Family Secrets

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

So who had tracked her down and why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He loved her exaggerated Southern charm. “No.”

“Then what on earth...?”

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

“Why?” So suspicious.

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

“This way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, Charlotte, but—”

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

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

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

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

“Be my guest.”

“You want one?”

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

“Your grandmother sent me.”

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

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

“Why?” She looked completely confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like your grandmother,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Now?”

“I’m afraid so.”