“There are a lot of ways to get to somebody, Sharlee. Once...” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN EPILOGUE FAMILY FORTUNE Copyright

“There are a lot of ways to get to somebody, Sharlee. Once...”

As Dev moved toward her, she wanted to run, to turn around and bolt into her bedroom and slam the door. But she knew she had to face him down. “I don’t want to hear about ‘once.’ What’s past is past.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

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

“Whether any of the old feelings still exist. If It’ll be the same...worse...better.”

He was taking control away from her, and she had to get it back. “Why don’t we find out?”

She put her arms around his neck—careful of the glass she was holding. And with all the insolence she could summon, she pressed her lips to his.

For an instant she was in control. Then he came to life, and she tasted trouble. There was no way on earth she could resist the deluge of memories or the stunning sensations that made her right hand relax....

“What the—?” He jumped away from her as if burned. “Did you do that on purpose?”

It took her a moment to realize the ice and liquid in her glass had soaked him. Did she do it on purpose? No way had she been thinking straight enough to plan such a revenge. Of course, there was no reason he had to know that....

Dear Reader,

Sometimes it seems as if I know the Lyon family of New Orleans better than I know my own. Although the Lyons are fictional, I’ve lived with them so long and so intimately that I find myself thinking of them as if they were real. I’ve even explored the Lyon family tree using genealogy software, while struggling to reconcile dates and events that stretch back to the last century.

I don’t know nearly as much about my own family, but perhaps the Lyons will inspire me to remedy that situation. If I ever find the time, I’d like to join those legions who are making genealogy so popular today.

But if that does happen, I doubt I’ll find the same kind of excitement at home that I found at Lyoncrest. I’m fairly certain none of my family’s secrets can rival those of this fictional clan. Of course, I had a little help from Peg Sutherland and Roz Denny Fox, who have Lyon stories of their own to tell....

Once you’ve read Family Secrets, Family Fortune and Family Reunion, you’ll know all about the Lyons, too. We only hope you like them as much as we do.

Sincerely,

Ruth Jean Dale

Family Secrets
Ruth Jean Dale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book could only have happened with “a little help from

my friends.” First and foremost, there’s Peg Sutherland and

Roz Denny Fox, terrific writers, all-around swell human

beings and great fun to work with. And for research

assistance, I’m indebted to Robyn Brownley Fennesy

and Tricia Kay, who answered my distress call.

On behalf of me ’n Neva Dalcour, “Thanks, y’all!”

THE LYON FAMILY

PROLOGUE

New Orleans, Fourth of July 1999

SHARLEE INCHED HER WAY through the crowd toward the door of the rehearsal hall at WDIX-TV, trying to look inconspicuous. If she were to make a clean get-away, the time was now, while the place was still mobbed by friends, family, employees, media and Very Important People celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the station established by her grandparents, Paul and Margaret Lyon. No one paid Sharlee the slightest heed, which was exactly the way she liked it.

She hadn’t wanted to come to this overblown extravaganza in the first place but there’d been no way to avoid it without making relations with her family even more strained. Neatly lifting a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter, she managed a mechanical smile for her father, briefly visible across the room. Fortunately her mother was nowhere in sight.

Why couldn’t her parents understand that she, at almost twenty-five, was an independent woman who could make her way in the world without benefit of the Lyon name? She felt so strongly about this that at her job as a newspaper reporter in suburban Denver, she went by a nickname bestowed on her many years ago by a lost love—Sharlee—and her middle name, Hollander. Charlotte Lyon had been “gone” from the family nest since she left for boarding school almost nine years before.

Yet here she was, pretending for the sake of public relations that she actually belonged to this illustrious clan. Her grandfather, Paul Lyon, was an icon once known throughout the South as the Voice of Dixie; her father, André Lyon, was a devoted family man and pillar of the community who had taken WDIX-TV to new heights. Her grandmother Margaret and mother Gabrielle had both played important roles at WDIX while at the same time raising their children, loving their husbands, nurturing their community and doing it all with perfect public grace.

At least, Mama had done it all until the birth of her only son seven years ago. At that point, Gaby had “retired” to stay home with Andrew Paul, universally called Andy-Paul. Also living at the family manse in the Garden District were Sharlee’s sister Leslie, her husband, Michael McKay, and his daughter, seven-year-old Cory. Leslie’s first pregnancy had been revealed only minutes earlier, to the delight of the family.

