The Reluctant Lark

by Iris Johansen

  Sheena felt a sudden thrust of agony, and she closed her eyes swiftly to hide the pain and rage that was blazing out of them. Was she too calm and composed for him, then, that he must stir up that poignant memory?

  “Yes, I remember,” she said softly. Dark, laughing eyes that danced and teased and loved life with a wild zest. “I remember.”

  She opened her eyes and surprised a tiny glint of satisfaction in O’Shea’s gray eyes, before it was quickly replaced by affectionate sympathy. “What a fool I am upsetting you right before you go on stage,” he said, making a face. “You’re an angel from heaven to put up with my clumsiness.” He turned and walked toward the door, then paused there for a moment. “I know you’re going to make me proud of you tonight, Sheena.” The door closed softly behind him.

  Sheena sat quite still for a long moment, fighting for control. She would not be overcome by these memories that would rip her composure to shreds. She must retain her strength of purpose if she was to survive this evening and come out victorious. She took several deep breaths, and gradually her serenity returned. By the time the knock sounded on the door to summon her to the wings, her face was as cool and composed as before O’Shea had entered the dressing room.

  Sean Reilly was standing by O’Shea in the wings. “You look very elegant tonight, Sheena,” he said, his smile flashing warmly. He handed her guitar to her, his eyes going over her lingeringly. “Quite the sophisticated young lady.”

  “Too sophisticated,” her uncle said sourly. “Not the look we want at all.”

  “Thank you, Sean,” Sheena said. “I’m sorry Uncle Donal doesn’t agree with you.” Her eyes were on the world-famous pianist on stage, who was taking her final bows.

  “Perhaps it is a little unsuitable for your particular style,” Reilly said smoothly, reversing himself as she knew he would. “But charming nevertheless.”

  The pianist had left the stage now, and O’Shea turned to Sheena. “You know what you’re to do now?” he asked tersely. “First the two ballads and then ‘Rory’s Song.’ ”

  “I know what the program calls for, Uncle Donal.” The television talk show host, who was the master of ceremonies, was introducing her now, and she only had time to add softly, “Don’t worry. I think you’ll find this a very memorable performance.” Her uncle was staring at her in uneasy curiosity as she walked slowly on stage to be greeted by an enthusiastic wave of applause.

  Her uncle was right, it was a good audience, Sheena thought remotely, as she stood quietly center stage, waiting for the acclaim to subside.

  When the huge auditorium was quiet, she spoke softly. “I’d like to beg your indulgence tonight. I’m going to change the program a bit, and I hope you won’t be disappointed. I’d also appreciate it if you would refrain from any applause until I leave the stage.”

  Ignoring the surprised murmur that swept through the audience, she turned and walked swiftly to her stool, settled herself comfortably, and struck the first opening chords on her guitar. “ ‘Rory’s Song,’ ” she announced in a low, sweet voice.

  “ ‘As he lay dying, my Rory asked me why.

  I could find no answer, though God knows I tried.’ ”

  As always when she sang the poignant notes, she was caught up in the sheer emotional impact of her memories, but this time she blanked out that nightmare recollection of Rory’s death and tried to remember only the good things. Rory’s smile and gay laughter, the time when they were small and he’d brought home the squirrel with the broken leg and nursed it all winter until it was well.

  Gradually it became easier, and all the days filled with love and laughter flooded back to her. Rory had laughed so hard that he’d nearly fallen out of his chair when he’d put that rubber spider in her soup. Then when she had gotten so upset that she’d cried, he’d insisted on giving her his own soup, along with his dessert. The past enfolded her and almost all the memories were sweet and good. Why hadn’t she realized that?

  The last throbbing chords echoed through the auditorium with a wild, sad sweetness that was completely without bitterness. There were no tears on Sheena’s cheeks, but her dark eyes were brilliant with tenderness and nostalgia as she sat silent for a long moment staring blankly ahead of her into the darkness. The dropping of a pin could have been heard, so silent was the auditorium, and Sheena was vaguely conscious that her audience was sharing, even helping in what she was attempting to do.

  She closed her eyes for a brief instant, her throat aching with tears. Her voice was a mere breath of sound, but every person in the audience heard. They felt their own eyes mist with feeling. “Goodbye, Rory, love,” she said huskily. “I’ll miss you.”

  There was another long silence, and then Sheena slowly opened her eyes. Agony and regret no longer shone out of her face. They had been replaced by a strange serenity and the indomitable strength that O’Shea had noticed earlier. She spoke in a soft conversational tone, as if she were speaking to a roomful of friends. “That’s the last time I’ll ever sing ‘Rory’s Song,’ ” she said. “Thank you for helping me to say goodbye.” She looked out into the darkness, her face earnest as a child who was trying to make the grown-ups understand what appeared so simple to her. “You see, it’s time to put mourning aside and say farewell.” She stood up slowly and put her guitar on the stool. “Someone once told me that life should be a celebration. It can’t be that if we cling to the old wounds and the old strifes. We must let them go.” Her hands were at the onyx buttons of her gown as she spoke, and she shrugged out of its heavy, dark folds as she ended simply, “As I have done.”

  She could hear the sharply indrawn breath of the audience and the swelling murmur that broke from them, but she ignored it serenely as she dropped the robe on the stool and came forward to stand in the center of the stage.

  The brilliant scarlet chiffon gown she had worn beneath the black Chinese robe had been chosen very deliberately to convey a message as explicit as her words. Its cut was beautifully simple with a high empire waist and a slim, flowing skirt that barely suggested the curves it concealed. Her throat and upper breasts were left completely bare, and there were two long scarlet chiffon streamers at each shoulder that floated out behind her bannerlike, in a bold, gay challenge.

