The Lyon Legacy

by Peg Sutherland

  “André, you have to stop spending all your money on us,” Gabrielle scolded quietly one night, long after the girls were in bed. It was the first pillow-talk session André had managed to lure her into since the night of the Bacchus ball. “I told myself I wasn’t going to have sex with you again, and here I am. You cast powerful spells, André Lyon.” She stared at him with troubled eyes. “I’m just weak where you’re concerned.”

  He lightly scraped his thumbs over the tips of her breasts, and indulged in a deep kiss before he pulled her head down on his shoulder. “What more can I do, Gabrielle, to make you understand that I want to be partners with you in every way? At home and at work and everywhere in between. It’s about more than sex.”

  She snuggled her cheek against his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady beneath her ear. “I can’t explain it, André. When we’re together I feel as if I’ve tripped and fallen into a dreamworld. But I sense that something lurks in the shadows nearby, waiting to snatch our happiness away.”

  “Like what, honey? Tell me. I’ll slay all the big bad wolves.”

  She smiled and kissed his flat, brown nipple. “Isn’t that dragons, sir knight? I know I probably sound silly.” She sat up and gathered her long hair to one side. “At work, don’t you feel as if everyone’s watching us? Watching and waiting for us to disagree. Like they’re anticipating an irreparable split in the power base?”

  “I did believe that. Now I’m less sure.” He shrugged. “Well, possibly Alain. Jason’s backed off. He’s actually been civil lately.”

  “But they say things. Well, Alain does.”

  “What kind of things?” André nuzzled kisses from her bare shoulder to her neck. He stopped, letting his mouth curve into the hollow he’d found beneath her hair.

  “When...when you kiss me like that, I can’t think of a thing. But...in meetings, Alain’s forever insinuating that what you wrote in a memo is the opposite of what I’m telling them. Then the staffs totally confused.”

  André rolled on top of her. He propped his weight on his elbows for a moment before he settled into the warm cleft forged by her hips. “We can solve that problem by putting both our names on every memo that leaves our office. Or better yet,” he growled, running a hand between their bodies to test her readiness. “All our problems would be solved if both our names were Lyon.”

  Her breath hitched, caught and then was rapidly expelled as he lowered his head and drew circles on her breast with his tongue.

  “You don’t play fair, André,” she said unsteadily, rubbing her toes over his ankle.

  Suddenly he plunged into her, let her adjust, then slowly withdrew. After several times, Gabrielle felt boneless and she wrapped her legs around his muscled thighs in an attempt to hold him still. Everything he said was true. She wanted to agree.

  More so after they lay spent and sated, and he begged her, between kisses, to let him put a ring on her finger. “I want our families and the staff to know we’re committed, Gabrielle. One hundred percent,” he breathed in her ear.

  She gazed into his earnest eyes for the longest time. In the end she rolled over and slid off his bed, quickly slipping into her shorts and tank top. “Paul and Margaret approved our plans for the twenty-fifth gala, André. I don’t think we should let anything get in its way. The business is finally beginning to show a steady climb. Why rock the boat?”

  “Rock it how? I love you, Gabrielle. I want you in my bed every night. I hate it when you get dressed and sneak out as if we’re doing something illicit.”

  “You say that so easily.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “Well, I want Lyon Broadcasting to be the most successful television station in Louisiana again. I want your mother to be proud of me. I want her to know she didn’t put her money on a bad horse when she invested in me—in my future.”

  Gabrielle kept her voice low, but to André it seemed as if she was shouting. “Look at me.” She gestured with both hands. “I’m proving the opposite.” Her hiccuping laugh bordered on hysteria. “Do you hear yourself, André? Our leaping in and out of bed is illicit. We aren’t married, and we do sneak around right under your mother’s nose.”

  “Gabrielle, stop it. No one knows except us.”

  She held up her hand as he started to climb off the bed. “You’re wrong,” she said bitterly. “Today, Alain suggested to a room filled with staff that I’m spending so much time sniffing at your heels I’m shirking my duties at the station. Please, André. You’ve got to allow me time to get my priorities straight again.”

