Damn her all to hell and back. She wasn’t as stubborn as she had been before. She was worse. Because she wasn’t a girl any longer, not even a headstrong, intelligent girl. Now she was a woman. And dangerous. With a fierce toss, he threw her silk robe toward the drawers of disheveled lingerie, then heaved his bag directly into the middle of the room again. Without thinking of the consequences, he began to unbutton his shirt.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Alarm rose in her voice.
He tossed his shirt onto the top of the bag. Then his undershirt. He slid the belt out of his trousers next.
“Don’t you dare!”
He turned to face her as he dropped his trousers. Her cool eyes were growing wild. So was his heartbeat. He felt himself stir again and wondered himself what in God’s name he was doing.
“Paul, so help me—”
Her words broke off in a strangled gasp as he unbuttoned his skivvies and let them fall to his ankles. Her eyes grew wide. He grew hard. He suppressed a groan. He’d lost his mind.
Pretending he was in complete control of his faculties, he flopped onto the bed and lay there, hands behind his head, erection boldly beckoning. “Okay. So maybe this is your room. But I think this is my bed.”
She seemed to be panting. Her eyes were focused on him, and not on his charming face, either. Lord, he thought he might explode. Even if this drove her away, it might surely drive him crazy first.
“But you’re welcome to join me.”
He hoped she would. He would remind her of a thing or two.
MARGARET THOUGHT for a moment she might just take him up on his invitation. He had reminded her of things she’d thought long forgotten. What a man looks like when he’s ready and eager. How a woman feels when she knows she’s responsible for the way a man throbs and swells. Her body ached and yearned.
Damn him. She would need confession in the morning.
Except...he was her husband. Did it count as lust if he was her husband? Was that a sin worthy of confessing?
She swayed for a moment between giving herself something truly worthy of confession and not giving this arrogant man something to hold over her head. She made a decision.
As calmly as possible she slipped off her shoes. She unbuttoned her dress, a long, slow process, for these longer dresses had interminable buttons. She let it drop as carelessly as he had dropped his clothes. Not even looking at him, telling herself he might not even be there for all she cared, she slid the straps of her chemise off her shoulders. She stood there in her underpants, brassiere, stockings and garter belt.
She heard him groan.
She thought about the sounds he would make if she touched him. She tried to remember what a man felt like. Silky and hard, the way she remembered? Impossible to be sure after so long.
But she could find out. Now.
She thought she might explode.
She unhooked the stockings from the garters and rolled them down. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she took off her brassiere. The night air caressed her breasts, bringing her nipples to peaks. She shivered.
She forced herself to look at Paul. He seemed mesmerized. She smiled and thought about how damp and hot she felt, how easily he would slip into her right now. Then maybe...
She found her nightgown in the tumble of lingerie and slipped it over her head. Then she closed the drawer, put away her clothes, took an extra quilt from the top shelf of the chiffonnier and walked toward the French doors that led to the gallery.
“What the—”
“Good night, Paul. Sweet dreams.”
As she closed the door, she heard his muffled curse. Then she curled up on the chaise longue and waited for her body to stop pleading with her to go back inside. It was a long wait.
SHE AWOKE WITH THE DAWN, her back stiff, her body instantly alert to needs that wouldn’t be satisfied. She was also mortified at the memory of undressing in front of Paul the night before. Oh, she was reckless, but not, she discovered this morning, completely shameless.
She thought of staying on the gallery until she heard him dress and leave her room, but she had to get André ready for school. Maybe if she rose early, she could get out without waking Paul. So she opened the French doors quietly and crept stealthily across the room.
Taking a peek at Paul, sprawled across her bed, was more than she could resist. The bedcovers were in havoc, sheets and quilt tangled around his legs. He lay on his belly now, revealing his buttocks and back. The back was strong, firm with compact muscle, the buttocks taut. She thought once more about the feel of his skin beneath her fingers.
“Sleep well, Margie?” he murmured against the pillow, and she realized that, even with his eyes closed, he must have been aware of her staring.
She composed herself the best she could, marshaling the impassive society voice she’d learned from Mother Lyon. “I had the most frightful nightmare. At least, I had assumed it was a nightmare. Until now.”
He rolled over. She forced herself not to look away and was startled to realize he was aroused again. Or still. Either way, panic rose in her.
“Still not too late,” he said, stretching and yawning.
“You should cover up before Lena comes up with coffee. You’ll give her a heart attack.”
He laughed. She watched, fascinated, as all the muscles of his body joined in his mirth. How had she forgotten what a miraculous piece of work the male body was?
Without another word, she went into the adjoining bathroom. She considered forgoing her bath to avoid disrobing with him nearby. But she refused to let him disrupt her life any more than he already had. She would proceed as usual. She bathed—although quickly—and pulled on her robe.
Was it too much to hope that he might have behaved as a gentleman would, dressing and leaving while she was in the bathroom?
Apparently the gentlemanly thing had not occurred to him. He stood at the open gallery doors, wearing a striped satin robe and sipping coffee.
“I asked Lena to bring an extra cup for you, my dear,” he said. “And how is my loving wife this morning?”