Sharlee hated envying anyone anything, but this time she couldn’t help herself. Just what she needed: an older sister who had it all, including the approval of the entire family, and an adorable little brother to carry on the Lyon name.

Her arm was inadvertently jostled, making her champagne splash over the rim of her glass. She turned to see who the guilty party was and found herself standing behind two courtly old gentlemen deep in conversation. Her grandfather and his brother, Charles, both in their eighties. She edged closer, her curiosity roused by the almost conspiratorial tone of their voices.

“So now the history of the Lyons is an open book,” Paul was saying cynically. “The truth, the whole truth...”

To which granduncle Charles replied, “I was there, brother dear. There are more secrets in this family than candles on that cake—and someday they’ll all be revealed.”

Sharlee frowned. What on earth were they talking about? What secrets? As far as she knew, all the other Lyons were models of decorum. Would that she could say the same about herself! But now Granduncle Charles was suggesting something altogether different, and she waited for Grandpère to refute him.

And waited.

And began to wonder. Could it be true? Secrets—perhaps Charles was talking about his own branch of the family tree.

He and his son, Alain, were not only active in Lyon Broadcasting but owned one of the most elegant French restaurants in New Orleans. She’d just eaten several cheese-and-shrimp-stuffed mushrooms from Chez Charles, reminding her of one of the few things she missed about New Orleans: the food. All of Charles’s descendents had moved dutifully into one or the other of the family businesses, and participated in such endeavors as this grand anniversary celebration.

Unlike Sharlee, who’d vowed early on to go her own way and had proceeded to do so, consequences be damned.

She had long since concluded that she was the only person in the family with a wild streak. In her teens she’d been the kid who got suspended from school for practical jokes, who got into curfew trouble with the cops, who sneaked out of the house to meet boys, who got caught drinking by the nuns. She was also the one who was arrested in campus demonstrations at college and who got into a humongous confrontation with her mother on her twenty-first birthday, which resulted in her decision to take a job in Colorado, instead of moving back home after graduation.

The result of all this rebellion was her parents’ refusal to release her trust fund on schedule. Their lack of faith actually hurt more than being deprived of the money—although money was nice, too, she recalled.

This waltz down memory lane was getting her nowhere. She had a plane to catch, people to avoid. Even so, the conversation between the two old men had sent her reporter’s instincts into high gear. Perhaps if she lingered for just a few more minutes, she might hear a few interesting, perhaps even scandalous, tidbits about the Lyons....

But then she saw Devin Oliver heading her way, a determined expression on his handsome face. Her heart stood still. He looked wonderful with his curly almost-black hair and his deep almost-black eyes.

She’d managed to avoid him on this trip as she’d pretty much avoided her parents and anyone else wearing a serious expression, but her luck might be running out.

The last thing she needed was a run-in with a former lover now on her father’s payroll. Turning quickly away, she ducked behind a cluster of celebrants and beat a hasty retreat, resolutely ignoring Dev’s voice behind her.

“Sharlee, wait! You can’t go on avoiding me forever.”

CHAPTER ONE

DEV OLIVER STOOD in the open front door of the Donna Buy Ya Café on the edge of the French Market in New Orleans’s Vieux Carré. It was another blistering hot August day. Across the street, a couple of little boys danced for tourist coins while the Balloon Man paused for a moment to watch and tap his toes. Farther down the block, a street musician pulled a saxophone from a ragged case, raised it to his lips and began to play.

New Orleans, Dev’s home, a city like no other in the world. He smiled and was about to go back inside—a thousand chores awaited—when a flash of movement made him hesitate. He watched a long shiny limousine glide to the curb. His first thought was, That’s a No Parking zone and you’re in big trouble if you stay there, mister.

His second thought was, I’m in no shape to be welcoming Lyons and neither is this place.

“Shit,” he said, looking down at the grubby T-shirt stuck to his torso by sweat, the dingy jeans and scruffy sneakers, all of which were the result of a morning spent trying to get the restaurant fit to open. He stepped inside. “We got company,” he said to the man behind the counter.

“Anyone we know?” Felix Brown had a gentle voice but the build of a football player. He was also a hell of a cook and Dev’s partner in this enterprise, assuming, of course, the Donna Buy Ya ever actually opened. For everything they fixed, something else went to hell; for every permit granted, two more hit snags. At this rate they’d be lucky to open by Mardi Gras.

Dev jerked his chin toward the white-haired grande dame alighting from the limo with the assistance of the uniformed chauffeur. “Iron Margaret herself,” he said. “You ever met her, Felix?”