  He would have objected, dragged out every argument he had at his fingertips, if she hadn’t looked so vulnerable—so on the verge of falling apart. Raking his hands through his hair, he reached for his pants. “You do what you have to do, Gabrielle. I won’t stop loving you this month or next. Whether Lyon Broadcasting reaches the heavens or sinks into the pits of hell. But this is the last time you’ll hear me say so until you tell me the feeling is mutual.” He shoved his legs into his pants and stood.

  “André, please forgive me.” Gabrielle hovered half in, half out of his room. She bit her lip and squared her shoulders as he went to stand at the window. He pressed both palms hard against the wood casing and breathed in the sultry night air. The curve of his back remained a bulwark of tense muscles.

  Leaving him, with anger hanging between them like this, wasn’t what Gaby wanted. But it was how things had to be.

  Covering her mouth to hide a sob, she crept out and softly shut his door. She felt as if she was drowning in her sorrow.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DURING THE NEXT TWO MONTHS, André felt lucky if he even caught a glimpse of Gabrielle. She’d resumed her habit of going to work before daylight. She’d moved her desk into a small spare office and taped notes on his door apprising him of meetings she’d set up with clients. His evenings were tied up with Bacchus krewe meetings for next year’s Mardi Gras ball. He spent his days tallying the sales figures. Gaby brought in phenomenal numbers of new advertisers; WDIX-TV had again become her obsession. She refused to talk about how she was losing weight and looking pale and drawn. Her answer was to work on ideas for the gala late into the night.

  Fortunately André had learned enough to take over all the inside office work. “She’s tied up with the gala,” he relayed over and over to family when Gaby missed family dinners. He felt at least partially to blame for her absence. André was well aware that one reason for her work frenzy was her desire to avoid seeing him.

  Because she also spent weekends at the office, and because the kids were out of school for the summer, André continued their outings. Gaby might be avoiding him, but that was no reason they should suffer.

  “Mommy’s busy a lot,” Leslie complained one June afternoon when André detoured past a new frozen-yogurt shop in the French Quarter. He would have replied offhandedly but noticed Rachel eyeing him with an anxiousness he hadn’t observed in months.

  “You kids have heard us talk about the twenty-fifth celebration. Leslie, your mom’s in charge. It’s coming up soon—the beginning of next month. She’s overseeing invitations, decorations, entertainment and...well, everything to do with it. It’s an important event.”

  “My dad says the gala is a big fat waste of money.” Scott cast André a worried glance, even though he continued to stuff chocolate yogurt into his mouth.

  André searched for a suitable reply. “It’s the birthday of Lyon Broadcasting. Gabrielle and I don’t think celebrating birthdays is wasteful. Neither do my parents.”

  Leslie nudged Scott with an elbow. “I like birthdays, too.”

  Rachel caught a drip of raspberry sorbet with her tongue. “Is that birthday thing really why Gaby’s always gone? You’re not mad at her or somethin’?” Her voice quavered.

  André gave a moment’s thought to his response. “Look at me, Rachel.” When she did, he said, “As Scott told us, not everyone who’s in the business is jumping for joy about this celebration. Gaby wants very much to please everybody.
Let’s try to make things at home go smoothly for her.”

  “Okay. But I’ll be glad when this thing’s over,” Rachel said. “She never has time for us anymore.”

  André pushed his sherbet aside. What excuse would he give for Gaby’s indifference after the anniversary bash?

  JUNE SLID INTO JULY. Tuesday, the week of the Saturday gala, André bumped into Gabrielle as he crossed the lobby, headed for a budget meeting with technical staff. She, apparently, had been up in her office and was on her way out again.

  “Whoa. Steady as she goes, mate.” André grasped her arm for the pleasure of touching her. She wore black and white, a stark complement to her hair and skin tones. Hammered silver disks winked at her ears. A matching bracelet circled the slender arm Andre gripped. A new perfume flirted past his nostrils, kindling visions of steamy nights and cool sheets.

