Gypsy

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.