Gypsy. Кэрол Мортимер

      ‘You might have done your best, Shay,’ Matthew said gently. ‘But it wasn’t good enough.’

      Her gaze sharpened. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I said I had read all of your books, Shay; Scarlet Lover was a written tribute to what you had with Lyon.’

      ‘It was the story of a man who was never satisfied with one woman, who trampled over the feelings of all women! Damn it, that character wasn’t the hero of the book!’ Her eyes glittered emotionally.

      ‘Maybe not,’ Matthew conceded. ‘But you left the readers wishing he were.’

      She flushed. ‘Only another man could consider that immoral alley-cat a hero!’

      ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ he said softly, ‘but didn’t your editor try to get you to change the end of the book so that de Coursey did get the heroine?’

      Her eyes widened. ‘How did you know that?’ she demanded agitatedly.

      ‘You may have avoided coming back here to visit us the last three years,’ Matthew taunted, ‘but Ricky came back alone a few times.’

      ‘And he—he told you about the book?’ It was true, her editor had tried to get her to rewrite the end of Scarlet Lover, to make Leon de Coursey the hero, but she had refused, only her threat to withdraw the manuscript altogether making her editor accept that decision. But she hadn’t known Ricky had discussed it with anyone!

      Matthew nodded. ‘He told me a lot of other things too, but I don’t think you’re ready to hear them just yet. I’ll leave you to drink your tea in peace.’ He put down his empty cup. ‘But, Shay,’ he paused at the door, ‘don’t be too hard on Lyon, he misses Ricky too.’

      ‘The two of them argued incessantly—’

      ‘I argue with Lyon too,’ Matthew insisted. ‘A lot of brothers argue, most siblings do, it doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. Don’t take out your anger and frustration on Lyon by making any assumptions concerning his emotions; I haven’t met anyone yet who has been able to work them out correctly—and that includes me,’ came his dry parting comment.

      She had thought she knew Lyon’s emotions very well once, had believed he was in love with her. But like the fictitious character she had created in his image, he hadn’t cared about her feelings, or any other woman’s for that matter.

      After she had seen him that first time, in the typing pool, Shay had looked out for him everywhere. Not that it did her much good, to the lower echelon in which she included herself he was a pretty elusive figure, keeping to the executive upper floors when he wasn’t travelling to his other offices in Europe and America; in fact she had a feeling his visit to the typing pool that day had been his first and his last. But he could occasionally be seen striding about the building with one of his executives, and Shay had made the most of those times, magnetised by the ruthlessness of his masculine beauty.

      But she was only one of the many females who felt that way about the charismatic Lyon Falconer—almost every woman in the building, young and old alike, found him just as fascinating. In fact, visible employer or not, he was the main source of gossip among the female staff. It was from them that Shay learnt he was married, a fact, no matter how remote her own chances were of attracting him, that had caused her considerable pain. But the same grapevine had informed her that he and his wife were separated, that they had lived their lives separately for some time. All the women had agreed that a divorce took some time to effect, and that in the mean time Lyon Falconer was as good as single again, there for any woman brave enough to try and attract him.

      Shay certainly wasn’t brave enough. At eighteen she had only been in London just over a year, having been brought up in Ireland by her grandfather since she was ten, her parents killed in a car crash at that time. The soft Irish brogue she had acquired during her seven years in Ireland had made her the recipient of considerable teasing when she first moved to London and began working in the typing pool of the Falconer company, the diversities of their many interests, the considerable property they owned, making them a good company to work for.

      The brogue had all but disappeared during the next year, until it was just a lilt to her speech, giving her voice a charming sing-song effect. John Turner, one of the accountants for the company, claimed it was the magic of her voice that made him constantly hound her for a date. He was pleasant enough, blond and handsome, but he nevertheless didn’t appeal to her, although he refused to take no for an answer. The Christmas party was almost her downfall as far as he was concerned—instead she had jumped from the frying pan into the flames of hell!

      It was a noisy party held in the spacious and attractive cafeteria, plenty of food supplied by the company, drink too, and a lot too much flirting between people who had no right to be flirting at all. Shay ignored the food, stayed away from the drink, and avoided the flirting whenever she could. That was until John Turner cornered her in the kitchen.

      ‘Well if it isn’t my little Irish colleen,’ he affected an amateurish Irish accent as he advanced on her.

      She had escaped to the kitchen minutes earlier to get some air, the adjoining room smoke-filled and noisy as loud music played and everyone talked at once trying to be heard above it. ‘I’ve told you before, I’m not Irish,’ she said icily, pushing at hands that seemed to be everywhere at once.

      ‘With a name like Shay Flanagan?’ he scorned, managing to trap her hands against his chest as his arms held her immobile.

      ‘My father was Irish,’ she sighed. ‘Will you please let me go?’ The smell of the alcohol he had consumed made her feel nauseous.

      ‘If you give me a kiss I might think about it,’ he leered suggestively.

      Shay grimaced her distaste of the idea, finding him only tolerable at the best of times, totally disgusted with his state of inebriation. ‘Let me go, John,’ she ordered in a firm voice.

      ‘And just what are you going to do about it if I don’t?’ he taunted.

      ‘Try me?’ Shay challenged softly.

      In answer his arms tightened about her, his whisky-smelling breath fast nearing her mouth. It took only a second to lift her foot, place her stiletto heel on his toes, and grind down.

      ‘Why you little—’

      ‘That will be enough, Turner. It is Turner, isn’t it?’ queried an icy voice.

      They both turned guiltily, Shay paling as she saw who the witness to the embarrassing scene had been, John looking ashen as he hastily moved away from her and turned to face their employer.

      ‘Yes—er—sir,’ he swallowed hard. ‘It was only a little harmless fun,’ he whined defensively.

      ‘I don’t believe miss Flanagan agrees with you.’ He turned to her questioningly.

      Shay was dumb-struck, had never been this close to Lyon Falconer before, the tawny eyes as yellow as a cat’s, the ruthlessness she had sensed in him at first glance having given him lines of cynicism beside his nose and mouth, the latter faintly contemptuous as he took in her ruffled appearance.

      ‘Miss Flanagan?’ he prompted hardly at her silence. ‘If you would like me to leave the two of you alone again, then just say so,’ he taunted.

      She blinked, recovering herself with effort. ‘I’m sure John would like to rejoin the party,’ she said quietly.

      John looked disconcerted, frowning at her. ‘Don’t you want to come with me?’

      Tawny eyes held her gaze, challenging her answer. ‘I think I’ll stay here for a while,’ she answered John but it was to Lyon Falconer she looked as she spoke, their gazes locked.

      Neither of them seemed consciously aware of John Turner leaving, although Shay shifted uncomfortably once she realised she was completely alone with the man she had been gazing at longingly for months now. What to say to him, what could