Gypsy. Кэрол Мортимер

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      ‘And was he a despoiler of young maidens too?’ Lyon rasped harshly.

      ‘No.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘But he was married!’

      ‘Shay—’

      ‘You never did tell me how Neil is,’ she interrupted his angry outburst.

      ‘He’s well,’ Lyon dismissed curtly. ‘But we were talking about one of your books—’

      ‘Amazing, isn’t it,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘At twenty-one I suddenly discovered I had a talent for writing.’ She still found the fact that she was a bestselling author awe-inspiring.

      ‘And making money,’ Lyon put in derisively.

      She looked at him unemotionally. ‘That too, although it isn’t as much as it might seem. But I must admit I like to look on people’s faces when they realise I’m Shay Flanagan, the author of those historical sizzlers. I hope you’re duly grateful about the fact that I didn’t drag the Falconer name into my disreputable career,’ she continued scornfully. ‘Ricky assured me Grandfather Jonas would have turned in his grave!’

      ‘Considering the fact that my father, his only child, was born illegitimately, I don’t think Grandfather Jonas would have any right to criticise,’ Lyon drawled. ‘What happened on page one hundred and twenty-three in the book, Shay?’

      She had known he wouldn’t be diverted by the deviations in the conversation. ‘I’ll get you a copy,’ she promised casually.

      ‘I’d rather you told me now,’ he insisted roughly.

      Shay shook her head firmly. ‘I never discuss my work with anyone.’

      ‘But if I feature in one of your books—’

      ‘I didn’t say that you did,’ she contradicted coldly. ‘Page one hundred and twenty-three is a very explicit sex scene—and we once had a lot of those,’ she added hardly.

      ‘You were married to Ricky, couldn’t you have used your—times, with him?’ Lyon grated forbiddingly.

      ‘I said it was a sex scene, Lyon, not a love scene,’ Shay said crushingly. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind,’ she stood up, ‘I think I should like to go into the bedroom and rest for a while.’

      ‘Shay …!’ His hand snaked out and captured her wrist as she would have walked past him.

      She looked at him unemotionally. ‘Please, don’t cause a scene, Lyon.’

      ‘And if I do?’ he challenged.

      ‘You remember my Irish temper?’ she said calmly.

      The hand that wasn’t holding her wrist moved up to the scar on his right temple. ‘Vividly,’ he drawled dryly.

      Shay’s gaze moved to the small white scar, remembering how she had once thrown a cup at him, a fine china missile that had smashed when it made contact with his head, blood dripping down his face from the gash it made. ‘I can see that you do,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Well, I may appear calm and collected to you,’ she spoke pleasantly, ‘but if you don’t release me there are one or two glasses in here that I could use instead of the cup.’

      Lyon looked at her sceptically, and then with grudging admiration as he saw she was in earnest, slowly released her arm. ‘You little hell-cat,’ he murmured in fascination.

      She didn’t show any emotion for the name he had once called her at more intimate moments in their past relationship. ‘Ricky preferred to think of me as fiery.’ She felt an inner satisfaction as Lyon’s mouth tightened at the mention of her intimacy with his brother. ‘I prefer to think of it as an aversion to being pushed around.’ Shay stepped back from him. ‘I won’t be requiring any dinner,’ she informed him coolly. ‘Perhaps you could have Jenny wake me when we get to England?’

      Tawny eyes narrowed. ‘You intend sleeping for the next eight hours?’

      Shay shrugged narrow shoulders. ‘Why not?’

      ‘I thought we could talk, become reacquainted,’ he grated.

      ‘Reacquainted, Lyon?’ Her smile was one of genuine amusement. ‘Were we ever acquainted?’

      His mouth tightened at her mockery. ‘We were lovers, damn it!’

      ‘Is that what you would call it?’ she scorned. ‘After being married to, and in love with, Ricky, I have a much different name for what we once were. Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t wish to be disturbed.’ She walked past him into the bedroom, closing the door on his rage at being dismissed so autocratically, knowing he wouldn’t disturb her, that he was too angry to follow her.

      Now that she was alone, away from those all-seeing tawny eyes, she didn’t have to keep up the pretense any more, sitting down heavily on the bed, wrapping her arms about herself as she shuddered with reaction.

      Oh Ricky, she silently cried, why aren’t you here to take care of me, to love me! Twenty-eight was too young to die, especially when he had so much to live for.

      She knew her husband would have enjoyed this verbal sparring with Lyon, that he had reveled in their animosity, the clash of characters between the two brothers only becoming so heatedly intense after she and Ricky were married. They were all aware of that, the relationship between herself and Lyon no secret from the rest of the family. Ricky had never been angry about her and Lyon, only angry for her. Especially after reading Scarlet Lover.

      She had written the manuscript during the days once Ricky had gone to work, hadn’t told him about it, embarrassed at her own imagination, only allowing him to read it after it was completed. She had known the exact moment he reached page one hundred and twenty-three, had watched him anxiously, her breathing becoming constricted at how still he had suddenly become.

      He was sitting cross-legged on their bed, the manuscript spread out in front of him, looking up at her with pained eyes. ‘Leon de Coursey—’

      ‘I’ll change it.’ She ran to him, stricken. ‘I won’t send it to a publisher. It’s only rubbish, anyway,’ she dismissed. ‘It was just something for me to do while you were—’

      ‘It isn’t rubbish, you will send it to a publisher, and you won’t change a thing,’ Ricky told her intensely, his laughing blue eyes unusually serious. He cupped her face in his hands. ‘That was what it was like between you and Lyon?’

      ‘Lyon?’ she hedged unconvincingly. ‘I don’t—’

      ‘Darling, we’ve never lied to each other,’ he encouraged gently. ‘What we have together is—fantastic. What you had with Lyon, if de Coursey is him— and I believe he is—was something else entirely. It was primitive, savage—’

      ‘Yes, it was both of those things,’ she acknowledged bitterly. ‘We seemed to bring out those qualities in each other. But it was also destructive.’

      ‘It’s all right, darling,’ Ricky took her in his arms, holding her trembling body close against his arms, beginning to kiss her, the manuscript, and Leon de Coursey, or Lyon—the СКАЧАТЬ