Gypsy
Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

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

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘SHAY.’

She didn’t turn at the sound of that voice, her gaze unwavering from the long wooden box being loaded on board the small jet in front of her, all that remained of her five years of marriage, the broken and twisted body of her husband Ricky being flown from America back to the Falconer estate for burial in the family plot.

‘Shay.’

She didn’t want to turn to the owner of that rich baritone voice, didn’t want him here at all, interrupting a moment that belonged completely to Ricky and herself.

‘For God’s sake, Shay!’

For God’s sake! She wanted to turn and shout at him that if it weren’t for God she wouldn’t be here now, that if it weren’t for God Ricky wouldn’t be still and lifeless inside that oblong box they were even now securing inside the plane, that he would be beside her as he had always been, the love they felt for each other their greatest happiness! But she didn’t turn and say any of those things, knew that if she once gave in to that hysteria she would lose the one thing that was keeping her in one piece; her belief that even though life could be cruel, none of them had any choices, it was all, ultimately, decided for them.

She finally turned as the doors closed on Ricky’s coffin, coolly facing the man she knew was responsible for dealing with the authorities and paperwork to get Ricky’s body out of the country they had made their home for the last three years, and back to their native England; she certainly hadn’t had anything to do with it, too numb to deal with details like that. No, she had known only Lyon Falconer could have managed such organisation in the few weeks it had been since they had found Ricky’s body, had known he was in California somewhere using the indomitable Falconer influence to take his brother home in the family jet. She also knew the two of them had nothing to say to each other, had informed her lawyer that she didn’t want to see Lyon when he had told her the other man was in the country.

Lyon Falconer. He hadn’t changed at all in the last three years, lean and muscular despite being very close to his fortieth birthday, his tawny hair styled just over his ears and down to his collar in a way designed to look casual, that very casualness indicative of its expensive cut. His arrogantly harsh face was lean and craggy, dominated by narrowed tawny eyes, his nose long and straight, his unsmiling mouth a forbidding line, the squareness of his jaw as uncompromising as ever. The tailored, dark three-piece suit and cream silk shirt pronounced him for exactly what he was, a successful businessman, although its formality in no way detracted from his lean muscularity, his power not just of the physical, a single-word command from him having been known to daunt even his most powerful of adversaries. And Shay knew she was far from being that.

But she wasn’t the unsophisticated Shay Flanagan from Dublin any longer, the young girl not good enough to become a member of his élite family. She had been a Falconer herself now for over five years, was this man’s sister-in-law, had gained in confidence almost beyond recognition since this man had first noticed her ebony head among his London personnel. At least, she hoped she had, feeling the first stirrings of inadequacy she had known in a long time, a very long time.

Not that any of that showed as she and Lyon faced each other across the tarmac, the black silk dress adding height and slenderness to the already five feet nine inches she was in the high-heeled sandals. The soft ebony of her shoulder-length hair was hidden beneath the silk hat, the lace pulled down to partly obscure her face, the purple depths of her eyes unadorned by anything but naturally long black lashes. There were classical lines to her face; high cheekbones, small pert noise, generously wide mouth, the latter feeling as if she hadn’t smiled in months. As indeed she hadn’t!

And she didn’t smile now, her gaze steady on that autocratic face. ‘Lyon,’ she greeted coldly.

‘Shay, you look—’

‘Like hell,’ she drawled mockingly, wanting no insincere compliments from this man. She looked exactly what she was, a recently widowed woman.

Lyon looked momentarily annoyed, the emotion quickly controlled and masked. ‘As usual, your presumption of what I was about to say was incorrect,’ he bit out harshly.

‘Really?’ she derided, turning to walk up the steps that led to the luxurious interior of the waiting jet, knowing the crew were merely waiting for them to come aboard before they obtained clearance to take off.

‘You’ve changed, Shay.’

She stiffened at the surprise in Lyon’s voice, had known he would follow her up into the plane, the door even now being secured behind them, only the hostess Jenny stopping them from being completely alone, something Shay knew she would avoid whenever she could. She and Lyon Falconer had nothing to say to each other, they never had.

‘I’m twenty-four now, Lyon, not eighteen,’ she dryly stated the obvious, taking her seat in the lounge area, smoothly crossing one knee over the other, her legs long and silky, turning gently to smile her thanks to Jenny as she brought her a glass of iced tea, not questioning how the other woman knew of her preference; the Falconer staff were paid, very handsomely, to know the needs of the Falconer family before they were even aware of them themselves. Shay turned away with indifference as the small blonde woman lingered over giving Lyon his neat whisky; obviously Lyon still had the power to attract women in their droves!

Tawny eyes flashed with specks of green as Lyon angrily sensed her derision. ‘I didn’t just mean physically,’ he rasped as Jenny disappeared into the galley.

She calmly reached up to remove her hat, placing it on the seat beside her, her neck long and slender, her hands equally so as she brailled the neatness of her severely-styled black hair. ‘I grew up, Lyon, if that’s what you mean,’ she drawled dismissively, turning to look out of the window as the small jet began to taxi towards the runway. ‘Marilyn isn’t with you?’ She arched perfectly curved brows at him, her slender hands, adorned only by her thin gold wedding band, folded neatly on top of her fastened seat-belt.

Lyon’s mouth tightened. ‘No, Marilyn isn’t with me,’ he bit out.

‘I just thought, she is the family lawyer …’

‘One of them,’ he confirmed gratingly.

‘And your wife,’ Shay added tauntingly.

‘Yes,’ he acknowledged abruptly. ‘But I’d really rather not discuss her right now.’

Navy eyes sharpened to purple. ‘As you wish,’ she nodded distantly. ‘You came alone, then?’

‘There was no reason for anyone to accompany me. Our lawyer in Los Angeles was able to deal with anything that had to be done.’

‘Of course, David Anders,’ she nodded again, having worked closely with the American lawyer herself the last two months, coming to the airport today as per his instructions, knowing he had managed to secure the release of Ricky’s body. She had hoped Lyon wouldn’t be sharing the flight with her, although she had known it was a futile hope; the haughty head of the Falconer family wouldn’t rest until his youngest brother was back in England where he felt he had always belonged, even if Ricky’s body were now lifeless.

‘He did a magnificent job,’ Lyon said curtly, his mouth grim.

‘Yes,’ she acknowledged, her face suddenly looking stricken.

Lyon was alert to the sudden change in her. ‘You still don’t like flying?’

‘I hate it,’ she answered pleasantly, sipping her tea, not showing now even by a tremor of her hand how her senses lurched at the acceleration of the jet engines as they prepared for take-off.

‘Perhaps it would have been better if you had remained in Los Angeles—’

‘And not come to England?’ Her eyes flashed her anger at the suggestion. ‘Ricky may have been your brother, Lyon,’ she said icily, ‘but he was my husband, and I want to be there when you have him put in the ground!’

Lyon winced noticeably. ‘The last two months of waiting have been a strain for you,’ he bit out. ‘This journey can only be causing you more pain.’

He didn’t know the half of the pain she had suffered in the past two months, she had made certain he wouldn’t know, had remained alone in California after Ricky’s plane had crashed in the mountains, all the time hoping that he had survived the crash, that by some miracle he had lived when the light plane he had been piloting had gone down during a freak thunderstorm in the mountains. It was the ‘somewhere’ that had caused all the pain, no one knowing exactly where the plane had gone down, Ricky and the plane remaining undetected until three weeks ago. Until that time she had lived with the hope, not sleeping, not eating, anxiously waiting for news from the people she had paid to continue searching for him after the authorities had given up. David Anders had informed her that Lyon had flown over briefly after the accident had been reported, that he had been convinced by the authorities that there was no way Ricky could have survived the crash in the area he had gone down. Shay had refused Lyon’s request to see her then, would have refused to be with him now if it were in her power to do so. But it wasn’t.