  “We’re not mates.” She pursed her lips ever so briefly. “However, we do pass like ships sailing in and out of port,” she admitted.

  He slid his hand to her wrist and rubbed a thumb along the inside. It gave him immense satisfaction, feeling her blood surge. “I’m anchored, Gabrielle. And ready to mate anytime you are.” He needed all his willpower to keep from dragging her into the alcove off the reception area and telling her again how much he loved her.

  She went limp a moment, then jerked loose. “Stop it, André.” Her voice was breathless.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He knew he appeared anything but contrite.

  Refusing to look at him, she dug through her briefcase and produced a pocket calendar. “We really should meet. Did you read the list of objections to the gala that Alain presented—supposedly from Charles? As a principal in the company, he’s demanding an itemized account of monies spent to date. I have the figures. No time to compile them, though.” She sighed. “Can you see me at two o’clock today?”

  “I’m tied up today with technical staff, and tomorrow with the art department. Thursday? I could meet for breakfast.” André leafed through his own planner.

  She shook her head. “No, but I’ll run back to the office between appointments. At three? My office or yours?” Gabrielle shifted to let someone pass. She donned a duty smile until she saw it was Alain. Her smile turned into a grimace.

  “Making time for an afternoon quickie?” he murmured, elbowing them aside.

  André would have grabbed his cousin around and demanded an apology, but Gaby’s frown and a warning shake of her head stopped him. “Three. Thursday. Got it,” he murmured. “Your office is fine.” He didn’t think he could work in his if she left a lingering trace of that perfume.

  As IT TURNED OUT, on Thursday André’s afternoon meeting with the other New Orleans station managers ran late. It was twenty past three when he raced across the lobby and down the corridor; he took the stairs two at a time, fearing he’d miss Gaby. He heaved a sigh as her office doorknob turned easily under his hand. At least she hadn’t taken off again.

  He walked in to what looked like a room that’d been the target of a burglary. “What happened?” he asked Gabrielle, who sat amidst a sea of paper.

  She sagged wearily. “I must have forgotten to lock the door when I left last night. Someone came in and broke the lock on one of my file cabinets. I found these three drawers dumped.”

  “What’s missing?”

  “I don’t know.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I’d barely walked in and found this mess when you showed up. Most of these folders contain old production costs, expansion fees, rate increases and the like.”

  “Nothing current?”

  She pawed through the stack. “Margaret and Paul both had some personal files stored in the bottom drawer. Mostly to do with opening the station, I believe. I know you weren’t here last night, so you couldn’t have seen anyone hanging around.” She paused. “LuAnn said you sat up with Leslie and let me sleep. I owe you. She seems to be catching the flu, and she’s so fretful. I’d been up three nights in a row.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.

  “You were beat. I heard her coughing. And you don’t owe me. I care about Leslie—and you.”

  “Yes. Thank you, André.” She didn’t react to his declaration. “Who did this, do you suppose? I thought we were finished with these senseless attacks.” She cradled her head in both hands, feeling her nerves buckle.

  “Does any of this stuff pertain to the gala costs?”

  A soft gasp cleared Gaby’s lips. “Oh, you think Alain heard us making plans to meet and tally the figures? That he tried to steal them first?”

  “You’re putting words in my mouth, Gabrielle. But, yes, it crossed my mind.”

  She looked relieved. “Then I’d say he must be disappointed. I have that folder in my briefcase. I took it home last night to put it in some kind of order, then didn’t touch it.”

  “What’s wrong with your car?” André asked, changing the subject abruptly. “I saw you’d left it in the garage this morning.”

  “Dead battery.” She wrinkled her nose. “I left the lights on all night. Paul lent me his prize Caddy. Thing drives like a tank and doesn’t corner worth spit. Which reminds me, I have to dash out to meet a guy who wants to advertise a new wonder cleanser. And afterward, I’ve got a dinner meeting with the sales group. We’ll have to cancel our session, after all.” She stood, sighing as she studied the mess. “I’ll come in later and clean up.”

  “What time? I’ll meet you here and help.”

