Which was foolish, because she didn’t have time to moon over some man when she needed a miracle.
CHAPTER TWO
HELP ME! Leslie pleaded with her eyes. And as if Michael heard her silent shout, he smiled and nodded. You can do this. It’s nothing.
Dev steered her forward and her mother guided her to the microphone. Leslie felt so numb she wasn’t even sure she was moving until suddenly she faced a bank of lights and a massive camera. Her mouth was so dry she doubted words would come out.
“I...I’m...”
She choked and tried to swallow, and when she did she saw Michael again. He’d moved to stand beside the camera, where she couldn’t miss him. He smiled again and jabbed at his chest with his forefinger. Talk to me, Leslie. Talk straight to me.
“M-my name is L-Leslie Lyon and I’m proud to be a p-part of this...”
A deep, steadying breath and another nod of approval from Michael kept her from collapsing. She spoke directly to him in a low trembling voice. “Part of this f-family occasion. I’m a research librarian, but I’ve taken...I’ve taken a leave of absence. My task will be to compile the official history of WDIX and the Lyon f-family. I’ll also be working on the literacy initiative.”
Oh, let this end! She was dying up here. But Michael was right there with her, mouthing a single word: Louder. And smiling. Always smiling. This would be a piece of cake for him. Why couldn’t he be doing this, instead of her?
Still, somehow a tiny bit of his apparent faith in her seemed to arc across the space between them, past the lights and the cables littering the floor. Squaring her shoulders, she finished in a rush.
“Thank you for coming here today and I hope you’ll all join us as we celebrate a half-century of accomplishment. Thank you!”
The “thank you” was almost shouted. She turned awkwardly from the podium with the sound of applause in her ears.
They were applauding because she was finished with her painful little speech, not because it had been good. Well, she didn’t care. It was over and she’d survived.
“LESLIE, DARLING, you were wonderful!” Gabrielle grabbed her daughter in an enthusiastic hug.
“I was awful.”
“Nonsense. I know you don’t care for things like this, but you rose to the occasion.”
Leslie stifled a groan. “I’m just glad I got through it. If it hadn’t been for—” She stopped short, not willing to share what Michael had done for her, even with her mother.
“If it hadn’t been for your own intestinal fortitude, you could never have done it,” Gabrielle said. “Think how far you’ve come, Leslie!”
“Maybe, but...” Leslie chewed on her lip, knowing she’d deliberately misled her mother. She hated public attention as much as she ever had. The only difference was, she was better at avoiding it now.
“Les, you were wonderful.” André appeared and gave her a hug.
The situation was, Leslie realized, hopeless, so she simply said, “Thank you, Papa.”
He patted her cheek. “I was enormously proud of you, honey—we all were.” He turned to his wife. “Time to mingle, Gaby. Come say hello to Doris Parker from the Pilot.”
They moved away and disappeared into the crowd. Which was exactly what Leslie. intended to do—disappear—only, from the rehearsal hall. The place was packed with family, employees and media representatives, all munching on spectacular goodies catered by Granduncle Charles’s restaurant in the French Quarter. She doubted she’d even be missed.
Turning abruptly, she almost plowed into someone. Words of apology leaped to her lips—and then she saw it was Michael McKay. Gratitude overwhelmed her and she fought the uncharacteristic impulse to throw her arms around him.
“You were great, Leslie.”
“I was...barely adequate, but thanks to you I got through it. Oh, Michael...” She chewed on her lip and clenched her hands at her sides.
“Hey,” he said softly, touching her arm in a gesture obviously meant to comfort. “It’s all over now. Relax.”
“I think I’m in shock,” she mumbled, wishing she could press her cheek against his navy blazer. She longed to slide her arms around his waist and snuggle against him, but instead, she kept herself stiff and tight. She’d already made a fool of herself once today.
A smile curved his mouth. “You’re too hard on yourself,” he scolded. “Believe me, you’re not the only person I’ve ever known who has a phobia about public speaking.”
