Читать книгу Family Secrets - Ruth Dale Jean - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You had dinner together?”

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

“No, don’t do that.”

He frowned. “Beg pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did?”

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

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

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

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

“She gone?” Bruce asked him.

“Who?”

“Sharlee! Who’d you think I meant?”

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

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

Curious, Eric followed his boss inside.

“Shut the door!” Bruce hissed.

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

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

“Whaddaya know about Sharlee?”

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

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

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

“I thought you dated her.”

“Yeah, a time or two.”

“So?”

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

“Yeah, yeah, what else?”

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

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

“Everybody does.”

“He asked for Charlotte Lyon.”

“I know.”

“And Sharlee answered.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So she’s a Lyon!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, whatever. You run along.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And stopped short.

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

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

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

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

And smiled. His smile could melt diamonds.

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

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

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

He looked hurt. “I’ve got ID.”

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

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

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

Her knees nearly buckled. “You’re making étouffée?” It had been years since she’d had étouffée or jambalaya or any of the other favorites from her youth, although she’d hoped to get to a good restaurant when she’d been in New Orleans in July. As things turned out, she hadn’t had time.

He hesitated and his expression softened. “Chère, you look like you’re about to salivate. Sure, I made étouffée. I had to use frozen crawfish—” he made a disparaging face “—and I had to run all over hell’s half acre to find even that.”

She smelled it now, a savory aroma redolent of spices. “But I can’t eat now,” she groaned.

“Why? Did you have time for dinner earlier?”

“No, but...it’s after nine. If I eat now, I’ll never get to sleep.”

“Whatever you say. I’ve already eaten, so I’ll just put the rest in the refrigerator. You can have it tomorrow.”

“Don’t you dare!”

He laughed. “Sit down, then, and I’ll serve you.”

A little shiver of awareness rippled down her spine. He’d served her before—and she’d lived to regret it.

Nevertheless, she sat down at the card table, closing her eyes to better appreciate the lovely aromas wafting from her kitchen. Better to think of food than of this man who’d reappeared to screw up her life all over again.

SHARLEE GROANED and pushed aside her empty bowl. “I can’t eat another bite,” she declared. “Dev, that was wonderful. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed down-home cookin’.”

“I figured.” He stacked her empty rice bowl inside the étouffée bowl.

“I didn’t know you were such a good cook.”

“I’ve got lots of talents you don’t know about.”

That startled her out of her satisfied stupor. “Is breaking and entering among those talents?”

“Ah, Sharlee.” He had the good grace to look sorry, although it might have been an act. “When your grandmother told me not to come back without you—”

“Did she really say that?”

“Absolutely. She wants you home and she’s not in any mood to take no for an answer. But when she said that, I thought, hell, why not get you in a good mood by surprising you with a nice dinner? So I shopped—which isn’t easy in this town—and came on over. I had to talk my way in and then after I did, I realized I had no idea when you’d be getting home.”

“You still seem to have timed things well.” She looked at him with renewed suspicion.

“That’s because I called your office. Some guy in the newsroom said you were at a meeting that would probably run three hours, give or take. So I did everything except the last-minute stuff and settled down to wait.”

She pursed her lips. “Well, I’ll admit the food was great but you’re not going to soften me up with étouffée . You’re nothing but Grandmère’s errand boy and I am not going back to New Orleans with you, even if you feed me great meals every day of the week.”

“Okay,” he said as easily as if she’d refused another slice of bread.

She blinked. “Okay?”

“Sure, why not?” He picked up the dirty dishes. “I’m glad you’re sticking to your principles.”

“You are?”

“Hell, yes! As long as you refuse to listen to reason, I get a free Colorado vacation. Because Margaret Lyon has made it clear that if I don’t come home with you, I’m not to come home at all—period, end of discussion.”

She laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but who am I to argue with Iron Margaret?” He winked and carried the dishes into the kitchen. He returned with two steaming mugs of coffee.

She shook her head regretfully. “I can’t.”

“Decaf.”

He put hers down and she saw that he’d already added milk to make a primitive version of café au lait. So he remembered what she liked. But did he remember all of it or just this?

She looked away. “I’m too tired to argue.”

“Is that the secret, then? Wear you to a frazzle and you turn all soft and agreeable?”

She didn’t like being called “soft and agreeable” when in this man’s company; it was just another way of saying “vulnerable,” and she never intended to be that with him again. But she couldn’t quite think of a way to reprimand him so she hedged. “I’ve had a hard day, if you must know.”

“Poor Sharlee. Drink your coffee and you’ll feel better.”

She took a sip, then lifted her gaze and said impulsively, “Dev, why did you quit your job at WDIX—really?”

“I told you, I—”

“No, I don’t want some vague explanation.” She shook her head vigorously. “I honestly want to know. I thought that’s all you ever wanted to do—work in television.”

His face grew serious. “Politics,” he said finally.

“What did you have to do with politics? You weren’t a newsman or anything like that.”

“Family politics,” he elaborated.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” She stifled a yawn, although she was intensely interested. A hard day and a fabulous meal had conspired to make her drowsy.

“They all wanted a piece of me,” he said finally. “I couldn’t be loyal to everybody, and I couldn’t bring myself to make a choice and cut off the rest. So I quit.”

She regarded him with new respect. “We come from a complicated family, Dev,” she said with a sigh. “I can sympathize with you, but why a restaurant, of all things?”

“A café, really. It was funny how it happened. I was looking around for a business opportunity and ran into an old school friend. He’s a chef, and since I practically grew up with the restaurant business, it was a natural.”

