Family Secrets

“Okay, but we’re the only ones in the newsroom.” And the office walls only went up about eight feet, leaving a two-foot gap on top, and half of those walls were glass, anyway, so forget secrecy.

Eric closed the door and looked around for someplace to sit. The most likely spot was a chair covered with a four-foot stack of old newspapers. Shoving them to the floor, he sat down. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Whaddaya know about Sharlee?”

Eric shrugged. “Well, I think she’ll turn out to be a pretty good news reporter.”

“Not that!” Bruce shoved back thinning brown hair. “I mean personally.”

“Oh.” Eric thought hard. “Not too much, actually.”

“I thought you dated her.”

“Yeah, a time or two.”

“So?”

“Well...she lives in an apartment on the north side of town. Not a bad location, respectable and all, but she doesn’t have much furniture. Her car’s a wreck, but then you know that because she’s late at least once a week because of it.”

“Yeah, yeah, what else?”

Eric grimaced. “She’s got expensive taste but tries to control it.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. “She would have.” He pursed his lips. “You know about that guy who came by to see her yesterday, right?”

“Everybody does.”

“He asked for Charlotte Lyon.”

“I know.”

“And Sharlee answered.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So she’s a Lyon!”

Eric took no offense. “You mean one of the New Orleans Lyons?” He jerked his head toward the newsroom. “Yeah, we figured that out.”

“The New Orleans Lyons,” Bruce repeated, his voice filled with awe. “The Voice of Dixie, a Pulitzer and that TV station...” Apparently too excited to sit still, Bruce leaped to his feet and began pacing around what small amount of open space his office offered. “I applied for a job there once. Didn’t get it.”

“Too bad,” Eric said, barely managing not to roll his eyes.

“Why do you suppose she kept it a secret?” Bruce looked personally affronted. “Why would she be using another name and hiding out in Colorado? I don’t get it.”

“Maybe she got into trouble and they disowned her,” Eric suggested tongue in cheek. “Maybe she ran away from home as a baby. Maybe she’s playing reporter as a lark. Maybe she was stolen by Gypsies!” He stood up, his interest in his erratic editor’s flights of fancy waning. “If that’s all, I’ve got comp time coming and I think I’ll take off.”

“Okay, whatever. You run along.”

Alone in his office, Bruce continued to pace. Sharlee Hollander, née Charlotte Lyon, was a good lifestyles editor and might even turn out to be a good news reporter. But surely she was worth more to him as a Lyon than as a dime-a-dozen employee.

He picked up the telephone handset and dialed information. The only Lyon he recalled by name was Paul, known from coast to coast. He dialed the number of this living legend and asked for him. After a few moments, a charming female voice with a soft southern accent came on the line.

“I’m afraid Mr. Lyon can’t come to the telephone at this time. I am Mrs. Paul Lyon. May I be of some service to you?”

THE SPECIAL SESSION of the city planning commission seemed to go on forever, but Sharlee didn’t mind. The most important item on the agenda—approval of a massive subdivision that would add thousands of new residents to a city already overburdened with services—was, unfortunately, the next to last item.

By the time she pulled into the parking space at her apartment, it was almost nine o’clock. She’d left home that morning just before eight and hadn’t been back since, so she was tired, as well as jubilant.

She could do this. She already had a strong lead floating around in her mind—

She froze, the key held suspended in front of the lock on her door. Had she heard a noise inside?

Straining every sense, she waited. She’d left her cell phone in the car—her office’s cell phone, in fact. She’d given up her own almost a year ago in favor of the new laptop computer since she couldn’t afford both. If she had that phone now, she’d call 911, and if it turned out to be a false alarm, she’d just live with it.

She heard nothing further so apparently it was nothing. Unlocking the door, she walked inside.

And stopped short.

Devin Oliver stood in the kitchen doorway, a wooden spoon in his hand and a frilly red apron—Sharlee’s Christmas gift from Leslie—tied around his waist. Neither of those additions made him look anything less than devastatingly sexy.

He waved the wooden spoon and said, “I heard you coming and put in the crawfish.”

Annoyed, she tossed her planning-commission packet and notebook on the card table beside the computer. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded. “You almost scared me out of ten years’ growth.”

He gave her an innocent brow-raised, wide-eyed response. “Isn’t it obvious?” He flipped the ruffle on his apron.

And smiled. His smile could melt diamonds.

“Not to me, it isn’t,” she snapped. “I never leave my door unlocked. How did you get in here?”

“Your neighbor across the hall. The neighbor who has your spare key.”

She couldn’t believe he’d talked his way past Brawny Bill Bolliver. “Why would he trust you?” she demanded. “You could have been a thief or an ax murderer. You could have been a maniac, for God’s sake.”

He looked hurt. “I’ve got ID.”

“So? Maniacs can have ID. Besides, you’re supposed to be gone.”

This simply wasn’t fair, she fumed. Seeing him had frightened her at first because she hadn’t realized who had invaded her space; now she was frightened because she did realize who it was. She’d thought him safely out of her life and wasn’t prepared to deal with the shock of finding him here.

“I changed my mind,” he said calmly. “Or rather, your grandmother changed it for me.” He turned back toward the kitchen. “Excuse me while I check my étouffée.”

Her knees nearly buckled. “You’re making étouffée?” It had been years since she’d had étouffée or jambalaya or any of the other favorites from her youth, although she’d hoped to get to a good restaurant when she’d been in New Orleans in July. As things turned out, she hadn’t had time.

He hesitated and his expression softened. “Chère, you look like you’re about to salivate. Sure, I made étouffée. I had to use frozen crawfish—” he made a disparaging face “—and I had to run all over hell’s half acre to find even that.”

She smelled it now, a savory aroma redolent of spices. “But I can’t eat now,” she groaned.