She gave a wry little laugh. “Phobia is definitely the word for it.”
“Did you know what most people’s biggest fear is on a day-to-day basis? It’s not dying or being mugged or getting fired. It’s speaking in public.”
“Really?” Shame on her, giving him an impression of wide-eyed astonishment. Of course she knew it. She was a librarian; it was her business to know things like that. She’d read the same statistic, but nothing could have dragged that bit of information out of her. “You’re just trying to be nice,” she said.
“Not at all. I’m trying to point out that you’re not alone, and also that you were great.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she said with all the honesty in her. “You pulled me through. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”
“You already have.”
He squeezed her hand and she wanted to squeeze back—and hang on. But she didn’t of course. His glance flicked past her and she knew he was about to move on. Desperately she cast about for some way to detain him. “Uh...you’ll be at the WDIX Christmas party, I suppose.”
“Uh-huh. Have to make an appearance, at least.” He cocked his head to one side and a lock of dark blond hair fell across his forehead at a rakish angle. “You?”
“I...might.”
“I don’t recall seeing you there before. Of course, I’ve only been to two.”
“I go occasionally, depending on my schedule,” Leslie said airily. Maybe he’d think she meant her social schedule, that she had so many men clamoring for her attention she—Forget it. The man wasn’t an idiot, after all.
“Then maybe we’ll meet again soon.” He lifted one hand in a friendly salute. “Especially now that you’ll be around more, working on the anniversary plans.”
She watched his retreating back for just a moment, then whirled around to head in the other direction. Because if she wasn’t mistaken, she’d just put her heart on her sleeve for everyone to see.
SHE BOUGHT A NEW DRESS for the WDIX Christmas party.
Her choices had come down to two: a ruby red velvet with a deep V neckline that revealed a decent cleavage, or a forest green crepe that buttoned all the way to a lacy white collar. She wanted to buy the red. She debated with herself for a good five minutes before carrying the green crepe out to the saleswoman.
She just wasn’t the flashy type, she consoled herself while pulling a credit card from her wallet. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, after all...well, any attention except Michael’s.
Selective attention, that’s what she wanted. Yeah, she wanted to have her cake and eat it, too. Unfortunately she’d eaten way too much of it already and it had all gone straight to her hips. How could she possible look sexy?
She carried the dress home to Lyoncrest and hung it in the back of her closet as if ashamed of it. Then, the day before the party, she waited until the subject came up at the dinner table before saying casually, “I thought I might go along to the station Christmas party this year.”
A stunned silence greeted this pronouncement as everyone stared at her: Paul and Margaret, André and Gaby, Crystal Jardin, a second cousin who worked in accounting at WDIX and lived at Lyoncrest, even Leslie’s foster sister Rachel Fontaine, a social worker in her late thirties still unmarried and now living in Metairie.
Only Andy-Paul was immune from shock. “Can I have another boudin blanc, Mama?”
“You’ve already had seconds, Andy-Paul.”
Leslie looked down at the Cajun white sausage on her
plate. Usually she adored boudin blanc, but her appetite hadn’t been the same since her recent brush with public speaking. “He can have mine.”
“Thanks!” Andy-Paul stabbed the sausage with his fork and lifted it onto his own plate.
“About the Christmas party...” Gaby ventured.
“I know I don’t usually go,” Leslie said, trying not to sound defensive, “but this year I thought I might.”
“Leslie,” André put in, “we’re delighted you’ll be joining us. We didn’t mean to put you on the spot. We’re just surprised.”
“I go sometimes,” she protested.
Margaret smiled. “Of course you do, dear. If I recall you’ve been twice—in 1987 and again in 1993. Not that I’m counting, of course.”
“You’re embarrassing her, Margie.” Grandpère, who sat at the head of the table with Leslie beside him, patted her hand. “Any occasion is brighter for your presence, ma chère.” He glanced around the table. “I assume all the arrangements for the party have been made?”