‘I can cope,’ she told him distantly.

‘I’m sure you can,’ Lyon nodded grimly. ‘God, Shay!’ He fumbled with the fastening of his seat-belt as her skin turned a sickly green as the plane parted with the ground, striding across the cabin to her side as the plane ascended dramatically.

She looked up at him with uncomprehending eyes. ‘You aren’t supposed to do that,’ she said dazedly as he came down on his haunches beside her, her hands looking pale and delicate as he took them into his warm, much larger ones.

‘Are you going to faint?’ he asked briskly.

Shay’s eyes widened at the suggestion. ‘No!’ she denied—and promptly did so!

She came round with a slow groan, turning over to bury her face in the pillow as she lay on the double bed in the converted bedroom off the lounge area, Lyon standing with his back towards her, staring out of the small window as they flew above the blanket of fluffy-white clouds.

She had wanted to remain so composed, had once sworn this man would never see any sign of weakness in her again. Collapsing in the way she had had definitely been weak! But she hadn’t cried when they told her Ricky’s plane had gone down, nor during the following two months, not even when they finally found him still seated in the crashed aircraft, his neck broken from the impact with the ground; surely she was entitled to one fainting fit? She just wished it hadn’t been Lyon who had been the one to witness it!

She swung her feet to the carpeted floor, her shoes neatly beside the bed, putting up a trembling hand to her mussed hair, smoothing it before Lyon turned suddenly, aware of her return to consciousness, his eyes narrowing as her head went back challengingly.

Shay could have no idea how vulnerable she looked, would have been dismayed if she had known, and Lyon was aware of that. Shay had grown up in the last six years, had grown more beautiful too, and he had to clench his hands at his sides to stop himself from reaching out for what had once so nearly been his. She had been his brother’s wife since then, he hadn’t seen her for three years, and yet he only had to think of her to ache with an unrequited desire, knew that he ached with that desire even now.

He could still remember the first time he had seen her, her long hair untamed, purple eyes alight with laughter as she giggled with some of the other typists before silence fell over the room as they realised the head of the company had walked in to their office with one of the directors. The other girls had quickly looked away and got on with their work, but purple eyes had remained on him curiously. Such open interest from one so young hadn’t been something he had experienced before. God, he had already been thirty-three then, past the age of instant attraction, especially with such a child. Or so he had thought …

‘I’m sorry,’ she was saying now, her composure back in place. ‘I’ve disliked flying even more since it was the way Ricky died.’

Lyon could feel the agony of jealousy over his young brother rip through him, hadn’t known a day go by without feeling that same jealousy since Ricky had announced his intention of making Shay his wife. Ricky may be dead now, but Lyon still couldn’t forgive his young brother for marrying the girl he—The girl he had wanted, damn it!

This beautifully elegant woman might not be that girl—but he still wanted her!

To Shay he looked as coldly remote as usual, none of the cauldron of emotions burning so hotly beneath that surface-cool exterior in evidence. He was a cold-hearted bastard, always had been and always would be. It was a pity he and Marilyn couldn’t make more of a success of their eleven-year marriage, there was no doubt they made the perfect couple!

‘I should have thought of that,’ he murmured abruptly. ‘This just seemed the quickest way …’

‘And after waiting all this time I’m sure you just wanted to get Ricky home so that you can bury him!’ She slid her slender feet into the black sandals before standing up, feeling at too much of a disadvantage sitting on the bed.

‘Shay!’ Lyon rasped.

‘Sorry,’ she drawled in a bored voice. ‘But you and Ricky were never close, I just assumed …’ She shrugged dismissively.

‘Too damned much,’ he scowled darkly. ‘The whole family has been deeply shocked by Ricky’s death.’

The ‘whole family’ consisted of two more brothers, Matthew and Neil, born between Lyon and Ricky, Lyon’s wife Marilyn, and numerous aunts and uncles—and all of them looking up to, and ultimately guided by, Lyon. He was the unchallenged head of the Falconer empire, each member of the family working for that empire. Even Ricky, despite his differences with Lyon, had run the American office, that distance between the two brothers allowing a certain respite from the bitter arguments they used to have when Shay and Ricky lived with the rest of the brothers in the mansion the Falconer brothers called home.

‘I’m sure they have,’ she said dryly. ‘Do you have the funeral arranged?’

His mouth tightened with irritation. ‘I called Matthew yesterday and asked him to make the necessary arrangements,’ he admitted grudgingly.

She nodded, as if she had never doubted he would have everything under control. There was only one thing he had never been able to control, and that had been his anger towards her. He had never been able to forgive her for marrying his younger brother and so becoming one of his prestigious family. No doubt, now that Ricky had finally been pronounced dead instead of merely missing, Lyon would see that she ceased being recognised as a member of his family. Only she didn’t intend letting him do that to her, had no intention of bowing gracefully out of their lives.

‘And Neil, how is he?’ she enquired coolly, finding Neil, at thirty-two, very like Ricky, with his blond good looks and easy-going charm, Matthew’s colouring slightly darker, and at thirty-five Ricky had told her he was becoming more like the eldest Falconer every day.

‘We aren’t here to exchange social pleasantries, Shay,’ Lyon told her impatiently.

‘I’m well aware of the reason we’re both here, Lyon,’ she rasped bitterly. ‘And if you would rather we spent the next nine hours in silence then I can assure you I’m more than agreeable.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ he said with barely controlled violence. ‘But it’s been three years since we saw each other, do you really have nothing better to talk about than Neil and Matthew?’

‘The weather?’ she scorned.

Tawny-coloured eyes became like burnished gold. ‘Hell, Shay, can’t we even be polite to each other now?’

‘Were we ever?’ she derided in a bored voice.

‘Once,’ he muttered, his gaze suddenly intense.

If he expected to disarm her he was disappointed, one thing the School of Hard Knocks and Snubs had taught her was invincible poise, and she had learnt that lesson well, from his own family mainly. ‘That was such a long time ago, Lyon,’ she dismissed indifferently.

‘And you’ve forgotten it?’ he scowled. ‘All of it?’

‘Of course not,’ she drawled. ‘Didn’t you ever read page one hundred and twenty-three of Scarlet Lover?’

‘You put me in one of your damned books?’ Lyon demanded incredulously.

‘You didn’t read it?’ she reproved, moving through to the lounge as he didn’t seem to be going to, knowing he would follow her. He did, standing glowering in the background as she smiled her thanks at Jenny for replenishing her glass of iced tea. ‘You really should have done, Lyon.’ She turned to mock him.

‘So it would seem,’ he bit out, glaring at the stewardess as she hovered in the room with them. ‘Don’t you have a meal to prepare? Or something?’ he added darkly.

‘Er—no. I mean, yes—sir.’ Jenny looked taken aback, had worked for the Falconers for the last seven years, and not once before had Lyon lost his temper with her in this way. Of course, this was a sad occasion for the family, and everyone had always known of the friction that existed between Lyon and Ricky’s wife, Shay. ‘Excuse me.’ She made a hasty retreat to the galley, closing the door behind her.

‘Jenny doesn’t appear to be accustomed to your bad humour,’ Shay mocked, sinking gracefully down into one of the comfortable armchairs, once again crossing one elegant knee over the other, unconsciously emphasising the slender beauty of her legs as she did so.

