Gypsy

by Carole Mortimer

  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.