Gaby reached for a dinner roll in a silver-latticed basket. “Of course. Charles and Alain are catering naturally.”
A universal groan arose and Leslie was off the hook while they debated the wisdom of using the same caterer for every WDIX function; the same hors d’oeuvres at every event, no matter how delicious, could get old.
“But Charles and Alain are family,” Margaret stated, as if anyone needed to be reminded. “Eating the same food is a small price to pay for family loyalty.”
As always, her viewpoint prevailed.
BY THE TIME Leslie arrived at the WDIX Christmas party with her parents and grandparents, the festivities were in full swing. Despite their lack of originality, nibbles from Chez Charles were still popular and going fast. An open bar in one corner of the decorated rehearsal hall served drinks, with the unspoken understanding that no one would overindulge.
To Leslie’s knowledge, no one ever had.
Her green crepe looked drab amongst the jewel tones of the other women’s dresses. She should have bought the red velvet—hut if she had, she probably would have wrapped a shawl around herself and refused to take it off.
It was hell to be fashion-challenged.
“Would you like a glass of champagne, Les?” It was Dev, grinning and holding a glass of the sparkling wine in each hand.
She couldn’t resist teasing him. “What are you—a two-fisted drinker?”
“I will be if you don’t help me out.” He offered one of the glasses and she accepted. “That was supposed to be for Kate, but she found bigger fish to fry before I could get back with it.”
Leslie followed his wry glance and saw the anchorwoman standing close to Michael and saying something very earnest, from the determined set of her shoulders. Leslie was more interested in the man, whose expression of alarm was quite unlike any emotion she’d ever seen on his face.
Kate wore red, dazzling, holly berry red. She looked like a million bucks. Leslie felt like a buck-and-a-quarter beside such competition. She caught her breath on a little gasp of surprise. She’d never thought of herself as a competitor for any man’s attention. It just wasn’t her.
Trying to sound casual, she asked Devin, “Are they an item?”
Dev looked astonished. “Good God, no! Michael’s got more sense than that. Good old Kate just likes a challenge.”
“She does, does she?” Leslie gave the other couple a calculated glance that confirmed her first impression; Michael was not having a good time. She took a deep breath. “What say you and I go over there and rescue the poor man?”
Dev grinned. “Why Ms. Lyon, I do believe you’re up to somethin’.”
“Could be.”
“In that case, I’d be mighty happy to assist you.” When he offered his arm with a flourish, she took it.
And asked herself again what she thought she was doing, butting heads with WDIX’s star anchor-babe.
“I UNDERSTAND YOUR SITUATION,” Kate was saying, holding Michael’s forearm with a grip like steel. “I know you have a child to consider, and I’d never try to interfere with that. But there’s been something between us ever since you came to work here and I think it’s high time we found out what it is.”
This human piranha was inviting him to take her to bed. He’d sooner make love to Lorena Bobbit.
“Darlin’,” he said, “there’s something between us all right, but on my side it’s pure admiration. You’re a first-class newswoman and—”
“Bullshit.” She kept on smiling with those shiny red lips, stepping so close the tips of her breasts brushed his chest. “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. I’m talking about—”
“Here you are, Kate.” Dev Oliver thrust a glass of champagne at the startled anchorwoman. Leslie Lyon stood beside him, her smile a shade uncertain. “Got the champagne, just like you ordered, er, requested.”
Kate did not look pleased. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not in the mood for champagne.”
“In that case, I’ll escort you to the bar and you can name your own poison.” Dev caught her elbow in a firm grip.
“Yes,” Michael said quickly, before she could form a protest. “Don’t let me keep you, Kate. I’ve got something I want to talk to Leslie about anyway.”
“But—”
“Later.” Dev gave them a twinkling smile, a knowing wink, and dragged the incensed blonde into the crowd.