“Is this your secret ambition—to own a restaurant of your own?”

He shrugged. “To be perfectly honest, I’m still not sure what I want to be when I grow up. This is something to do until I make up my mind. I liked television, but in New Orleans...” He shook his head as if rejecting his years at WDIX.

“You could leave New Orleans,” she said softly. “It’s not the only city in the country.”

He frowned. “It’s home. Everybody I love is there.”

She felt a pang at his words. Everybody she loved was there, too, but she’d left regardless. Maybe his ties were stronger than hers, although now that his mother was dead...

“I’m sorry about your mother,” she said suddenly. “Leslie told me.”

“Thank you, but don’t change the subject. Is Calhoun your idea of paradise?”

“Not hardly.” She laughed dubiously. “I want to work in California eventually, but so does everyone else in journalism.” She felt a twinge between her shoulder blades and straightened.

“You could always just move out there and start looking.” He walked to the love seat, where he scooped up several small corduroy pillows.

“What would I live on until I found something? My financial situation...is not good. I’ve had a lot of expenses lately.” Like keeping her car running, paying off credit-card debts she’d run up years ago when she’d still had expectations of a juicy trust fund. She’d scissored all her plastic more than two years ago, but it had still taken forever to get out of debt.

“You could always live on charm.” He flashed that grin again. Dropping the pillows onto an area rug on the hardwood floor, he beckoned her with a crooked finger.

She automatically leaned away. “What?”

“You’re a mess. I’m gonna straighten out a few of those kinks.”

“What kinks?”

“The ones in your back...your shoulders...your neck. C’mon, Sharlee, we don’t have all night.”

She couldn’t believe he was serious. “You want me to lie down on the floor and turn you loose on my back?”

“That’s right. You won’t regret it, either. I dated a physiotherapist for a long time—six months, at least. You can trust me. I’m good.”

She couldn’t trust him, not about this or anything else. He was too slick; she’d forgotten how slick, or maybe he hadn’t been quite so polished before.

She said a dignified, “No, thank you,” and stood up. Then, despite all her good intentions to the contrary, that ache between her shoulder blades made her groan.

“Jeez,” he said, “you are one headstrong woman.”

Before she could resist, he had her by the elbows, maneuvered her into place and pressed her gently down. Confused and off guard, her panicky gaze met his.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “I won’t get out of line, I promise.”

“I never thought you...”

He flipped her over onto her stomach and her protests died away. She lay there on the middle of her living-room floor like a sacrificial lamb, waiting for the ax.

What she got was not cold steel but the press of warm strong hands. That initial contact literally took her breath away.

“This would work better if you’d take off that blouse,” he murmured. “I mean, it’ll work fairly well this way but—”

“It’s this way or forget it,” she said. And then she did groan. “My God, that feels wonderful.”

“Thanks. It’ll feel even better once you start to relax.”

Relax. Even those strong fingers kneading the clenched muscles of her shoulders couldn’t make her relax.

“I saw Leslie the other day,” he said, sliding his hands down her sides while his thumbs dug into the channels on either side of her spine. He settled himself astride her, his thighs tight to hers.

Sharlee felt as if she’d been immobilized by an electrical shock. His hands moved across her back, pressing and kneading, while his legs imprisoned her. Somehow he seemed to be relaxing her exterior while arousing her interior.

“Uhh...that’s probably enough,” she ventured weakly. “You don’t have to keep—”

“Just a minute more.” Those magic hands skimmed over her shoulder blades and slipped between her arms and her torso, pressing against the sides of her breasts before moving down to her waist. She wanted to scream at him, tell him not to try anything, tell him to keep his cotton-pickin’ hands where they belonged, tell him... that what she felt wasn’t really a rush of surrender and he was wasting his time if he thought so.

“Better?” He paused with his hands on either side of her waist.

“Yes.” It came out a strangled groan.

“We’re almost finished, then.”

His hands left her body to settle on either side of her head, fingers threading through her hair. The press and pull mesmerized her as he worked across her scalp and down to her neck. She felt limp as a wet dishrag, tight as a dry sponge. She felt so many things that her mind reeled.

A quick pat on the rump yanked her back to reality and his weight lifted.

“That should help you sleep,” he said in a low voice.

She wanted to yell at him, say, You idiot, now I’ll never sleep because you’ve got me so damned worked up. She rolled onto her back and found him standing over her, his legs on either side of her thighs.

“Yes, thanks.” She made no move to rise because to do so would lead to more physical contact, and she didn’t think she could stand that. How long had it been since she’d been so aroused by a man?

A long time. Too long, actually.

He offered a hand. “Let me help you up.”

“I can get up by myself.” She scooted out from under him then, one of her knees sliding lightly against his leg. She stood up, making a big production of smoothing her clothes back into place. “Th-thanks for everything—dinner, the back rub. Now I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“Hard day tomorrow?”

“All my days are hard.” Harder, with you in town.

“Okay.” He turned toward the door. “What shall I tell your grandmother?”

“That I love her and I’m not moving back to Lyoncrest.”

“She didn’t say you had to move into the family mansion, although I know she’d like that. She just wants you in town, nearby in case anything happens to—”

“In case anyone in my family wants to tell me how to run my life. No way. Been there, done that.”

“Okay. I’ll tell her.” Giving her a two-fingered salute, he paused in the doorway. “Sleep tight.”

“I will.”

Only she didn’t.

SHE APPEARED FOR WORK the next day red-eyed and tired and feeling harassed and persecuted.

Whereupon Bruce called her into his office and fired her.