‘Meaning you are?’ Lyon rasped, very aware of all of this woman’s beauty, and despising himself for it. She had once made her dislike of him more than obvious, to want her now, especially now, was pure madness on his part.

‘Oh, yes,’ she derided. ‘Don’t you remember?’

‘I remember a lot of things that happened between us in the past—’

‘Strangely, I don’t,’ Shay cut in firmly. ‘You really should have read Scarlet Lover, Lyon; I was sure you would have recognised yourself.’ She smiled briefly, inwardly, not at or with Lyon. ‘Ricky felt sure you would want to sue me!’

‘Could I have done?’ he asked tightly.

‘I doubt it,’ dismissed Shay coolly, her humour gone as quickly as it had arisen. ‘Of course the man’s name was Leon de Coursey, and he did have blond hair and tawny eyes too, was about the same age—’

‘And was he a despoiler of young maidens too?’ Lyon rasped harshly.

‘No.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘But he was married!’

‘Shay—’

‘You never did tell me how Neil is,’ she interrupted his angry outburst.

‘He’s well,’ Lyon dismissed curtly. ‘But we were talking about one of your books—’

‘Amazing, isn’t it,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘At twenty-one I suddenly discovered I had a talent for writing.’ She still found the fact that she was a bestselling author awe-inspiring.

‘And making money,’ Lyon put in derisively.

She looked at him unemotionally. ‘That too, although it isn’t as much as it might seem. But I must admit I like to look on people’s faces when they realise I’m Shay Flanagan, the author of those historical sizzlers. I hope you’re duly grateful about the fact that I didn’t drag the Falconer name into my disreputable career,’ she continued scornfully. ‘Ricky assured me Grandfather Jonas would have turned in his grave!’

‘Considering the fact that my father, his only child, was born illegitimately, I don’t think Grandfather Jonas would have any right to criticise,’ Lyon drawled. ‘What happened on page one hundred and twenty-three in the book, Shay?’

She had known he wouldn’t be diverted by the deviations in the conversation. ‘I’ll get you a copy,’ she promised casually.

‘I’d rather you told me now,’ he insisted roughly.

Shay shook her head firmly. ‘I never discuss my work with anyone.’

‘But if I feature in one of your books—’

‘I didn’t say that you did,’ she contradicted coldly. ‘Page one hundred and twenty-three is a very explicit sex scene—and we once had a lot of those,’ she added hardly.

‘You were married to Ricky, couldn’t you have used your—times, with him?’ Lyon grated forbiddingly.

‘I said it was a sex scene, Lyon, not a love scene,’ Shay said crushingly. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind,’ she stood up, ‘I think I should like to go into the bedroom and rest for a while.’

‘Shay …!’ His hand snaked out and captured her wrist as she would have walked past him.

She looked at him unemotionally. ‘Please, don’t cause a scene, Lyon.’

‘And if I do?’ he challenged.

‘You remember my Irish temper?’ she said calmly.

The hand that wasn’t holding her wrist moved up to the scar on his right temple. ‘Vividly,’ he drawled dryly.

Shay’s gaze moved to the small white scar, remembering how she had once thrown a cup at him, a fine china missile that had smashed when it made contact with his head, blood dripping down his face from the gash it made. ‘I can see that you do,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Well, I may appear calm and collected to you,’ she spoke pleasantly, ‘but if you don’t release me there are one or two glasses in here that I could use instead of the cup.’

Lyon looked at her sceptically, and then with grudging admiration as he saw she was in earnest, slowly released her arm. ‘You little hell-cat,’ he murmured in fascination.

She didn’t show any emotion for the name he had once called her at more intimate moments in their past relationship. ‘Ricky preferred to think of me as fiery.’ She felt an inner satisfaction as Lyon’s mouth tightened at the mention of her intimacy with his brother. ‘I prefer to think of it as an aversion to being pushed around.’ Shay stepped back from him. ‘I won’t be requiring any dinner,’ she informed him coolly. ‘Perhaps you could have Jenny wake me when we get to England?’

Tawny eyes narrowed. ‘You intend sleeping for the next eight hours?’

Shay shrugged narrow shoulders. ‘Why not?’

‘I thought we could talk, become reacquainted,’ he grated.

‘Reacquainted, Lyon?’ Her smile was one of genuine amusement. ‘Were we ever acquainted?’

His mouth tightened at her mockery. ‘We were lovers, damn it!’

‘Is that what you would call it?’ she scorned. ‘After being married to, and in love with, Ricky, I have a much different name for what we once were. Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t wish to be disturbed.’ She walked past him into the bedroom, closing the door on his rage at being dismissed so autocratically, knowing he wouldn’t disturb her, that he was too angry to follow her.

Now that she was alone, away from those all-seeing tawny eyes, she didn’t have to keep up the pretense any more, sitting down heavily on the bed, wrapping her arms about herself as she shuddered with reaction.

Oh Ricky, she silently cried, why aren’t you here to take care of me, to love me! Twenty-eight was too young to die, especially when he had so much to live for.

She knew her husband would have enjoyed this verbal sparring with Lyon, that he had reveled in their animosity, the clash of characters between the two brothers only becoming so heatedly intense after she and Ricky were married. They were all aware of that, the relationship between herself and Lyon no secret from the rest of the family. Ricky had never been angry about her and Lyon, only angry for her. Especially after reading Scarlet Lover.

She had written the manuscript during the days once Ricky had gone to work, hadn’t told him about it, embarrassed at her own imagination, only allowing him to read it after it was completed. She had known the exact moment he reached page one hundred and twenty-three, had watched him anxiously, her breathing becoming constricted at how still he had suddenly become.

He was sitting cross-legged on their bed, the manuscript spread out in front of him, looking up at her with pained eyes. ‘Leon de Coursey—’

‘I’ll change it.’ She ran to him, stricken. ‘I won’t send it to a publisher. It’s only rubbish, anyway,’ she dismissed. ‘It was just something for me to do while you were—’

‘It isn’t rubbish, you will send it to a publisher, and you won’t change a thing,’ Ricky told her intensely, his laughing blue eyes unusually serious. He cupped her face in his hands. ‘That was what it was like between you and Lyon?’

‘Lyon?’ she hedged unconvincingly. ‘I don’t—’

‘Darling, we’ve never lied to each other,’ he encouraged gently. ‘What we have together is—fantastic. What you had with Lyon, if de Coursey is him— and I believe he is—was something else entirely. It was primitive, savage—’

‘Yes, it was both of those things,’ she acknowledged bitterly. ‘We seemed to bring out those qualities in each other. But it was also destructive.’

‘It’s all right, darling,’ Ricky took her in his arms, holding her trembling body close against his arms, beginning to kiss her, the manuscript, and Leon de Coursey, or Lyon—the two had become confused in her mind by this time!—were forgotten in the heat of their passionate exchange.

But the next day Ricky had parcelled up the manuscript and sent it to a reputable publisher, and now the heated historical romances of Shay Flanagan were almost history themselves.

Just as her relationship with Lyon was also history, a painful part of her history she had tried to put behind her.

DAMN IT, what was she doing in there! Lyon shook with the rage of being instructed what to do as if he were one of the help. No one had ever, ever, spoken to him that way before! And all it had achieved was to make him want Shay more than ever.

More than anything he was curious about page one hundred and twenty-three of her book. Was Leon de Coursey the hero of her book or the villain? Knowing how Shay felt about him, de Coursey was the blackest villain there had ever been!

God, she had grown incredibly beautiful the last three years, he could feel his thighs tightening just at the thought of her. Had she undressed now that she was alone in the bedroom, was she naked even now, lying between those brown silk sheets, moving sensuously in her sleep as she always used to?