“Me? Get outta here. Where would I meet Miz Lyon?”

“She likes to eat. Although I don’t know why she’d be visiting a shirttail relative like me.” He stepped outside onto the sidewalk. “Welcome to Donna Buy Ya, Tante Margaret.”

“Devin, dear.” She offered her powdered and perfumed cheek for his kiss. “I’ve missed your smiling face around WDIX.”

“Thanks.” He stepped aside and held the door for her. “I don’t think you’ve met my partner, Felix Brown. Felix, Margaret Lyon, the power behind the throne at WDIX-TV.”

Felix’s massive black paw enveloped hers. He stood more than a foot taller than Margaret, and she was not a petite woman.

“Glad to meet you,” he said. “Hungry? It’s Monday so I got the red beans and rice goin’, or I could whip you up a po’boy in nothin’ flat.” Felix just loved feeding people; it was his raison d’être.

Margaret smiled. “Thank you, no. I’ll come back and try the bill of fare when you’ve opened for business.”

Felix looked disappointed. “Nothin’ at all? How about somethin’ to drink?”

“Iced tea would be pleasant.”

“I gotcha covered.” He gave her a thumb’s-up.

She watched him trot toward the kitchen. “He seems nice,” she commented. “How did you meet him, Devin?”

“We went to school together.”

“Old friends tend to be the best.”

Dev pulled out one of the chairs that had come with the place—either old or antique, depending on your point of view. “To what do we owe this honor?”

She sat down, her movements ladylike and precise. “The honor is mine,” she countered, folding her hands neatly on the plastic tablecloth. “I’m the first member of the family to see the enterprise that’s taken you away from us.”

Dev felt a familiar stab of guilt. Until recently he’d worked for WDIX- TV as assistant to station manager André Lyon. It was a job he’d loved in an industry he still loved. But family politics—specifically the long-simmering feud between the two branches of the Lyon family—had finally made him too uncomfortable to remain.

He’d hesitated to leave, knowing his stepfather, Alain, would be furious. But when his mother died last January, Dev had felt free to do anything he wanted, and there wasn’t a damned thing Alain or anybody else could do about it.

So he’d quit.

“WDIX will get along fine without me,” he said, sitting down across from her. “It was time.”

Felix plunked down two tall glasses of sparkling clear iced tea. “Do you want sugar or anythin’?”

“Sugar, please.”

Felix opened one big hand and several packets tumbled onto the table. “You sure there’s nothin’ else I can get you?”

“Quite sure.” She ripped open a packet and poured the white crystals into her glass. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Now I hafta get back on that telephone. We gotta get this air conditioner workin’ right. Nice meetin’ you, Miz Lyon.”

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Brown.” Margaret poked at an ice cube in an effort to stir the sugar into the tea. When Felix was gone, she said to Dev, “That young man is your partner, you say?”

“That’s right. He’s got the know-how and I’ve got the money—or at least enough to get us started.” Once escrow closed on his mother’s house in the bayou, his financial situation would improve vastly.

Margaret nodded thoughtfully. “The name is quite amusing—Down at the Bayou with a local accent.”

“Felix’s idea. Goes with Cajun and soul food.”

She picked up her tea and sipped it in silence, and it occurred to him that she seemed uncomfortable for some reason. While he searched for a way to put her at ease, she sighed and lifted her gaze to meet his.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve intruded upon your time here today.”

“I figured you’d get around to telling me sooner or later. Take your time, Tante Margaret.”

Her face tensed almost imperceptibly. “That’s just the problem. I’m not sure how much time I have—or more properly, how much time Paul has.”

Dev straightened in his chair, all the lightness going out of his mood. “There’s something wrong with Mr. Lyon?” She might be Tante Margaret, but her husband was never anything other than Mr. Lyon.

She sighed. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to alarm you. He’s... as fine as can be expected. But, Devin, I need a favor, a very important favor. Since I don’t wish to be in anyone’s debt, I’ll insist upon paying for it by backing this enterprise of yours financially.”

He stiffened, all too aware of what he already owed this woman and her family. For years she and her husband had backed the other restaurant, the one inherited by his step-grandfather Charles sometime after the big family breakup in 1949. That other wealthier branch of the Lyon family had continued to provide infusions of cash until Alain took over from Charles in 1985, after which the restaurant apparently began turning a profit.

