Gypsy

by Carole Mortimer

  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 partic
ular 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?’