He had been haunted by those sounds she used to make as she slept, had woken up in a sweat more than once after imagining her there beside him, only to know the agonising disappointment of pent up desire when he found he was once again alone, that Shay now shared his brother Ricky’s bed, giving him all the passion she had once so freely given him.

He had never forgotten the look on Ricky’s face when he had first been introduced to Shay; his younger brother had looked as if it were Christmas and New Year all rolled into one, with Shay the glittering angel on top of the tree. To her credit Shay hadn’t looked at him the same way for several months, but finally it had come. Lyon could still feel the pain in his gut at knowing she was no longer his.

‘Lyon?’

He turned sharply, scowling. ‘What is it, Jenny?’ he asked tersely.

She smiled engagingly. ‘I wondered if there were anything I could do for you?’

He remembered other times he had received completely different offers from this beautiful woman, occasions when he hadn’t been averse to her providing him with the physical relief he needed, even on the bed in the adjoining room once. ‘A whisky,’ he requested harshly, ignoring how hurt she looked at his coldness. ‘And just keep them coming until we land.’ He was going to need to be numb from the feet up to cope with knowing Shay was only feet away from him after imagining every woman in his bed was her for the last five years.

‘And Mrs Falconer, can I get her anything?’ Jenny recovered quickly from his snub.

‘Nothing,’ he bit out, staring broodingly at the closed door to the bedroom.

He was still staring broodingly at the door, Shay on the other side of it, when they touched down at Heathrow Airport hours later.

HE HAD been drinking. She had known it the moment she came out of the bedroom to join him to leave the plane. Lyon wasn’t offensive, didn’t look or act drunk, but she knew he was one of those people who became more controlled after consuming alcohol, the tawny eyes narrowed, his mouth a compressed line of tension.

She spared him only a brief glance before turning to the mirror to put the hat back on her recently brushed hair, several tendrils having escaped as she lay sleepless on the bed. She had known she wouldn’t really be able to sleep, hadn’t slept without medical help since Ricky disappeared, but the thought of spending all that time alone with Lyon was abhorrent to her. But as she lay on the bed she had almost been able to feel his eyes burning her flesh through the closed door, and she clung to the sanctuary of the bedroom, preferring to save her energy—and emotional strength—for the ordeal of returning to Falconer House.

‘We can leave now, if you’re ready.’ Lyon watched her gloweringly.

She pulled the black lace of her hat down over her face before turning to look at him, knowing by the scowl on his face that he disliked this partial shield to her emotions. The time when she gave a damn what Lyon liked or disliked was long gone!

She gave a haughty inclination of her head, as coolly composed as when they had faced each other in Los Angeles all those hours ago, ignoring the hand he put out to guide her down the steps to the waiting airport cars, one for them, the other for the coffin containing Ricky’s lifeless body, the law deeming the funeral director with the car should take over now.

She bore the tedium of Lyon’s dealing with the passport officials with a bored look on her face, secretly wondering how much longer she could keep up this cool façade as the man seemed to linger over clearing them. It was true that the shock of losing Ricky had numbed her, that her independent career from the Falconer empire had given her a confidence she had hitherto lacked, but this act of cool emotionalism was causing more of a strain than she felt able to cope with. But not for anything would she admit to Lyon how all this was affecting her.

‘Could we hurry this up, please?’ Lyon suddenly pressed as the man continued to linger over checking their passports. ‘As I’m sure you can imagine, my sister-in-law is under severe strain.’

The man glanced sympathetically at Shay, receiving a wan smile in return, miraculously seeming to find no further delay with their documents.

Once out in the general flow of people at the airport, Shay felt her panic rising, flinching from the cameras as they clicked practically in her face as each newspaper representative tried to get the best picture of Richard Falconer’s widow, questions coming at them from all directions, the hand that grasped her arm making her pull away.

‘It’s me, you little fool,’ Lyon rasped, pushing his way through the reporters, pulling her along with him. ‘Where the hell is the damned car?’ he swore roughly as they emerged out into the English summer sunshine.

‘Mr Falconer—’

‘Thank God.’ He turned to the chauffeur gratefully, guiding Shay to the waiting limousine, the windows discreetly darkened for privacy.

‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Falconer.’ The man preceded them. ‘But there’s been a bomb scare, and the police are—’

‘Yes, yes,’ Lyon dismissed tersely, still running the gauntlet of the press. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’

‘Thank you, Jeffrey.’ Shay smiled at the man as he opened the back door for her, sliding inside and across the seat as Lyon climbed in next to her, cameras still clicking, the questions still coming until Jeffrey firmly closed the door, enclosing them in cool, silent peace.

‘I’d like to know how they found out when we were arriving,’ Lyon scowled heavily.

Shay had a more resigned view, knew that the press were always able to find out what they wanted to know. She had been badgered by the worldwide media as soon as Ricky’s plane went down, the last weeks a nightmare of trying to escape them, finally having to move from the apartment she had shared with Ricky the last three years and move into a hotel, security guards placed outside her room to protect her privacy and grief.

‘Does it matter?’ she sighed, the incident just another horror in the nightmare her life had become since Ricky’s crash.

‘Yes, it—No,’ Lyon amended with controlled violence as he saw the unconscious vulnerability in deep purple eyes, the pale skin beneath those fathomless depths looking bruised and translucent. ‘No,’ he sighed heavily. ‘I don’t suppose it does.’

Shay didn’t even question the way Lyon had stepped down from his undoubted anger at their arrangements being known by the press, shut him out of her mind completely as they began the drive to the house, grateful for the self-discipline she had learnt from her writing, needing mental as well as physical control to maintain the daily schedule of work she set for herself in order to meet her deadlines. It would have been so easy to have sat back and lived on Ricky’s wealth, to have treated her writing as a mere hobby to keep herself amused. But she hadn’t wanted that, had made it into a career. She felt an inner peace now that she had.

God, why was she wandering in this way! They would be at Falconer House soon, the scene of her greatest happiness, greatest humiliation, and finally her greatest pain.

It was a huge house, big enough for several families to live in comfortably, but she still didn’t know how she had managed to live there for two years after her marriage to Ricky, didn’t know how she was going to visit there now. Because visiting was all she intended doing. She couldn’t stay on there, not even if Lyon asked her to do so. And she knew that he was going to ask her to do just that, that it probably wouldn’t even be a request but an order. It was one she would enjoy disobeying!

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Just a little,’ Shay drawled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Shay—’

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

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

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

‘Shay!’

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

‘Shay—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nothing?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Lyon?’

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

‘Yes,’ Matthew agreed softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BASTARD, the lousy, unfeeling bastard!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is it safe to come in?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You like historical romances?’ she asked sceptically.

‘I like yours.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her gaze sharpened. ‘What do you mean?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘The two of them argued incessantly—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Try me?’ Shay challenged softly.

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

‘Why you little—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I don’t drink.’ She shook her head.

‘Food?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes,’ Shay confirmed huskily.

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

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

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

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

‘And you were in love with him?’

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

‘And now that you’ve seen it?’

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

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

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

‘But correct,’ he mocked.

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

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

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

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

‘But it’s late …’

‘Does that matter?’ he encouraged throatily.

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

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

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

‘Do you believe in fate?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Mr Falconer, please—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER THREE

‘SHAY!’ the excited male voice greeted. ‘My God, Gypsy, no woman has the right to grow even more beautiful, the way you have!’