“Your playful mood isn’t amusing, Paul.” She busied herself dressing, doing her best to keep the essentials protected from his prying gaze.
He chuckled and moved across the room. “My dear, if you aren’t in a cheerful mood this morning, I’m afraid my reputation with the servants is going to suffer.”
Margaret told herself it didn’t matter what the servants thought. She tugged on her dress. Paul moved in to secure the hooks in back.
“Don’t do that,” she snapped.
He ignored her. “How do you get by without a man around the house? Or maybe you don’t.”
She jerked away from the whispering touch along her back. “You’re despicable.”
“I’m only a concerned husband, my dear. And I’m sorry you’re in such a snit this morning. Here, we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Let’s patch things up.”
Without further warning, he framed her face with his hands and dropped a light kiss on her lips. He backed away an inch, a mocking expression on his face. But as he looked into her eyes, his expression changed, grew dark and intense. He lowered his lips to hers again, but this time it was no sham of a kiss, intended to taunt her. This time his lips pressed insistently to hers, and she felt the warmth of it flood her entire body.
When she realized how her body was betraying her, she pulled away.
“The game is over,” she said, then marched out of the room and down the hall to her son’s room, shaking all the way.
PAUL FINISHED HIS COFFEE on the gallery, sitting on the chaise longue where Margaret had spent the night.
He listened to the birds, to the trees rustling in the breeze. Early morning here at Lyoncrest was as peaceful as it was on the bayou, if you could ignore the undercurrents within the family. The place could seduce him, make him forget all the reasons he had stayed away so long.
But the real danger, of course, was Margaret.
Clearly, if he didn’t keep his distance, he would fall under her spell again. He already wanted her so badly he feared she would manage to convince him of her lies, if he listened to that husky voice, looked into those eyes long enough. Hadn’t she already ensnared him with her big plans for a television station?
And hadn’t his mother helped lay the trap by convincing him to come home?
Margaret had power over him the way no other woman ever had, before or since. Why else had he stayed away so long? Nevertheless, he refused to end up a slave to his baser needs. And the first order of business was to find another bedroom. He wouldn’t be able to handle even one more interminable night with her so close. He could sense her arousal.
And she had been aroused. He shifted in the chair, suddenly uncomfortable. The way she’d disrobed right in front of him, as if it meant nothing to her. My God, she was bold as brass. He smiled. Still, he’d seen the way her nipples hardened, the flush that heated her body. He’d seen her eyes go soft and bright. She’d been ready for him, and heaven knew he’d been ready for her.
Cursing softly, he headed for the bathroom. If he was lucky, she’d have used all the hot water and he could get himself under control with a cold bath this morning.
Tonight he would make other sleeping arrangements. The thought brought another smile.
“That’s not what I meant,” he muttered as the pipes groaned and rattled and delivered a rush of steam and hot water. He sank into the steam and gave in to one final daydream.
CHARLES ENTERED the sunroom briskly, gave his mother a peck on her powdered and scented cheek and headed for the coffeepot.
“My, what an early bunch this morning,” Minna said. She sounded especially cheerful, Charles thought.
“Are we?” He gave her a smile as he loaded a plate with salt-cured ham, fluffy scrambled eggs and a flaky croissant.
Minna nodded. “Your father left before daybreak, Margaret directly after that and Paul couldn’t be bothered to have breakfast before he left. I suppose his eating habits aren’t what they should be. I imagine he didn’t have a cook out there in the swamp, did he?”
“Paul? Paul was here?” Charles’s knife and fork paused over the slice of ham.
“Oh, yes.” Minna looked and sounded unconcerned, but Charles spotted the delight in her eyes.
“What is he doing here?”
“Why, this is his home, Charles. Whatever do you mean?”
“Mama, this hasn’t been Paul’s home for a decade.”
“You’re exaggerating as usual. He’s only been gone a few years. The war took many young men away from home.”
“The war was over years ago.”
“Nevertheless, he has returned at last. We discussed this possibility last night. You haven’t forgotten our agreement about André, I trust.”
Charles clenched his knife so tightly his hand began to shake. Paul, skulking around the station. Paul, back at Lyoncrest. Charles’s morning coffee soured in his belly. Everybody’s favorite son was back from the war. Charles knew what that meant. Soon he would fade into the shadows again, eclipsed by the family’s shining star.
Sure enough, Minna Lyon’s face held a contented glow. “I declare I slept better just knowing he was back in his old room where he belongs.”
“What?” Charles shoved back from the table.
“Charles, he does have a wife who’s waited faithfully for him all these years.”
Back at the station, back at the house, back in his own bed.
With Margaret.
Jealousy flashed white-hot in Charles, planting wild thoughts in his mind. Thoughts of betrayal and revenge. All these years, he’d kept Margaret’s secret, waiting patiently for the day when she would realize which of the Lyon brothers was truly worthy of her.
And now this.
He would tell them all. Make it known. Disgrace her and that little bastard.
The thought of André calmed him, took the sting out of his fury. He loved the boy, would do anything for him. It didn’t matter to him that André wasn’t a real Lyon. Someday, when Margaret wised up, they would find a way to circumvent the Catholic church. Then he would marry her, adopt the boy, make him a true Lyon heir.