  “No need, André. You won’t know which papers go in what folder.”

  “I don’t want you here alone, Gabrielle.” His tone held finality.

  “I promise to arrive by nine and leave before the station signs off at midnight.”

  “And if you’re running late as usual? Don’t argue, Gaby. I’ll be here. Now give me the key.”

  “All right. I may be closer to ten.” She stifled a yawn. “I won’t object if you come early and put the empty folders in alphabetical order.”

  “Done. In the interim I’ll go have a chat with Alain.”

  He did, but he might as well have saved his breath. His cousin not only denied everything, but Charles walked in during their argument—in time to hear André say, “I’ll fire your butt if I ever find one scrap of evidence that you raided those files.”

  “I’d watch the threats,” Alain said coldly. “One of these days I’ll be finding evidence...and I’ll expose Uncle Paul and Aunt Margaret’s dirty little secret, cou—sin. Then we’ll see who’s calling the shots around here.”

  Charles rounded on André. “You owe my son an apology. He’s right. There’s no need for you to get so cocky. The truth of Margaret’s indiscretions will come out.”

  “Go to hell!” André stormed out of Alain’s office and out of the building. His one regret was that half the staff working on the second floor had heard their argument. He rushed past various offices, ignoring the strained silence. Rumors of a split in the family would run rampant by morning. Damn. He didn’t dare bring this up around his father. Papa had looked unwell for several weeks now.

  He knew that his mother was scrupulously truthful, and she’d assured him that Paul was his father. So, what nasty lies were Charles and Alain spreading—and why, exactly? Was there any basis in fact? Had Margaret and Paul committed some indiscretion in the past?

  After dinner, before André left for the station, he mentioned the bitter exchange to his mother. He was careful to speak out of range of his father.

  Margaret walked André to his car. She listened, looking stoic as always—even when André demanded, “Do we have something to hide, Mama?” -

  She shook her head. “Charles continues to refute your grandfather’s will. It’s pointless. WDDC-TV will be strong many years after your papa and I are gone. Your sons and their sons will carry the Voice of Dixie into the future, Andrew. That’s my dream and your destiny.”

  “My sons, Mama?” Andre snorted.

  “Rachel intimated that you and Gabrielle—”

 
; “The kid’s a dreamer. But,” he said, diving into his car, “it won’t be for my lack of trying. Keep that to yourself, though, okay?”

  Glancing over at Margaret in the light of the carriage lamp, he saw her smile. He smiled back as he rumbled off with his windows rolled down. Then he felt foolish for talking out of turn.

  As he’d predicted, André beat Gaby to the office. He had all the folders in order and had almost given up on her appearing at all, when at ten-twenty, she walked in.

  “Sorry. I was late for my sales meeting, since the cleanser guy was such a windbag. I mean, what is there to say about a cleanser?”

  André laughed. “Did you get some dinner at least?”

  “Are you kidding? I called Frank and told them to go ahead and eat before I got there.”

  “Shall I run out and get you a sandwich?”

  Gaby stripped off her suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse. “Why don’t we get this done, then swing by that new bistro that’s opened on St. Peter Street? You know the one I mean? I sold them an ad. They’re supposed to have great food—and it’s good policy to support our clients.” She paused. “I checked with Claire. Leslie is loads better tonight.”

  “I overindulged at dinner.” He patted a flat stomach. “Depending on how long this takes, though, I might be talked into coffee and dessert.”

  “I hear that the chef there makes choux à la crème and millefeuilles to die for.” Gaby smacked her lips.

  “Cream puffs and napoleons? Just once, I’d like to see you gain an ounce.”

  Gaby blushed. “So, uh...where to begin?” She bent and picked up a pile André had already straightened.

  A few minutes before midnight, Gaby glanced at the wall clock. “We’re almost finished. No time to eat, I guess.” She and André were seated side by side filling the last folders when the telephone shrilled. They both grabbed for it, but Gaby was faster. She covered the mouthpiece. “I hate calls this late. I hope Leslie’s all right.”