‘Neil,’ she greeted dryly, used to the exuberance of her youngest brother-in-law. But even she wasn’t prepared for the way he burst into the room and swung her round in his arms. ‘Neil, you fool, put me down,’ she laughed breathlessly, pushing at his arms.

‘I came up to warn Neil you were resting and didn’t want to be disturbed,’ Lyon remarked coldly from the doorway Neil had left open. ‘But it seems only some members of this family disturb you,’ he added icily.

Shay’s smile faded as she slowly released herself from Neil’s arms, straightening her black and white silk dress before answering. ‘You don’t disturb me, Lyon,’ she looked at him haughtily, ‘you disgust me!’

He sucked his breath into his lungs at the insult, a savage twist to his mouth as he turned on his heel and left the room, his back rigid.

Shay hadn’t seen him since she had struck him so forcibly the day before, had refused dinner yesterday, and had eaten breakfast and lunch in her room today, asking the friendly Patty to tell the Falconer men she preferred to stay in her suite and rest, just wanting to be alone. She hadn’t allowed for Neil’s arrival today, or his determination to see her again.

She looked at him now, regretful that he should have witnessed that ugly scene. ‘As you can see,’ she grimaced, ‘nothing changes.’ She sought for lightness.

‘You have.’ Neil’s eyes glowed with admiration. ‘I can remember a time when you would simply have thrown something at Lyon rather than give him a verbal dressing down.’

‘How are you, Neil?’ Shay ignored the reference to her past, often stormy, relationship with Lyon. ‘You’re looking very well.’

‘I am well,’ he nodded, sobering. ‘I’m really sorry about Ricky,’ he added softly.

Neil was only a slightly older version of her husband—blond hair, blue eyes—and looking at him now caused a fresh ache in her chest for the man she had lost. ‘So am I,’ she sighed.

He flushed awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve intruded, if you would rather not talk about Ricky. Lyon told me—’

‘Damn what Lyon told you!’ Shay burst out in agitated anger. ‘What does he know about how I feel, what did he ever care?’ Now that the icy veneer was cracking she didn’t seem able to stop the angry flow. ‘I’d like to talk about Ricky, I’d like to share him with someone. But I can’t!’ Her face contorted with the agony of burying the memories of Ricky deep in her heart.

‘You can share him with me, Gypsy.’ Neil moved to take her in his arms. ‘Talk to me about him; even though he was my brother I didn’t see much of him the last few years.’

‘That was my fault,’ she groaned into his throat.

‘Of course it wasn’t,’ Neil chided. ‘God, we might all be brothers, but we don’t have to live in each other’s pockets! When I marry, if I marry,’ he amended ruefully, ‘I don’t intend to stay in the family mausoleum either!’

Shay moved back to give him a watery smile. ‘You always were good for me,’ she said gratefully, taking the handkerchief he held out to her.

‘Believe me, after being one of the middle of four boys, it’s nice to have a sister I can tease and spoil.’ He guided her over to the sofa as he spoke, sitting them both down, his arm about her shoulders as he held her at his side. ‘I’d also like to be the brother you feel you can confide in,’ he prompted softly.

‘Neither Lyon nor Matthew exactly fit the role, hmm?’ she derided.

He shook his head. ‘Both as tough as old leather. Now me, I’m the easy-to-know-and-get-along-with brother,’ he grinned encouragingly.

‘Like Ricky,’ she said sadly, having talked to her husband about anything and everything.

‘Like Ricky,’ Neil nodded.

Once she began to talk, Shay couldn’t seem to stop, telling Neil everything that came into her mind, her head resting on his shoulder as she did so, feeling a closeness with him that she hadn’t known since those last precious days with Ricky.

SO HE DISGUSTED HER, did he! He remembered a time when disgust was the last thing she felt towards him.

God, she had been incredibly sweet the night he rescued her from Turner’s lecherous clutches. Although he doubted ‘rescued’ exactly described what had happened; the amount of alcohol Turner had consumed by that time meant that he would probably have passed out if he had tried any real physical exertion, such as making love. And Shay would probably have realised how far gone he was once he got over his anger at having his toes crushed by her shoe!

Which was why he had stepped in when he had. Shay had been suitably grateful for his interception, and it had stunned him when that gratitude had left him outside her door at the end of the evening instead of on the other side of it. He had decided then and there not to contact her again, that her naïvety had not only confirmed her youth; and he was too old and too cynical to participate in such ‘no touch’ games.

Bermuda had been everything he had thought it would be, and worse. Family Christmases, especially in a family like his own, were destined to be a failure from the onset, for everyone involved. He found himself thinking of the ‘Irish pixie with the purple eyes’, wondering if she were enjoying her Christmas as much as she had seemed sure she would, and if Devlin Murphy were helping her enjoy it! God, the mere fact that he remembered the man’s name had come as a shock to Lyon, that he envied Shay her ‘little cottage, real fire, and pine-needle-shedding tree’ when he had a villa on a private beach, miles of unspoilt coastline, the hot temperatures providing him with a deep sun-tan, and the ten-foot-high artificial tree in the lounge that wouldn’t dare shed anything, let alone pine-needles, had totally astounded him.

That the deep purple of dark-fringed eyes haunted him angered Lyon, throwing him into a whirl of parties and women once he returned to London after the holidays. And when they hadn’t worked in banishing her from his mind he had decided to see Shay once again, to talk with her, to see if she really were as beautiful as he remembered. When she had entered his office on that Monday morning he had known his memory had played tricks on him; she was even more enchanting than he remembered, those huge violet eyes dominating her beautiful face.

That she was nervous of him, of his reasons for summoning her there, was obvious, her long slender hands clasped together to stop them from trembling. ‘Why do you think I wanted to see you?’ Lyon asked harshly, unable to resist the impulse to make her suffer a little for haunting him in the way that she had.

Her throat moved convulsively, a long creamy expanse of delicate flesh he wanted to caress with his lips and tongue. ‘I—I have no idea,’ she answered steadily enough after that initial hesitation.

Some devil possessed him, annoyed at her coolness. ‘I want you to go down to your desk and get your things,’ he ordered. ‘You’re leaving.’

Shay gasped, her small breasts moving beneath the thin silkiness of her pale lilac blouse, the aroused points of her nipples visible through the lace of her bra and the sheer material of her blouse. If just thinking about seeing him again could cause that reaction it promised much for their future together! He forced himself to dampen the elation and listen to what she was saying.

‘You can’t just sack me,’ she claimed indignantly. ‘I always do my share of the work, and I haven’t missed a day or been late since I started working here. I’m not even the last one to be employed, Stacy came after me. Surely you have to have a good reason nowadays for sacking someone like this? I can’t—’

Charming as he found the increased Irish lilt to her voice when she became angry, he was bored with the game he had started with her. ‘I’m not sacking you,’ Lyon calmly interrupted her tirade. ‘I merely want you to get your coat and bag so that I can take you to lunch.’

‘Take me—? But—I—You—’ Her spluttering ceased as two bright spots of red colour entered her cheeks, her eyes two purple jewels. ‘You aren’t taking me anywhere, you arrogant swine!’ She turned on her heel, her body moving gracefully as she walked.

‘Shay!’ Lyon was on his feet in seconds, realising he had seriously misjudged this Irish vixen, that the placid demeanour and violet eyes hid a fiery temper, an independence that wouldn’t allow any man, even one as powerful as she must know him to be, to order her about. She was waiting for him when he crossed the room to her side, stiff with anger as he put his hands on her shoulders to turn her round. ‘Will you have lunch with me?’ he coaxed, trying to remember the last time he had had to persuade a woman to spend time with him. He couldn’t.

