one that looks at me so longingly, which was why I made it my business to find out your name. Did you like what you saw that day, Shay?’

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, her cheeks becoming even redder as she saw the way he was watching the provocative movement.

‘Do you like what you see tonight?’ His gaze compelled her to answer.

‘Mr Falconer, please—’

‘I’d like to, Shay, I’d like to pleasure every silken inch of you, to taste you, to have you taste me in return.’ His gaze was fixed on her lips as he slowly bent down to her.

His verbal lovemaking made her quiver with expectation, her lips already parted for the invasion of his kiss, and it was an invasion, the silken thrust of his tongue plundering deeper and deeper inside, inviting her to do the same to him. The lights, the softly falling snow, the noise of the people and traffic, all faded with the intensity of that kiss, Lyon finally the one to pull away.

‘Shay, come home with me,’ he invited hoarsely, his forehead resting on hers as they both trembled, his skin warm and damp.

‘I can’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I have to go home and finish packing, I leave for Dublin in the morning.’

‘Don’t go,’ Lyon grated. ‘Come to Bermuda with me!’

Her sceptical gaze found only deep seriousness in his expression. ‘I can’t do that,’ Shay finally murmured. ‘My grandfather is expecting me.’

‘I want you with me,’ Lyon told her arrogantly.

He sounded like someone who was never denied something he had decided he wanted! ‘I’m sorry,’ Shay refused stiltedly, ‘but I promised my grandfather I would go home.’

‘And what about me?’ Lyon demanded harshly, the desire fading from those unusual eyes. ‘Does what we have end here and now?’

‘Not if you don’t want it to.’ Her voice was a soft apology. ‘We could meet when you get back from Bermuda and I come home from Ireland.’

‘So we could,’ Lyon grated his displeasure. ‘Well, I’d better get you home.’

She had known he was angry, that he was still angry when he left her at her home fifteen minutes later having made no arrangements to see her again after Christmas as she had suggested they should.

She had spent a miserable Christmas in Dublin with her grandfather, had sensed the elderly man’s concern when she constantly assured him she was perfectly all right; he just wouldn’t have understood if she had told him she was pining for a man like Lyon Falconer, a man who was still married and also fifteen years her senior.

She would have been much better off if Lyon had remained angry with her, if he hadn’t telephoned down to her desk several weeks later and ordered her up to his office on the fourteenth floor!