Family Secrets. Ruth Dale Jean
if we sink—” Felix laughed ruefully “—guess I can always get a job at MacDonald’s, but I don’t know what the hell you’re gonna do.”
Neither did Dev. That was what he should be thinking about instead of the way Sharlee Lyon had looked right through him last month at the party, as if she’d never seen him before.
If she’d talked to him it would have been one thing, but she hadn’t and in fact never had, not in all this time. Damn, he was tempted to give it a shot just to get that monkey off his back.
SHARLEE HOLLANDER stood in front of the managing editor of the Calhoun Courier, trying to control her excitement.
At last! Bruce was about to give her the chance she’d longed for. a hard-news beat. No more lifestyle features, no more fashion or cooking stories, but hard news!
She’d spent three years at two newspapers trying to get out of lifestyles, which she was, unfortunately, good at. She’d realized after the fact that she should never have taken such a post as her first job out of college, but at the time, she hadn’t realized how typecast she’d be.
Bruce leaned back in his chair. “So I’ve decided to give you a chance, Sharlee,” he said. “Heather will move up to lifestyles editor and you’ll take over the city beat. You’ve been bugging me for this chance ever since you got here. Now go out there and cover City Hall like a blanket!”
“You won’t regret it, Bruce, I swear.”
“I’d better not.”
She floated out of his office on a happy cloud, closing the door gently behind her. Since graduating from the University of Colorado three years before, she’d been buried in light features, but that was finally going to change.
Eric Burns, a reporter she’d dated a time or two, looked up from his computer terminal. “Congratulations. I know how much you wanted a news beat. Glad you got it.” His phone rang and he picked up the handset, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.
“Thanks.” She couldn’t stop grinning. “I know I can do this.”
“Good attitude,” he said approvingly.
“I’ve got nothing if not a good attitude,” she agreed, rushing across the newsroom to her desk. Damn, she loved journalism. Even when she didn’t have the assignment she wanted, she loved the excitement and vitality of the newsroom. Now she was about to get her chance to show everybody that she could—
“Hey!”
Eric’s shout dragged her back to the present, however reluctantly. He stood beside his desk, telephone receiver in hand. “Anyone know a Charlotte Lyon? There’s some guy out front insisting she works here.”
Sharlee’s stomach dropped at least to her knees. No one here knew her by that name. Should she deny everything? Continue to look at her coworkers with as much innocent bewilderment as they looked at her and one another?
For a moment she really thought she could do that and then her natural curiosity surged to the fore. She just had to know who was asking for her. She rose.
Everybody in the shabby newsroom stared at her.
“I’ll go see who it is,” she said airily. “Then I’m going over to City Hall, just to let them know I’m on the job.”
She felt the weight of their attention as she crossed the room, but she ignored it. Her thoughts were on the mysterious person who knew Charlotte Lyon.
It had to be someone from New Orleans. She hadn’t told a soul there that she’d dropped the “Lyon” entirely. She refused to coast on the reputation of her family and their New Orleans media empire. She’d made that crystal clear by turning down one enticing job offer after another at WDIX-TV since graduation.
So who had tracked her down and why?
As she turned the corner, the reception area came into view. She missed a step, stumbled, caught her balance. Devin Oliver stood by the desk, in threequarter profile while he spoke to the receptionist in his lovely Louisiana drawl. The blonde stared at him with mouth agape and an expression of awe on her face.
Ah, but Dev looked good. Dark curly hair spilled over his forehead and those sculpted lips were curved in an enticing smile. He wore khakis and a yellow knit shirt open at the throat, biceps bulging beneath the sleeves.
She knew she hadn’t made a sound and yet he turned and his gaze met hers. His eyes were as dark as his hair—almost black, fathomless, mysterious. For a second they just stood there, looking at each other over twenty feet and almost a decade.
When he smiled and started toward her, she knew she was in big trouble.
SHE WOULDN’T GET AWAY from him this time, as she had on the Fourth of July. She was going to have to talk to him whether she wanted to or not. Of course he might not like what she had to say, but that was better than the game of hide-and-seek she’d seemed intent on playing when she was in New Orleans, which was most infrequently.
That was what had finally made up Dev’s mind about coming to Colorado: curiosity. He could tell she wanted to run again by the way she stepped back so quickly, by the way those beautiful hazel eyes widened, but there was no where to go with the receptionist watching so avidly.
Sharlee looked good, though, in pale linen slacks and a red silk blouse, which tightened across her breasts with the force of a quick breath. She’d matured in the years she’d been avoiding him; her blond hair was a shade darker, her breasts were fuller, her hips more enticingly rounded.
Her face had matured, as well, accenting high cheekbones and lips fuller and even more tempting...
She pulled herself together and the hazel eyes frosted over. “Why, Devin Oliver, as I live and breathe. I suppose you’re going to tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
He loved her exaggerated Southern charm. “No.”
“Then what on earth...?”
He glanced around, noticed the receptionist still staring at them. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
“Why?” So suspicious.
“Hey, if you don’t mind all your coworkers listening in—”
“This way.”
She whirled around and led him down a poorly lit hallway at a rapid clip. He followed, admiring the swing of her hips, the set of her shoulders. Charlotte Lyon was a class act, all right.
They entered a small lounge complete with soda and junk-food machines, a microwave, an old refrigerator and a sign that read: It’s a Newspaper’s Duty to Print the Truth and Raise Hell. A middle-aged woman stood before one of the machines, obviously trying to make up her mind. Charlotte tapped her on the shoulder and smiled.
“Amy, dear, I’ve got to do an interview in here.”
“But I don’t know what I want.” The woman screwed up her face at the enormity of her decision.
“The pretzels.” Charlotte took the coins from the woman’s hand, plunked them into the slot, then punched the appropriate button. “Health food. No fat.” She placed the small bag into the woman’s hands. “Enjoy.”
“Oh, Sharlee, you always know!” Chuckling, the woman carried her pretzels out of the room.
Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. “Have a seat.” She indicated one of the mismatched chairs. “And tell me what you’re doing here.”
“Okay, Charlotte, but—”
“And please don’t call me Charlotte!” She grimaced. “I’m Sharlee, now—Sharlee Hollander.”
Her words hit him hard because he was the one who’d given her that nickname, the only one who had ever consistently called her that. “You really