At least, that had been the plan until somebody dragged Paul Lyon out of the swamp.
Charles stood abruptly. “That is obscene.”
“Now, Charles, don’t excite yourself. You know your asthma—”
“My asthma be damned!”
Minna gasped. Charles was instantly contrite, but still could not tame the impotent rage in his heart. Was his entire life to be ruined by his brother? He left by the front door, running out of steam halfway to the garage as he realized he’d forgotten his briefcase. Deflated, he heaved a sigh and dropped to the bench beside the bed of roses that were Aunt Ella’s pride and joy. She was there already this morning, on her knees, wearing that enormous straw hat that made his mother shudder whenever Ella wore it off the property.
“Weeding,” Ella said. “It’s been such a wet winter the weeds are thriving. You can’t let them get ahead of you.”
“They’ll choke out everything, I suppose,” Charles said, identifying with the poor rosebushes that wanted nothing more than to bloom where they were planted, but had to battle weeds and bugs and who knew what in order to fulfill their birthright. Yes, Charles himself was like one of Aunt Ella’s prize roses. The thought gave him comfort.
His aunt got to her feet, dusted the knees of the breeches she wore to garden in—which also appalled her older sister—and kneaded her lower back. Ella was almost sixty, but not at all like the other women that age that Charles knew. His maiden aunt was what some might call eccentric. She’d always been his favorite, and he hers.
“You’re looking morose this morning, Charlie boy.”
“Paul is back.”
She nodded and joined him on the bench. “I heard that.”
“Mother even wants us to lie to the boy about him. He’s going to do it all over again, you know. Usurp everything.”
Ella patted him on the knee. “Let him take it. All of it. You’re better than any of it, Charlie boy.”
“Ella, you don’t understand—”
“Don’t be witless,” she said. “Of course I understand. Haven’t I lived here ever since your grandparents died? Haven’t I practically raised you myself since then? I’ve watched while that big brother of yours stole away everything you ever thought you wanted, haven’t I?”
It comforted him further just to hear her say it, to feel that someone understood,
“Minna always worshipped him, while all she could spare for you was fussing over your asthma. A.J. loves success and Paul had plenty of that. Including Margaret.”
Charles felt himself flush. Aunt Ella knew everything. She always saw straight into his heart. He remembered the first time he’d seen Margie Hollander at a family get-together, maybe twenty years ago. He’d been enthralled by the seven-year-old, by her impetuous spirit. She’d taken him exploring in the Hollander attic, a musty, spider-infested place that had given Charles the creeps and had him wheezing and coughing before it was over. Margie had been dauntless. He’d known then that he loved her. Aunt Ella had spotted his feelings right away.
“Play your cards right,” she’d whispered to him in the car on the way home, “and she’ll be yours. Everyone loves a match like this, uniting the two dynasties.”
At ten, Charles hadn’t completely grasped what she meant, but he’d understood enough. Margie Hollander would be his bride someday.
Then, while he was away at college, he’d lost her. And not to just anyone. To Paul. That was what had made it so unbearable. One more thing lost to his charming, talented older brother. Paul, adored by Minna, admired by A.J., loved by Margie and worshipped by the American public, while Charles languished in New Orleans with his asthma, a man not even able-bodied enough to fight in the war.
Through it all, he’d loved Margaret. Been loyal to her. Even her shabby behavior
regarding André hadn’t disillusioned him. She was young. Young people made mistakes. He could forgive her, something Paul couldn’t do. Surely, soon, she would see how noble that made him.
And now Paul was back. In her bed. Charles had to get out of the house without delay. He simply couldn’t bear this.
“Now is the time to get out of that place, Charlie boy,” his aunt was saying. “A radio station is too callow, too mundane for a man of your talent. You belong on the concert stage. That is your true calling. You know that.”
The words weighed him down even further. If there was one thing he wanted more than Margaret, it was just what Ella spoke of. But he had realized long ago that pursuing a career as a classical musician would never get him the things he wanted most—his father’s respect, Margaret’s love, the satisfaction of besting Paul. No, he had to make it in the broadcasting arena for those things to happen.
“I told her I’d do the announcing for this silly television station of hers,” he said woefully. “Why is nothing I do ever enough?”
“Because they are beneath you, Charles. Until you follow your heart and do what you’re meant to do, you’ll be forever miserable.”
“I do follow my heart, Aunt Ella.” But Margaret had never noticed. And now, it appeared, she never would.
CHAPTER SIX
SEEING THE LYON BROTHERS together later that day, sharing a booth at The Pearl diner, was the last thing Margaret expected when she arrived to pick up the food ordered for the engineers.
Charles was leaning intently over the table, where their po’boy sandwiches sat barely touched. Paul was leaning back in the booth, the epitome of indifference. Margaret thought she’d never seen two brothers less alike. Charles, fair yet intense, tall and broad-shouldered despite the asthma that had dogged him all his life. And Paul, dark, slight of build and to all appearances easygoing, despite the tension on the inside.
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