Charles was no businessman. Everybody in the family knew that, although nobody ever talked openly about it. They talked privately, though, and often to Dev, who’d realized long ago that he attracted confidences. As a result he often found himself burdened with secrets he preferred not to know.

But Margaret Lyon was special. She’d been kind to his mother both before and after the divorce. Margaret had even dropped by the hospital during Yvette’s last illness, and she’d been the only Lyon who’d attended the funeral.

Tight-jawed but trying not to reveal the pressure he felt, Dev spoke calmly. “I won’t take your money, Tante Margaret. I’m already in your debt for past kindnesses. Of course, I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

She sighed. “I’ve offended you.”

“Not at all. I appreciate the offer...but I just don’t know what I could do for you that others couldn’t do better.” Suddenly he wondered what he would say if she asked him to return to WDIX. His belly clenched at that possibility.

“You’re the only one who can do this.” She drew a deep breath and spoke in a rush. “Devin, I want you to go to Colorado and convince my granddaughter to come back home before it’s too late. Her grandfather’s health is failing and I want...” Her eyes flashed and she changed course. “No, I demand that all the Lyons rally round him while there’s still time.”

Dev stared at her, taken aback. This was the last thing he’d expected.

She fixed him with her piercing gaze. “Please do this for me. It’s very important.”

For a moment he forgot to breathe. He’d had no idea the old gentleman was in anything but the best of health for someone in his eighties. At the fiftieth anniversary celebration, Paul Lyon had looked fine and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself. WDIX without the Voice of Dixie was unthinkable.

But so was waltzing off to Colorado on a wildgoose chase, and if there was ever a wild goose it was Charlotte Lyon—once his Sharlee but no more. She hadn’t even spoken to him when she’d been home in July, which had pissed him off considerably.

“Tante Margaret, I was... close to Charlotte once, but that was a long time ago.”

In fact, Dev and Sharlee had once shared a brief but fiery infatuation, when she was sixteen and he nineteen. He wasn’t very proud of himself for taking her virginity, but he simply hadn’t been strong enough or mature enough to turn his back on what she offered.

Her alarmed family, including Tante Margaret, had done everything humanly possible to drive the young lovers apart before they got “too involved.” Only Dev’s stepfather, had taken the opposite tack.

To this day Sharlee and Dev had never talked about what had happened, which left Dev’s guilt intact.

“We’re strangers,” he said. The harshness in his voice surprised him. “What makes you think I—”

“Desperation,” she cut him off. “It’s for Charlotte’s own good, Devin. You’re my last hope. Everyone in the family has tried to reach her and failed. If you can’t do this...”

Margaret’s chin trembled ever so slightly. He hated to see her like this because he was genuinely devoted to her. But still...

His smile felt strained. “You asked me once before to do something I didn’t want to do for Charlotte’s own good,” he reminded her.

“And to your credit, you did it.” She didn’t flinch; she’d have been a good poker player. “My motives were pure, then as now.”

“Sharlee—Charlotte’s never forgiven me. She won’t even talk to me.”

“How do you know what’s in her heart?”

“How does any man know what’s in any woman’s heart?”

“Exactly. Devin, you must do this for me.”

“Tante Margaret—”

“Please, Devin.”

“I’ll think about it.” The words were dragged out of him. “But don’t get your hopes up, okay? There’s not much chance I can do anything even if I agree to try.”

Her silver-blue eyes were suddenly awash with tears, and she reached out to squeeze his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. “I knew you wouldn’t turn me down,” she said. “Family must always stick together. Your last name may be Oliver, but you’ve got the heart of a Lyon.”

Did he? Dear God! Talk about being between a rock and a hard place.

AFTER SHE’D GONE, Dev filled his partner in on what had transpired, concluding, “But there’s no way I can do what she asks. Not only would Sharlee slam her door in my face, we’ve got too much to do around here for me to just take off like that.”

Felix grunted. Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he hauled out a handful of paper, which he slapped onto the counter.

Bills. Nothing but bills.

“Do what the lady wants,” he advised. “Get your ass up to Colorado, or this café may never open.”

“Sorry, Felix, but we’re not taking a penny of Margaret’s money.” Dev gathered up the bills but resisted counting them. “I’ve still got some savings and a couple of stocks I can part with. If we make it until I get the money from my mother’s house, we’ll be okay. We’re going to sink or swim on our own.”

“And if we sink—” Felix laughed ruefully “—guess I can always get a job at MacDonald’s, but I don’t know what the hell you’re gonna do.”