Leslie stared at Michael, wide-eyed. “Do you really have something you want to talk to me about?”
“I always enjoy talking to you,” he prevaricated.
“But specifically now? Or were you just glad to get rid of Kate?”
He mulled that over, unwilling to give her a blandly gracious but meaningless answer. “Both,” he said finally. “She was making me uncomfortable—but you saw that.”
She nodded, unexpectedly long lashes curving against her cheek. “You looked...very uncomfortable. Dev and I decided to rescue you.”
“For which I offer my heartfelt thanks.”
“And the other?”
“Other?”
“About wanting to talk to me.”
“I—” he stopped, struck by a sudden thought ”—certainly do. Let’s get out of here and go somewhere for a quiet drink and quiet conversation. We’ve put in our appearance so we’re free as the breeze.“
Was that shock on her face? Maybe she didn’t want to leave the party so early.
Maybe she knew something he didn’t. “Would it offend your family if we snuck out? I don’t want to put you on the spot. If you don’t want to leave—”
“I do!” She plunked her champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray, then turned back to slide her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more.”
She spoke with such artless enthusiasm he felt himself letting down his guard for perhaps the first time since...he couldn’t remember when. Leslie Lyon was not like other women.
Leslie Lyon was honest to the bone.
And not half-bad to look at, either, with her eyes shining and her cheeks tinted with roses.
THEY WENT TO A LITTLE PLACE in the French Quarter. Leslie had never been there before, but she liked it right away. With its matchbook-covered walls and old creaky floors, it had a kind of shabby chic she found appealing. Even the tacky holiday decorations pleased her.
Or maybe she’d have felt the same no matter where he took her.
He ordered bourbon and branch and she chose white wine—boring but safe. When they were alone again, she looked at him across the scarred tabletop with a faint frown.
“Kate really got to you,” she observed. “I expect most men would have been flattered.”
“I can’t afford to be flattered.” He spoke quietly.
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t suppose you do.” He grimaced. “You see—”
“Michael,” she interrupted hastily, “you don’t have to say anything you’re not co
mfortable with. It’s none of my business, really.”
“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable. I just don’t want to bore you.”
She stared at him in disbelief. This was the first crack she’d ever seen in his armor. “Michael, you’re one of the most interesting people I know. You could never bore me.”
“Nice of you to say, and under the circumstances, I’m rattled enough to take you up on it. Leslie, a single man is fair game and I’m not comfortable with being chased just because I’m unattached. It...upsets the balance of nature.”
She had to laugh, and her laughter seemed to sweep some of his tension aside. “I’ve never heard it phrased quite that way before,” she admitted, “but you could be right. I’m...aware that wasn’t an isolated incident.”
“I’m not a skirt chaser,” he said sharply. “I’m not a womanizer. I’m just an average guy trying to lead a decent life and take care of my daughter.”
“Average”? He seemed way above average to her. “How old is your daughter?” she asked, although she knew. Librarians had ways of finding out things.
“Cory’s seven.”
Leslie imagined a little girl who favored him and was charmed by the image. “You’re very lucky.”
“Yes.” For a minute he was silent; the waitress delivered their drinks and left and still he sat there, looking like a man with a troubled mind. Then he sighed and said, “I think I’d like to tell you about it, if you’re willing to listen.”
Was she ever.
HIS REAL PROBLEM wasn’t anything that would surface in cursory research: a mother-in-law threatening to sue for custody if he didn’t move back to New York City where she could be near her only grandchild.
“When Jordan died—”
“Your wife?”
He nodded. “Jordan Edwards. She was a newsanchor at a New York City TV station, where I was doing the same thing I do here. Anyway, when she died her mother, Cornelia, almost went out of her mind. She’d invested her entire life in her daughter and couldn’t let go. All that love was transferred to Cory. Cornelia smothered us both.” His jaw tightened. “When I got the chance to take this job and come home to New Orleans, I jumped at it.”
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