‘I don’t—’

‘Please.’ He turned her fully into his arms, her perfume as elusive as the woman herself, feeling his body quicken with the same desire that had assailed him the last time he was with her. ‘Shay?’ he prompted cajolingly.

She tilted her head back to look at him, her young face challenging. ‘Why?’

Why? God, what strange questions this woman-child asked! ‘Because I want to be with you,’ Lyon smiled.

‘You haven’t felt that same need the last three weeks,’ she accused, seeming to bite her lip as she realised how much she had revealed in that candid statement.

And she had revealed a lot; it was exactly three weeks since they had all returned to work, when he had vaguely said he might get in touch with her again. This little vixen wasn’t as immune to him as she wanted him to believe!

His gaze dropped to those revealing breasts, her breaths short and shallow, the nipples even more pronounced, showing darkly against the light material of her blouse. She wanted him as much as he wanted her! ‘I wasn’t sure if Devlin Murphy would have followed you back from Dublin,’ he teased.

‘Devlin leave his beloved Ireland?’ Shay smiled at the thought. ‘Never!’

Lyon sobered, knowing her anger was fading, that she was surrendering to the attraction she felt for him, that mischievous glow coming back into her eyes. ‘Lunch, Shay?’ he urged firmly.

Uncertainty flickered across her face. ‘Wouldn’t it look a little—odd?’

‘Maybe, a little,’ he acknowledged distantly. ‘Do you care?’

A reckless light appeared in her eyes. ‘No,’ she replied happily. ‘Not if you don’t.’

‘Why should I?’ Lyon shrugged, not caring for his employees’ opinion of his actions, and it was a long time since either he or Marilyn had been concerned with the marriage vows they had made over five years before.

‘No reason,’ Shay dismissed, her eyes glowing. ‘I’ll meet you downstairs once I’ve collected my things, shall I?’ she suggested eagerly.

He was glad now he had decided to drive himself into work that morning, the custom-built Porsche usually standing idle during the day at the underground parking at his apartment while his chauffeur, Jeffrey, drove him through the heavy traffic of early-morning London in the limousine; it saved on his own blood pressure, besides giving him the freedom to work in the back of the car during the journey. This morning he had aggressively wanted to challenge the traffic himself, daring anyone to get in his way, sexual tension making his mood volcanic.

As Shay climbed into the black vehicle beside him he thought how well she looked there, her fierce pride making her act as if she drove in fifty thousand pounds’-worth of car every day of her life. At that moment he had wanted her so badly he would have given her the car just to have one hour in bed with her. It might be a high price to pay, but he had a feeling, young though she was, the experience of making love to this woman would be worth it.

Lunch, what he had thought would be a tedious lead up to what he really wanted, became dinner too after they walked the afternoon away, the maître d’ finally having to point out to them that it was after two in the morning, that all the other patrons had left, and that the staff were waiting to go home. Lyon had been stunned—delighted!—that Shay had so interested him as he listened to her attractively lilting voice that he hadn’t been troubled by his usual malady when with a woman for any length of time, any woman—boredom. Shay had enchanted him with stories of her childhood, her grandfather, her beloved Ireland, and the fascination she felt for London, to such a point that the last fourteen hours had passed as if they were minutes. He could see by the shock in her candid purple eyes that she hadn’t realised the passing of the time either, and that pleased him.

Shay’s flat wasn’t large, just four rooms; a lounge, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom, but the warmth of the décor, the obviously lovingly hand-painted furniture and soft feminine touches all made it seem like the warmth of Shay herself enveloped you as you entered.

And he wanted that warmth for his own, wanted all that she had to give, turning her into his arms as she looked up at him shyly, the sudden silence between them after hours of endless conversation doubly significant.

Her mouth tasted of brandy and honey, her body felt soft and warm as his hands wandered over her hips and back, the hard tips of her breasts pressed against his chest through his shirt. And he didn’t want any barriers between them, his fingers deft on the buttons of her blouse.

‘Lyon?’ She frowned up at him uncertainly.

He was disappointed that she had returned to playing games, but if that was the way she wanted it he was willing to go along with it. He wanted her, any way he could get her. And if it couldn’t be tonight he would leave her with an ache as deep as his own.

‘I only want to touch you,’ he coaxed softly. ‘I’ll stop any time you tell me to,’ he promised, feeling satisfaction as she instantly relaxed in his arms.

It was that trust that was his undoing, and for the first time in years he knew he wasn’t going to be able to control the outcome of this encounter. Shay caught fire as soon as he cupped her bared breasts, pulling him in to that fire until he craved the taste of her, wanting to know every silken inch of her.

She was no longer hesitant as he stripped her, clinging to him, the touch of her soft lips on his throat and chest making his blood burn in his veins, on fire at the kittenish moans emitted from her parted lips as he returned to them again and again.

God, he could taste the sweetness of her even now, feel her shuddering with released desire, see the bewilderment in purple eyes as she realised what had just happened to her. He hadn’t meant things to go as far as they had, but when he saw the confusion in her face quickly followed by contrition, he was glad that they had, knew that the pleasure he had given her had been totally unexpected, that although she felt a certain amount of mortification about losing control in that complete way, she also felt guilt that her pleasure hadn’t been a shared one, that Lyon’s desire still throbbed and strained against her.

And although it had caused him an agony that took him to hell and back he had refused her embarrassed offer to give him that pleasure, had known, even though that denial cost him dearly, that the next time they were together she would be all the more eager to give him that satisfaction.

No, he hadn’t disgusted her then—but if she had known of his thoughts, of his devious schemes to make her more compliant with his desires, he probably would have done. God, he disgusted himself!

DID EVERY WIDOW feel as she did, that she was acting out a part in a play, as if the whole thing had been some horrendous mistake, as if any moment now her husband would come walking through the door and laughingly demand to know what she was doing in this stark black dress, her face pale beneath the black lace of the veil that drew over her from the small black hat confining her riotous black hair.

God, how she wished Ricky would walk through the door. Instead, she sat calmly waiting for the cars to arrive that would take them to the church where they would bury him. He would occupy the grave next to his mother and father; their youngest son, their baby, the first to join them there. Shay could have seen him buried nowhere else.

It had been left to Neil, dear kind Neil who sat with her for hours at a time while she silently lived within her grief, to tell her what time the funeral was today. She had seen nothing of Matthew and Lyon the last two days, had stayed up here in her suite, eating little, sleeping even less, thinking incessantly.

And the thinking took her nowhere; Ricky was dead, she was here at Falconer House where she had sworn never to return again, and today they would put him beneath the ground for ever, where she would never be able to see or touch him again.

‘Ready, darlin’?’

That voice, that dear kind familiar voice! But it couldn’t be, illness prevented him from being here. Had grief and lack of sleep made her hallucinate now, or—

‘I’m really here, Shay-me-love,’ that gentle voice assured softly.

Only Grandy had ever called her Shay-me-love in that exact way. He had to be here! ‘Grandy!’ She turned and ran across the room into her grandfather’s waiting arms, knowing as he gathered her in his bear-like hug that she was still alive, that she could still feel, that she was home in his arms! ‘Oh, Grandy!’ she choked again, burying her face against his chest.

‘There, there now.’ He awkwardly patted her shoulders a few minutes later when the tears hadn’t abated. ‘You’ll make my jacket go all limp,’ he complained teasingly.