Neither did Dev. That was what he should be thinking about instead of the way Sharlee Lyon had looked right through him last month at the party, as if she’d never seen him before.

If she’d talked to him it would have been one thing, but she hadn’t and in fact never had, not in all this time. Damn, he was tempted to give it a shot just to get that monkey off his back.

SHARLEE HOLLANDER stood in front of the managing editor of the Calhoun Courier, trying to control her excitement.

At last! Bruce was about to give her the chance she’d longed for. a hard-news beat. No more lifestyle features, no more fashion or cooking stories, but hard news!

She’d spent three years at two newspapers trying to get out of lifestyles, which she was, unfortunately, good at. She’d realized after the fact that she should never have taken such a post as her first job out of college, but at the time, she hadn’t realized how typecast she’d be.

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “So I’ve decided to give you a chance, Sharlee,” he said. “Heather will move up to lifestyles editor and you’ll take over the city beat. You’ve been bugging me for this chance ever since you got here. Now go out there and cover City Hall like a blanket!”

“You won’t regret it, Bruce, I swear.”

“I’d better not.”

She floated out of his office on a happy cloud, closing the door gently behind her. Since graduating from the University of Colorado three years before, she’d been buried in light features, but that was finally going to change.

Eric Burns, a reporter she’d dated a time or two, looked up from his computer terminal. “Congratulations. I know how much you wanted a news beat. Glad you got it.” His phone rang and he picked up the handset, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

“Thanks.” She couldn’t stop grinning. “I know I can do this.”

“Good attitude,” he said approvingly.

“I’ve got nothing if not a good attitude,” she agreed, rushing across the newsroom to her desk. Damn, she loved journalism. Even when she didn’t have the assignment she wanted, she loved the excitement and vitality of the newsroom. Now she was about to get her chance to show everybody that she could—

“Hey!”

Eric’s shout dragged her back to the present, however reluctantly. He stood beside his desk, telephone receiver in hand. “Anyone know a Charlotte Lyon? There’s some guy out front insisting she works here.”

Sharlee’s stomach dropped at least to her knees. No one here knew her by that name. Should she deny everything? Continue to look at her coworkers with as much innocent bewilderment as they looked at her and one another?

For a moment she really thought she could do that and then her natural curiosity surged to the fore. She just had to know who was asking for her. She rose.

Everybody in the shabby newsroom stared at her.

“I’ll go see who it is,” she said airily. “Then I’m going over to City Hall, just to let them know I’m on the job.”

She felt the weight of their attention as she crossed the room, but she ignored it. Her thoughts were on the mysterious person who knew Charlotte Lyon.

It had to be someone from New Orleans. She hadn’t told a soul there that she’d dropped the “Lyon” entirely. She refused to coast on the reputation of her family and their New Orleans media empire. She’d made that crystal clear by turning down one enticing job offer after another at WDIX-TV since graduation.

So who had tracked her down and why?

As she turned the corner, the reception area came into view. She missed a step, stumbled, caught her balance. Devin Oliver stood by the desk, in threequarter profile while he spoke to the receptionist in his lovely Louisiana drawl. The blonde stared at him with mouth agape and an expression of awe on her face.

Ah, but Dev looked good. Dark curly hair spilled over his forehead and those sculpted lips were curved in an enticing smile. He wore khakis and a yellow knit shirt open at the throat, biceps bulging beneath the sleeves.

She knew she hadn’t made a sound and yet he turned and his gaze met hers. His eyes were as dark as his hair—almost black, fathomless, mysterious. For a second they just stood there, looking at each other over twenty feet and almost a decade.

When he smiled and started toward her, she knew she was in big trouble.

SHE WOULDN’T GET AWAY from him this time, as she had on the Fourth of July. She was going to have to talk to him whether she wanted to or not. Of course he might not like what she had to say, but that was better than the game of hide-and-seek she’d seemed intent on playing when she was in New Orleans, which was most infrequently.

That was what had finally made up Dev’s mind about coming to Colorado: curiosity. He could tell she wanted to run again by the way she stepped back so quickly, by the way those beautiful hazel eyes widened, but there was no where to go with the receptionist watching so avidly.

Sharlee looked good, though, in pale linen slacks and a red silk blouse, which tightened across her breasts with the force of a quick breath. She’d matured in the years she’d been avoiding him; her blond hair was a shade darker, her breasts were fuller, her hips more enticingly rounded.

Her face had matured, as well, accenting high cheekbones and lips fuller and even more tempting...

