Family Fortune. Roz Fox Denny

always a headstrong woman, had bullied a banker friend into freeing her from a cloying family for a few weeks. The days after Paul’s death and before the funeral, family members had closed ranks, hoping to ease her pain. “Smothered” was how Margaret had described it to Crystal the morning of the service. So after a lengthy internal debate, Crystal decided to respect her client’s wishes—for now.

      Just as she finished making her decision, her friend and junior accountant tapped on her open office door. “I’m leaving, boss. Here are the vouchers you asked me to draw up for the news department. All they need is your signature.” The perky redhead zipped into the room.

      “Thanks, April.” Crystal accepted the forms, her gaze straying to the clock. “Yikes. When did it get to be five-thirty? I promised to be at the Tulane Medical Center by five-fifteen.”

      “Are you playing your saxophone in the children’s ward again?” April asked as Crystal hastily shut down her computer.

      “Probably. The boy I told you about—Skipper West? He underwent another spinal operation today. His foster mom has four other kids, three of whom have chicken pox. I promised Beth I’d visit Skip tonight since she can’t.”

      “You want a lift? I’m taking the accounting class you recommended. The medical center’s on my way.”

      “You’re a lifesaver, April.” Crystal gathered her belongings and flashed her friend a smile. “How’s the class going?” she asked as they walked out together.

      “Great. I’m learning as much as you said I would, if not more.”

      As Crystal locked her office, a dark-haired, dark-eyed man, at least ten years her senior, stepped out of an office across the hall. He pulled the key from his door before shrugging into a cashmere suit coat. Glancing at the women, he singled out April. “Sucking up to the boss again? Or do you prefer women over men, hmm?”

      April’s face erupted in red blotches as she sputtered indignantly.

      “Watch it, Raymond,” Crystal warned coldly. “Your name might be Lyon, but that doesn’t exempt you from the company harassment policies.”

      Ray, third son of Charles Lyon—Paul Lyon’s brother and the lesser company stockholder—ignored Crystal. He leered at April, instead. “You’ll soon see you’ve aligned yourself with the wrong side of the family, baby doll. If you’re a little nicer to me, I might ask Alain to keep you on when he takes over as general manager.”

      “If that ever happens, God forbid,” Crystal said, thrusting her saxophone case between the two of them, “most of the staff, including me, will volunteer to join our competition. What are you and Alain up to now? Don’t you two get it? Nobody cares what went on fifty years ago.” She was aware, too, that her being promoted over Ray no doubt stuck in his craw.

      “Grandpa Lyon shafted my dad when he left Uncle Paul controlling interest in WDIX,” Ray said. “That’s fact. You should side with us, considering that he excluded your grandmother altogether. Attitudes like yours, cousin dearest, will make revenge sweeter when Iron Margaret’s dynasty crumbles at her feet.”

      He deliberately brushed against her on his way to the men’s room, and Crystal recoiled from his touch. “The sky could fall, and I wouldn’t side with you,” she muttered.

      April rallied. “All of Charles Lyon’s sons are creeps, except Scott.”

      “Jason’s not so bad, although he’s had his moments. Shall we go? I’d rather not be around when Ray comes out of the john. I may kill him and end up in jail.”

      The two women were in April’s car heading toward the university when suddenly April said, “I know I’m fairly new here—but how did I miss hearing that you’re related to the Lyons? Alain isn’t really going to oust André and Gabrielle, is he?”

      “That threat is older than dirt. As far as my relationship to the family goes, I’m a second cousin to Ray and his brothers—my grandmother, Justine, was Charles and Paul Lyon’s sister. She never inherited shares in the original radio station. Great-grandpa Alexandre subscribed to the school of thought that women didn’t belong in business. At first she had a generous allowance. But even that reverted to the family after she died giving birth to her only child, my dad. He was whisked out of New Orleans to be raised in Baton Rouge by her husband’s family, the Jar-dins. I was more or less estranged from the Lyons, but the rift between my grandmother’s brothers is legendary. I grew up hearing all the rumors, and the stories intrigued me so much I applied to work here after I graduated from college. Margaret found out and more or less bundled me out of my apartment and into the family home—Lyon-crest. She and Paul and the others have always treated me as more than a second cousin. In any event, I’ve never seen a shred of evidence that the old rumors are valid.”

      “Well, I hope they are lies. If Alain took over and moved Raymond into your job, I’d have to quit, no matter how many college loans are hanging over my head. People say that Ray dabbles in the black arts.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Is that true?”

      Crystal rolled her eyes as April stopped to let her out at the hospital. “Is Ray smart enough to conjure up a spell? Oh, I’m not saying you shouldn’t keep your distance. He is a creep. For instance, I know he accesses Internet porno sites from his office.” She sighed. “André would love to remove his computer. Unfortunately Paul’s sixty percent of the voting stock isn’t sufficient to dislodge the other branch of the family. Not that Margaret would let that happen. She’s big on family sticking together.”

      “How can somebody like Ray, born into that kind of privilege, turn out so rotten? I try never to be alone with him.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve heard he smacks women around.”

      “We can only hope one of them will press charges someday. Hey, if I don’t scoot, you’ll be late for class. I appreciate the lift.”

      After closing the car door and giving April a wave, Crystal jogged up the hospital steps. Ray was bilgewater, Alain a jerk. Her own dad wasn’t so hot, either. He’d let her down, and so had the only man she’d ever been serious about. Luckily she’d found out before the wedding that Ben Parker’s real interest had been her contacts in the jazz community—and that while they were engaged he’d slept his way through all the groupies at the club where he played.

      Maybe it was because of the hormonal change that occurred at puberty. Little boys were cute and charming. Then they grew up.

      Crystal hated to think of that happening to the boys she was on her way to visit. She’d volunteered to entertain in the long-term orthopedic ward because she’d spent time in one. At twelve, a skateboarding accident had left her hospitalized for most of one school year. She’d lost her mother three years before the accident. Her dad, the busy oil executive, never visited her. Nor did his stern aunt, who considered Crystal’s confinement a reprieve from her forced guardianship duties. The only good that came of it was that Aunt Anita had insisted Roger Jardin pay for music lessons to keep his motherless daughter occupied. Music had eased Crystal’s loneliness, which was why she made time to bring music into the lives of kids like Skipper West.

      That last thing she’d set out to do was lose her heart to this tough but lovable nine-year-old ward of the court. It had just happened. Skip had suffered a sports-related injury, as had the other boys in his unit. If Crystal had any clout, she’d force communities to scrap football and soccer; she considered them dangerous and she loathed the values they taught—the focus on celebrity and the concentration on physical rather than mental skills. She’d love to see them all banned, especially football and soccer. “Ha. Fat chance,” she muttered, peering into the six-bed room. Maybe she would never let a child of hers get involved in team sports, but most parents, coaches and kids only clamored for more, not fewer.

      Crystal didn’t blame Skip’s coach. The man, like many coaches of kids’ teams, was just a dad seeking an opportunity for his own son to play. As usual, more kids showed up than there were teams. So Sam Bingham had let himself be talked into attending a short course on coaching provided by the league—and that was apparently