Читать книгу Family Secrets - Ruth Dale Jean - Страница 10

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.

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.