She pulled herself together and the hazel eyes frosted over. “Why, Devin Oliver, as I live and breathe. I suppose you’re going to tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

He loved her exaggerated Southern charm. “No.”

“Then what on earth...?”

He glanced around, noticed the receptionist still staring at them. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

“Why?” So suspicious.

“Hey, if you don’t mind all your coworkers listening in—”

“This way.”

She whirled around and led him down a poorly lit hallway at a rapid clip. He followed, admiring the swing of her hips, the set of her shoulders. Charlotte Lyon was a class act, all right.

They entered a small lounge complete with soda and junk-food machines, a microwave, an old refrigerator and a sign that read: It’s a Newspaper’s Duty to Print the Truth and Raise Hell. A middle-aged woman stood before one of the machines, obviously trying to make up her mind. Charlotte tapped her on the shoulder and smiled.

“Amy, dear, I’ve got to do an interview in here.”

“But I don’t know what I want.” The woman screwed up her face at the enormity of her decision.

“The pretzels.” Charlotte took the coins from the woman’s hand, plunked them into the slot, then punched the appropriate button. “Health food. No fat.” She placed the small bag into the woman’s hands. “Enjoy.”

“Oh, Sharlee, you always know!” Chuckling, the woman carried her pretzels out of the room.

Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. “Have a seat.” She indicated one of the mismatched chairs. “And tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Okay, Charlotte, but—”

“And please don’t call me Charlotte!” She grimaced. “I’m Sharlee, now—Sharlee Hollander.”

Her words hit him hard because he was the one who’d given her that nickname, the only one who had ever consistently called her that. “You really are pissed off at your family,” he said.

She stiffened her spine and those beautiful breasts rose again. “I have no intention of discussing my family with you, Devin.”

“Sorry. They’re my family, too—more or less.” He glanced around. “Mind if I have a Coke?”

“Be my guest.”

“You want one?”

She shook her head. “I just want to know why you’re here.”

“Your grandmother sent me.”

That stopped her cold. She sat down hard, as if her knees had buckled. “Grandmère?” she repeated faintly.

“That’s right.” He dropped coins into the machine and carried the can of soda to the table.

“Why?” She looked completely confused.

“I’m supposed to talk you into moving back home.”

“To Lyoncrest?” The very idea seemed to appall her.

He nodded. “Your grandmother wants everyone close because...well, because she’s worried about your grandfather.”

“No, she isn’t.” Her expression hardened. “Okay, he’s had a couple of heart attacks, but that was years ago. She just wants me under her thumb again—under everybody’s thumb. Well, it ain’t gonna happen.”

He’d rarely encountered such certainty. “Even if I say please?” he wheedled, wanting to make her smile.

His ploy almost worked. Her eyes widened and a little of her tension seemed to diffuse. “You can say please and stand on your head,” she said tartly. “My answer is still an unequivocal, unqualified, unambiguous no. I must say, I’m surprised you’d let Grandmère talk you into this.”

“I like your grandmother,” he said.

“I like her, too—in fact, I love her. But neither she nor anyone else is going to run my life ever again.”

That got his back up a little. “She’s not running my life, if that’s what you’re implying. I just happen to think family is the most important thing we’ve got going for us. Maybe if you just go home for a visit—”

“New Orleans isn’t my home anymore,” she interrupted. “It hasn’t been for a long time.”

“Okay, if that’s how you feel.” He stood up. “I’ve done my duty, you said no, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s that. So how about joining a stranger in town for dinner, as long as I’m here?”

Before she could respond, a rumpled twenty-something guy stepped into the room. He eyed Dev curiously. “Sharlee, Bruce wants to brief you for a planning-commission advance.”

“Now?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Okay, thanks, Eric.” She stood. “I’ll just be a minute, Dev.”

“Take your time.”

She left the room and he sat back down, automatically opening the can of soda and raising it to his lips. Sharlee Hollander, or whatever she chose to call herself, was really holding back. He, Dev Oliver, would sure like to know what was going on in her head.

BY THE TIME she rejoined him, Sharlee had it together again. He’d blindsided her; she hadn’t been able to believe he could act as if nothing had ever happened between them, even after all this time.

Not that it mattered. She no longer knew Dev Oliver. When she had, he’d been a college student full of the same kind of ambition that drove her. He could have changed of course, but she figured he had to be alert just to survive at WDIX.