She gave a choked laugh as she straightened, wiping her cheeks with trembling hands. ‘I had no idea—Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!’ She looked with love at the man who had brought her up single-handedly after her parents had died. Patrick Flanagan hadn’t changed much in all those years, his hair still a dark unruly mass of curls, his eyes still a deep twinkling blue in his kind, lined face, although over the years Shay’s height had almost equalled his five-foot-eight frame. He was still an attractive man, despite being in his sixty-fourth year. ‘You didn’t mention it when we spoke on the telephone yesterday. In fact,’ she added sternly, ‘I distinctly remember telling you not to come.’ The heart condition he had developed in recent years prevented him from doing too much travelling.

He raised dark brows at her. ‘And since when have I taken orders from you, Shay Falconer?’ he reproved.

Her mouth quirked. ‘Never. But you should have told me you were coming, I could have met you at the airport.’

‘Falconer sent his chauffeur—’

‘Lyon?’ she questioned sharply. ‘Lyon knew you were coming here?’

Her grandfather nodded. ‘You seemed so—so unlike my Shay when we spoke on the telephone yesterday, so cool and distant, so I called Falconer later that evening and asked him if he thought it a good idea if I came over for a few days. He thought it would,’ he explained simply. ‘So here I am.’ His smile was reassuring.

Shay bit her lip to stop herself making the angry retort that sprang to her lips, wanting to question the fact that Lyon could speak with any authority on what was or wasn’t good for her. But today, and now, was not the time to voice her resentment towards Lyon. For whatever reason, and she would never believe it to be out of genuine kindness—Lyon didn’t have a heart to be kind with!—he had advised her grandfather to come here, and for that she mentally thanked him. Mentally, because she would never verbally acknowledge to Lyon how much having her grandfather here at this time meant to her.

‘He’s invited me to stay on for a few days,’ her grandfather continued frowningly. ‘But I haven’t accepted yet; I don’t know what your plans are.’

She was aware of the question in his tone, deliberately turning to the mirror to remove all traces of tears from her cheeks. ‘I have to talk to you later,’ she told him as she readjusted her veil. ‘I was going to fly over to see you after the funeral.’

He cupped her elbow. ‘Falconer seems to assume you’ll be staying on here.’

Shay’s mouth tightened. ‘Lyon always did assume too much,’ she bit out icily.

Grandy turned to her as they reached the suite door. ‘Then you don’t intend staying?’

She forced the tension from her body, needing desperately to talk to her grandfather, but knowing now was not the time. ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ she assured him warmly. ‘It’s a little complicated.’

She was aware of his puzzled blue gaze on her, although with his usual thoughtfulness he didn’t pursue the matter when he could see she obviously didn’t want to just yet. He had always been someone she could talk to, who she could go to with her problems, both as a child and a woman, and yet even he didn’t know how extensively Lyon had hurt her, could have no real idea of how much just being in the same house with the other man upset her.

She hugged his arm to her side. ‘I can’t tell you how much having you here—now—means to me.’ Tears glistened in her eyes once more.

He gently touched her cheek. ‘I can see how much. I’m going to miss Ricky too.’

She gave him a grateful smile, knowing he had liked and approved of her husband, that the liking had been mutual, she and Ricky often visiting her grandfather in Ireland even if she refused to include Falconer House in those visits. Only Ricky’s death had been able to force her back here.

‘So tell me which of the family vultures are gathered downstairs to get a look at the grieving widow,’ she invited bitterly.

‘Shay!’

‘Sorry.’ She blushed a little, sorry that her grandfather had to be a witness to the bitterness she felt towards Ricky’s family. ‘What Falconer relatives are gathered downstairs?’ she rephrased the question.

He shrugged. ‘A couple of dozen assorted uncles, aunts and cousins; I don’t remember any of their names although I was introduced to them,’ he grimaced. ‘Then there’s the three Falconer brothers. And Lyon’s wife. And a rather good-looking young man whom I’ve never seen before.’ Grandy frowned.

Shay also frowned at the mention of the latter; she was definitely not in the mood to meet a complete stranger. It was bad enough that she had the family to contend with without that. And Marilyn Falconer. It was years since she had seen the other woman, but as Lyon’s wife Marilyn had been destined to take an instant dislike to Shay, and the feeling was mutual. Marilyn was everything that Shay wasn’t, at thirty-five more Lyon’s own age, sophisticated, petite, with glorious red hair and an incredibly beautiful face. And when they first met she had been Lyon’s wife for over five years, a fact she had taken great pleasure in relating to Shay.

She had known she would have to see the other woman again while she was here, but it hadn’t been something she welcomed for today. Or having to be with a man she had never met before. If she didn’t know the man then Ricky probably hadn’t either, and if the two men hadn’t known each other he had no right to be at Ricky’s funeral.

She could see the cars lining the driveway as she and Grandy walked down the stairs, feeling her heart lurch at the sight of them, her hand clutching tightly to her grandfather’s arm as they entered the lounge together.

It wasn’t so much a funeral as a social gathering, the ‘assorted uncles, aunts and cousins’ talking about the room in small groups, with the beautiful Marilyn playing the hostess as she flitted from group to group. Lyon, Matthew and Neil were together in front of the unlit fireplace, a tall dark-haired man whom she didn’t recognise standing at Neil’s side; obviously the man her grandfather had spoken of. Shay didn’t know him she was sure of it, although he looked pleasant enough, and she dismissed him of being any threat to her peace of mind as she felt tawny eyes on her, Lyon much more of a threat than the innocuous stranger could ever be.

She turned coolly to meet Lyon’s gaze, tensing as he spoke briefly to the other men before coming over to where she stood with her grandfather, the rest of the Falconer family too polite to stare openly, although she sensed quite a few of them giving her sideways glances.

‘I hope it wasn’t too much of a shock seeing your grandfather so suddenly,’ Lyon spoke smoothly.

‘It was a pleasant surprise,’ she corrected. ‘Although he really shouldn’t have been encouraged to face the strain of travelling,’ she added critically, Lyon as aware of her grandfather’s condition as she was.

His mouth tightened at the rebuke. ‘If you’re ready to leave now …?’

Shay nodded coldly, keeping her gaze averted from the rest of the people gathered in the room, although she knew several of them were openly watching her now. ‘My grandfather will travel with me,’ she announced curtly.

‘Of course,’ Lyon nodded, as if he had expected it to be no other way.

‘Just my grandfather,’ she added pointedly.

‘Shay—’

‘I trust you have no objections?’ Shay met Lyon’s gaze challengingly.

He looked as if he had plenty. ‘Not if it’s what you want,’ he rasped.

‘Oh, it is.’ She ignored her grandfather’s dismayed expression; not even for him could she be polite to this man she so despised. And the idea of revealing, in front of Lyon, the grief she felt whenever she thought of burying Ricky, was totally unacceptable to her. She wanted her grandfather at her side, no one else.

The drive to the church was made in silence, the ceremony brief and poignant, the small ceremony outside the greatest test of Shay’s strength. And as the vicar’s words began to rush blackly at her with alarming speed, she knew she wasn’t going to make it.

And then strong hands grasped her shoulders, tilting her world back on its axis, and Shay turned to Lyon with blazing violet eyes. ‘Take your hands off me!’ she flared vehemently.

He seemed to pale, his hands slowly dropping back to his sides. ‘I thought you were going to fall,’ he muttered huskily.

She gave him a look that clearly told him she would have preferred that to having him touch her in any way, turning sharply to go to the graveside and make her silent goodbyes to Ricky, her walk back to the car made alone, her head back proudly as the tears fell.

‘You’ve changed, Shay,’ remarked a mocking voice.

She turned before reaching the door of the car that Jeffrey held open for her, her gaze cool on Marilyn Falconer, the other woman as beautiful as ever. ‘Sorry?’ She arched dark brows.

