Shay his wife. Ricky may be dead now, but Lyon still couldn’t forgive his young brother for marrying the girl he—The girl he had wanted, damn it!
This beautifully elegant woman might not be that girl—but he still wanted her!
To Shay he looked as coldly remote as usual, none of the cauldron of emotions burning so hotly beneath that surface-cool exterior in evidence. He was a cold-hearted bastard, always had been and always would be. It was a pity he and Marilyn couldn’t make more of a success of their eleven-year marriage, there was no doubt they made the perfect couple!
‘I should have thought of that,’ he murmured abruptly. ‘This just seemed the quickest way …’
‘And after waiting all this time I’m sure you just wanted to get Ricky home so that you can bury him!’ She slid her slender feet into the black sandals before standing up, feeling at too much of a disadvantage sitting on the bed.
‘Shay!’ Lyon rasped.
‘Sorry,’ she drawled in a bored voice. ‘But you and Ricky were never close, I just assumed …’ She shrugged dismissively.
‘Too damned much,’ he scowled darkly. ‘The whole family has been deeply shocked by Ricky’s death.’
The ‘whole family’ consisted of two more brothers, Matthew and Neil, born between Lyon and Ricky, Lyon’s wife Marilyn, and numerous aunts and uncles—and all of them looking up to, and ultimately guided by, Lyon. He was the unchallenged head of the Falconer empire, each member of the family working for that empire. Even Ricky, despite his differences with Lyon, had run the American office, that distance between the two brothers allowing a certain respite from the bitter arguments they used to have when Shay and Ricky lived with the rest of the brothers in the mansion the Falconer brothers called home.
‘I’m sure they have,’ she said dryly. ‘Do you have the funeral arranged?’
His mouth tightened with irritation. ‘I called Matthew yesterday and asked him to make the necessary arrangements,’ he admitted grudgingly.
She nodded, as if she had never doubted he would have everything under control. There was only one thing he had never been able to control, and that had been his anger towards her. He had never been able to forgive her for marrying his younger brother and so becoming one of his prestigious family. No doubt, now that Ricky had finally been pronounced dead instead of merely missing, Lyon would see that she ceased being recognised as a member of his family. Only she didn’t intend letting him do that to her, had no intention of bowing gracefully out of their lives.
‘And Neil, how is he?’ she enquired coolly, finding Neil, at thirty-two, very like Ricky, with his blond good looks and easy-going charm, Matthew’s colouring slightly darker, and at thirty-five Ricky had told her he was becoming more like the eldest Falconer every day.
‘We aren’t here to exchange social pleasantries, Shay,’ Lyon told her impatiently.
‘I’m well aware of the reason we’re both here, Lyon,’ she rasped bitterly. ‘And if you would rather we spent the next nine hours in silence then I can assure you I’m more than agreeable.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ he said with barely controlled violence. ‘But it’s been three years since we saw each other, do you really have nothing better to talk about than Neil and Matthew?’
‘The weather?’ she scorned.
Tawny-coloured eyes became like burnished gold. ‘Hell, Shay, can’t we even be polite to each other now?’
‘Were we ever?’ she derided in a bored voice.
‘Once,’ he muttered, his gaze suddenly intense.
If he expected to disarm her he was disappointed, one thing the School of Hard Knocks and Snubs had taught her was invincible poise, and she had learnt that lesson well, from his own family mainly. ‘That was such a long time ago, Lyon,’ she dismissed indifferently.
‘And you’ve forgotten it?’ he scowled. ‘All of it?’
‘Of course not,’ she drawled. ‘Didn’t you ever read page one hundred and twenty-three of Scarlet Lover?’
‘You put me in one of your damned books?’ Lyon demanded incredulously.
‘You didn’t read it?’ she reproved, moving through to the lounge as he didn’t seem to be going to, knowing he would follow her. He did, standing glowering in the background as she smiled her thanks at Jenny for replenishing her glass of iced tea. ‘You really should have done, Lyon.’ She turned to mock him.
‘So it would seem,’ he bit out, glaring at the stewardess as she hovered in the room with them. ‘Don’t you have a meal to prepare? Or something?’ he added darkly.
‘Er—no. I mean, yes—sir.’ Jenny looked taken aback, had worked for the Falconers for the last seven years, and not once before had Lyon lost his temper with her in this way. Of course, this was a sad occasion for the family, and everyone had always known of the friction that existed between Lyon and Ricky’s wife, Shay. ‘Excuse me.’ She made a hasty retreat to the galley, closing the door behind her.
‘Jenny doesn’t appear to be accustomed to your bad humour,’ Shay mocked, sinking gracefully down into one of the comfortable armchairs, once again crossing one elegant knee over the other, unconsciously emphasising the slender beauty of her legs as she did so.
‘Meaning you are?’ Lyon rasped, very aware of all of this woman’s beauty, and despising himself for it. She had once made her dislike of him more than obvious, to want her now, especially now, was pure madness on his part.
‘Oh, yes,’ she derided. ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘I remember a lot of things that happened between us in the past—’
‘Strangely, I don’t,’ Shay cut in firmly. ‘You really should have read Scarlet Lover, Lyon; I was sure you would have recognised yourself.’ She smiled briefly, inwardly, not at or with Lyon. ‘Ricky felt sure you would want to sue me!’
‘Could I have done?’ he asked tightly.
‘I doubt it,’ dismissed Shay coolly, her humour gone as quickly as it had arisen. ‘Of course the man’s name was Leon de Coursey, and he did have blond hair and tawny eyes too, was about the same age—’
‘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