She hadn’t wanted to know him, not after the way he’d treated her. Over the years she couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever really been interested in her at all or if he just wanted the Lyon heiress. Certainly he’d backed off the minute he realized he’d miscalculated.

To this day she puzzled over which it was. Why he’d felt it necessary to send her a note that would rankle until the day she died. She’d memorized the hateful words and could still recite them, ending with: “We’re young. Someday we’ll both look back on this and laugh.”

He should live so long!

But did she want to have dinner with him?

A quick mental calculation told her that she had approximately seven dollars to last the six days until payday, without breaking into an already meager savings account.

On her salary, a free meal was not to be scorned. So she swept into the employee lounge and stopped short at the sight of Dev on one of the vinyl sofas talking to a photographer. He looked up and smiled.

His smile had always devastated her with its honest pleasure. Or at least, it had when she was young and foolish.

The photographer also saw her and stood. “Nice guy,” he said to Sharlee. “Take him on the tour, why don’t you? Everyone’ll enjoy meeting him.” He nodded at Dev. “If you’re around long enough, I’d be glad to take you out on one of my assignments. I think you’d find it real interesting.”

“I’m sure I would.” Dev sounded completely sincere.

When the photographer had gone, Dev patted the sofa beside him. She responded by taking a quick step back.

“Now where were we when we were so rudely interrupted?” she inquired, as if she really didn’t remember.

“I’d just invited you to join me for dinner—an expensive and delicious one, I might add.”

“That’s right. And I was just asking myself why I should. I mean, if you’re just going to nag me on Grandmère’s behalf, I’d be better off alone with a cheese sandwich.”

He grinned and shrugged. “If you’re trying to get me to promise not to talk about home and hearth as the price of your companionship, I’m afraid I can’t oblige.” His expression softened. “We share a history, Sharlee, no matter how either of us feels about that now. We grew up together, loved the same people, struggled with the same problems. I don’t think I could spend an evening with you and not fall back on that.”

He was right of course. She couldn’t, either. So many questions she wanted to ask him, so many things she didn’t know. Perhaps over dinner she’d find an opening.

Or perhaps not. In any event, she’d get a good meal out of it—and he wouldn’t be able to return to New Orleans thinking he had intimidated her.

“I suppose it would be all right,” she said, the words coming slow. “Where do you want to go?”

“You pick. You know the territory. I don’t.”

She thought about the opportunity. “There’s a great place up in the mountains. It’s a bit of a drive but worth it.”

“I’ve got nothing but time.”

He rose and, before she could react, took her hands in his. She pulled back with all her strength but short of yelling for help, she was his prisoner.

“Thanks,” he said, looking into her eyes. “You’ll have to tell me where to go, though.”

Oh, if only!

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.

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.

CHAPTER FOUR

“BUT...BUT...”

Sharlee stammered to a confused halt, staring at Bruce with total disbelief. This was ridiculous; he couldn’t fire her! He’d just promoted her, for God’s sake. Dragging in a deep breath, she tried to get past the shock.

“Look,” she bargained, “I went to the planning-commission meeting last night. I got a good story.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“And I introduced myself around, told all the commissioners I’d be covering city stuff.”

“That doesn’t matter any longer,” he said. “You’re still fired—or maybe I should say laid off.”

“I couldn’t care less what you call it, Bruce. I mean... Don’t you at least want me to write up the meeting?”

“I’ll have someone else do that. You can pick up your final check at the front desk on your way out.” He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m really sorry, Sharlee, but we’re...we’re cutting back and you’re the junior reporter in news. It’s just the breaks, kid.”

She had to be missing something. She racked her brain for an explanation. There had never been any complaints about her work, so what could it be?

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll take my old job back as lifestyles editor.”

Her editor shook his head. “Sorry, no can do. You’re news now and that’s where I’ve got to cut.”

“Bruce!” She stared at him in frustration—and then the light dawned. Putting her fists on his desk, she leaned over to stare him in the eye. “Did you happen to speak to any of my relatives in the past twenty-four hours?” she demanded, her voice rising.

A wash of red swept up his neck and mottled his face. “Absolutely not.”

She knew bluster when she saw it. “You’re lying. How dare you do such an underhanded thing! Was it my grandmother who told you to fire me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He did, the lying SOB. “What did she promise you?” Sharlee pushed. “Cash? A job at WDIX?” She straightened, some of the shock dissipating while cruel reality began to sink in. “I hope you didn’t sell yourself too cheap. This kind of deal doesn’t come along every day.”

