Family Secrets

“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

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?