Marilyn looked beautiful in the clinging black gown designed to emphasise her voluptuous figure; the fullness of her breasts, her slender waist, and femininely curving hips. At her side was the man Shay didn’t know. He smiled at her in an awkward way, seeming uncomfortable with the situation, and Shay wondered at the emotion from a complete stranger.

‘As I remember it,’ Marilyn drawled in her throaty voice, ‘you never used to be averse to my husband’s touch in that way!’ Blue eyes glittered challengingly.

That the other woman had enjoyed witnessing the encounter between Shay and Lyon was obvious, that she took great pleasure in drawing attention to Shay’s past relationship with Lyon, even at the funeral of Shay’s own husband, showed that Marilyn hadn’t changed at all in the last few years, that she was still a vindictive bitch.

‘I really don’t care to discuss it, Marilyn,’ Shay dismissed, looking pointedly at Marilyn’s companion.

‘Oh, don’t mind Derrick,’ Marilyn said airily. ‘He’s well aware of your past relationship with Lyon. I take it it is still in the past?’ she added tauntingly.

Shay felt the colour drain from her face. ‘Very much so,’ she bit out, ignoring the listening Derrick as the other woman seemed inclined to do so. ‘You’re more than welcome to him!’

Marilyn’s eyes widened. ‘But, my dear Shay, I no longer want him. Didn’t you know that?’

‘I—’

‘Time to go, Shay,’ her grandfather spoke sternly at her side. ‘If you’ll excuse us?’ He looked coldly at Marilyn and Derrick. ‘What was that bitch saying to you?’ he asked harshly once they were in the car as it moved smoothly down the narrow driveway to the road.

‘Grandy!’ she gasped.

He looked unperturbed at his uncharacteristic display of antagonism for the woman he barely knew. ‘You went as white as a sheet as soon as she spoke to you,’ he said grimly. ‘I couldn’t let that continue.’

Shay was still inwardly ricocheting from the shock of what Marilyn had just said. Oh, not the other woman’s insensitivity in questioning the relationship between her and Lyon now; Marilyn had never been known for her diplomacy, especially where Lyon was concerned. What shocked her so much was the last claim Marilyn made, about no longer wanting Lyon. Surely the other couple couldn’t finally be going to divorce each other? Six years ago she had believed that would never be possible, Lyon had convinced her that it wouldn’t.

The Falconer office grapevine had usually been correct, if sometimes slightly exaggerated in its information, but about the relationship between Lyon and his wife they had been completely wrong; the couple still lived together, were still married, and intended staying that way.

Shay hadn’t been able to understand the sort of marriage they had. A ‘modern arrangement’, they called it, each having their own ‘friends’, bringing those friends to meet the rest of the family at Falconer House, even sleeping with those partners there, but neither having the intention or inclination to end their own marriage. Unfortunately, Shay hadn’t discovered that until her love for Lyon had been such a fundamental part of her life that to rip him out of her heart had been to destroy herself.

And if the couple were finally to divorce, whose decision had it been to end their ‘modern arrangement’? Lyon had made it plain six years ago that he would never make that choice.

‘It was nothing, Grandy,’ she dismissed as she realised her grandfather still looked concerned. ‘Marilyn and I have never pretended to be friends.’ Shay’s tone was scornful, her composure back in place. ‘We never could be.’

‘Nevertheless—’

‘Don’t give it another thought, Grandy.’ She squeezed his arm reassuringly. ‘I’m not going to.’

He didn’t look convinced by her dismissal of the other woman, but he wisely didn’t pursue it any further. But he did stay close by her side once they arrived back at the house, glowering fiercely at any member of the Falconer family that dared to talk to her. Shay was amused by his protectiveness, grateful to have him there, knowing he had helped her get through a very difficult time.

Finally the guests began to leave, only the close family left; Shay and her grandfather, the three Falconer men, Marilyn, and finally the man Derrick. Shay had stopped feeling curious about him, the man was quite innocuous, in fact he barely spoke to anyone.

‘Thank God that’s over,’ Marilyn said in a bored voice once the final relative had left. ‘Perhaps now we can have something a little stronger to drink than sherry!’ She moved to the extensive array of drinks on the side table.

‘Isn’t it a little early in the day for that, even for you?’ Matthew drawled caustically.

She flashed him an angry look before turning to her husband. ‘Lyon?’ She snapped.

He gave a disinterested shrug. ‘Help yourself,’ he invited wearily.

She gave Matthew a triumphant smile. ‘Anyone else?’ she offered.

No one answered, and Marilyn helped herself to a liberal amount of whisky before making herself comfortable in one of the armchairs, crossing one silky leg over the other. ‘Now isn’t this cosy?’ she said to no one in particular.

‘I would hardly call it that.’ Once again Matthew was the one to answer her.

‘Civilised, then.’ Marilyn sipped her whisky with enjoyment. ‘Very civilised,’ she repeated thoughtfully.

‘Marilyn—’

‘I mean,’ she continued talking as if Lyon hadn’t spoken, ‘where else would you find a husband and wife, a wife’s lover, and the husband’s ex-lover all gathered in the same room?’ She looked guilelessly about the room at the stunned people standing there.

The silence was deafening; Shay had always thought that a contradiction in terms, but at that moment she understood what it meant perfectly. The silence was deafening, everyone speechless after Marilyn’s casually vindictive statement.

To Shay’s surprise it was Neil who answered Marilyn this time. ‘Your idea of civilisation would disgust even the animal kingdom!’ he spat out contemptuously, striding from the room.

‘One down, five to go,’ Marilyn taunted unconcernedly.

Shay felt her grandfather stiffen at her side. ‘Your behaviour, madam, at a time like this,’ he spoke coldly to Marilyn, ‘is enough to make a saint leave any room you occupy.’

‘Marilyn—’

‘Don’t look so worried, darling,’ she laughed lightly as the man called Derrick spoke warningly. ‘Patrick won’t really leave, will you?’ She turned to Shay’s grandfather. ‘I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced to my fiancé,’ she continued brightly without waiting for him to answer. ‘Have you?’ she challenged.

‘No,’ he replied tersely.

Shay finally had her answer as to exactly who the man Derrick was, although she had guessed a few minutes ago that he had to be the lover Marilyn had spoken about; it certainly wasn’t Matthew or Neil! But she had had no idea of Derrick’s existence, or that Marilyn and Lyon were at last to divorce; Ricky had never mentioned it to her. Although in the circumstances perhaps that was understandable, she had shown little interest in any member of his family over the last few years.

Marilyn introduced her fiancé as Derrick Stewartby, a fellow lawyer.

‘We’ll be married as soon as my divorce from Lyon is complete, some time in the new year,’ she added with satisfaction. ‘Although, of course, you won’t still be here then, will you, Shay?’

‘Won’t I?’ Shay returned stiffly, irritated at the other woman’s almost triumphant tone.

Marilyn gave her a sharp look. ‘Surely you’ll be returning to America soon to resume your career?’

Shay wasn’t fooled for a moment by the other woman’s attempt at lightness; the thought that she might be here when Lyon was finally a free man bothered Marilyn very much. She needn’t have worried, Lyon could have been free years ago and it wouldn’t have mattered to Shay.

‘I can write anywhere,’ she said softly, sensing that Marilyn was far from the only person in the room that was tense as they waited for her answer. But she looked at no one else but Marilyn.

‘You intend staying on here?’ The other woman frowned her displeasure at that idea.

‘Not at the house, no,’ Shay dismissed the idea with a mental shudder. ‘But in England, yes. You see,’ she added softly, ‘I want my child to be born here.’

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