He looked down at the desktop and his shoulders hunched. “Sharlee—Charlotte, it’s not what you think...exactly. I...that is, when you—”

“Give it up, Bruce.” Wearily she straightened. “I understand exactly what happened, and you know what?” She crossed to the door and opened it wide so that all those eager listeners in the newsroom could hear without straining.

“You can’t fire me. I quit!”

Walking out, she gave in to her baser instincts and slammed the door so hard it rattled. Glaring around at the stunned expressions of her former coworkers, she squared her shoulders, prepared to stare them down.

Eric broke the impasse. “Tough break, Sharlee.”

Then they all swung into action: “Yeah, tough break. A shame... Unfair.”

Fair rarely had anything to do with life, she’d long since discovered. Sharlee drew a deep breath and walked to her desk. “He just caught me by surprise, that’s all. I was going to quit, anyway.”

They didn’t believe her, but they all nodded understandingly. Eric said, “If there’s anything I—” he glanced around “—anything we can do...”

She couldn’t force a smile. “Thanks, but I can’t think of a thing. Unless you know of any job openings?” She saw their helpless expressions. “I didn’t think so.”

Pulling open desk drawers, she began hauling out the personal items she’d accumulated over the past eleven months, trying not to think about her situation, about the underhandedness of her grandmother, about a future that no longer looked promising.

And especially, she tried not to think about where she was going to find another job.

RUNNING ON ADRENALINE, she made it all the way to her car before it really hit her.

She’d just been fired.

She’d never been fired before and it was horrible. She felt like dirt.

What was she going to do now? With trembling hands, she thrust the key into the ignition and gave it a quick turn. The engine came to life slowly. It coughed a couple of times but, all in all, behaved remarkably well.

Driving through a sparkling clear August day, Sharlee headed for her apartment—not home. It had never felt like home and she’d never made the slightest effort to make it homey. She’d never intended to be there for the long term. She’d planned to use the Courier as a springboard to something better, but after this it was probably a springboard to oblivion.

She stopped for a red light, the car idling like a lawn mower. Maybe she could still find some good in this. It would at least push her into doing something. She’d make a few phone calls, check the Internet, see what was out there—

A blast from a car horn woke her up and she made a hasty left-hand turn into her street. At least she still had transportation. If she had to go out of town for job interviews—

The engine sputtered and died.

Just like that, she found herself coasting down the street in eerie silence. Guiding the vehicle to the curb, she took a deep breath intended to forestall the cloud of gloom settling around her head.

She turned the key in the ignition. The engine growled. She tried again. The growl was shorter and fainter.

The third time, nothing happened. No growl, none.

“I’m doomed!” She said it out loud, leaning forward over the steering wheel with her eyes squeezed shut.

Then she straightened, flung open the door, climbed out and hiked the five blocks to her apartment, swearing under her breath with every step.

DEV WAITED IN THE ENTRY to her apartment building. Why was she not surprised?

“You!” Marching up to him, she whapped him good on the arm with her leather shoulder bag.

“Hey!” He rubbed his arm. “What’s your problem?”

“I hate you—oops, that’s not a problem, actually. It’s a fact.”

“But—”

“Devin Oliver, I could kill you for what you’ve done to me this time!”

A bulky form hurtled the last ten or so steps down the stairs to the right of the entryway. “Hey, what’s going on? Is this guy bothering you, Sharlee?”

Brawny Bill Bolliver to the rescue, clad in a net tank top and biker shorts, muscles bulging in every direction.

“He certainly is bothering me,” she said angrily.

“Want me to hurt ’im?” Bill pounded one big fist into the other palm. Turning, he did a double take. “Howdy, Dev. What’s up?”

“She’s mad at me,” Dev said. “I don’t know why.”

“Liar.”

“I can throw him out if you want me to,” Bill said, frowning. “Sorry, Dev, but someone’s got to look out for Sharlee.”

“I understand perfectly.”

They turned to her for agreement. She longed to smack them both. Instead, she marched to the stairs leading to her second-floor apartment. “I don’t care what either one of you do. Excuse me, I’m going to go slit my wrists now. I’d appreciate it if you’d just leave me alone.”

She stomped angrily up the stairs.

Bill looked at Dev. “She was joking, right?”

“Right. I’ll go along to make sure, though.”

SHE ALMOST SUCCEEDED in slamming the door in Dev’s face, but like a door-to-door salesman, he managed to wedge a toe inside.

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