  She stood quite still until the auditorium was silent once again, her small form straight and proud in its valiant plumage. “Now I’d like to sing you a song that I’ve just written about that celebration,” she said, smiling gently and tossing back her black curls to reveal tiny golden loop earrings.

  With no musical accompaniment, her throaty voice rang out the simple, moving lyrics that built from soft, wistful entreaty to an exultant paean of triumph and hope.

  “Have you heard the joyous whisper

  as it sweeps across the land?

  Have you seen the triumph

  in my Rory’s eyes?

  Have you read the message

  that is written on the sand?

  And listened to his laughter like a song?

  Then you know that it is love

  that lifts our hearts.

  And you know that it is joy

  that sets us free.

  You know that there can be no death

  while memory remains.

  And if we stand together there’s

  a place for you and me.

  It started as a whisper, but

  it soon will be a roar.

  From every hill and valley

  rings the call.

  Stop the killing, stop the hunger.

  Let peace pervade the earth.

  Give us love! Give us joy!

  Give us life!”

  As the last vibrant cry soared out over the rapt audience, Sheena felt almost dizzy with the heady exhilaration that was running through her veins. Oh, God, yes, this is what she wanted to say! This was what Rand had been trying to teach her. This was the only explanation for life that made any sense.

  She stood there, her breasts heaving, her whole being electri
fied by the glorious, exciting rightness of the moment. Her dark eyes were blazing in a face that had the glow of a thousand candles as she gradually came back to earth.

  Her lips parting in a smile of infinitely moving joyousness, she said simply, “Thank you for celebrating with me tonight,” then turned and walked off the stage. She was conscious of neither the emotion-charged instant of silence, nor the almost hysterical burst of applause.

  Her shoulders were immediately seized by a livid Donal O’Shea, and he was shaking her roughly. “You little fool, do you know what you’ve done?” he rasped furiously, his gray eyes narrowed to menacing slits. “You’ve spoiled everything!”

  “Let her go, O’Shea,” Rand Challon’s tone was as deadly as a cobra’s hiss. “I’ll give you exactly three seconds.”

  Sheena looked past the glowering O’Shea and the equally furious Sean Reilly to where Rand stood a few feet away. She had been certain that he would be here, but she still felt a surge of gladness flow through her. His golden tawny coloring was set off beautifully by the black tuxedo he was wearing and he looked vibrantly magnetic and alive. Evidently her appreciation of his attractions was not shared by her uncle and Sean. Sheena saw both anger and apprehension in their faces as they turned to face Challon’s taut figure.

  “Stay out of this, Challon,” O’Shea snarled furiously, his hands tightening on Sheena’s shoulders. “This is all your doing!”

  Challon shook his head. “You’re wrong, O’Shea. You always have underestimated Sheena. It was her show from start to finish. Now let her go. She’s leaving with me.”

  “The hell she is,” O’Shea said. “She made a mistake tonight, but not one that can’t be rectified. She stays here!”

  “I said let her go,” Challon said, and the menace had quadrupled in his voice.

  “You’ll find it difficult to take her.” O’Shea’s eyes narrowed. “There are two of us.”

  Reilly stepped a pace closer as if on cue.

  “And there are two of us,” Nick O’Brien said lazily, as he strolled out of the shadows. He, too, was dressed in evening clothes, and there was piercing menace in his aquamarine eyes.

  There was a long moment of barbed silence as they confronted each other. Then O’Shea’s grip gradually loosened on Sheena’s shoulders. Sheena swiftly broke free of his hold and ran to Rand, to be enfolded protectively in the curve of his arm.

  “There’s no earthly sense to all this hullabaloo,” O’Shea said easily. “There’s obviously been a terrible misunderstanding. We’ve only to talk about it and get it straightened out.” His coaxing gaze was fixed on Sheena’s face. “Sheena, love, you know me. I’ve raised you like my daughter. You don’t want to leave me now because of a parcel of arrant lies.”

  Sheena met his pleading gray eyes, and for a moment she was swayed, as he had intended, by the old affection and the bond of loyalty that he’d fostered in her. She shook her head as if to clear it, and immediately the memory of Rory’s dark, bewildered eyes as he lay in that hospital room in Ballycraigh came to her.

  Her face hardened into implacable bitterness. “May you burn forever in hell, Donal O’Shea,” she said softly. She turned and walked swiftly away.

  Challon and O’Brien were immediately on either side of her, and Rand clasped her elbow in his warmly protective manner. “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” he said lightly. “You have a real way with words, Sheena.”

  “I’m glad that you approve,” she said, smiling. “May I say that I was very glad to see you here tonight? I was afraid you might not understand my message.”

  “With Nick there to decipher all the nuances?” Rand scoffed. “It was mere child’s play.”

  “It’s wonderful to have one’s genius appreciated,” Nick said and grinned. “But I would have enjoyed it more if our Irish friends would have been more forthcoming. I was looking forward to a little excitement.”

  “When I filled him in on the set-up, he insisted on coming,” Rand told Sheena. “I think he was anticipating a real honest-to-God shoot out.”

  “Well, one can only hope,” O’Brien said wistfully.

  Rand’s golden eyes were glowing with a love and affection that caused Sheena’s breath to catch in her throat. “Lord, I was proud of you tonight, dove,” he said quietly. “You were the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

  Sheena felt such a heady rush of happiness that there were no words to express it. She smiled at him with all the love in the universe in her face and said huskily, “Don’t call me dove. Can’t you see? I’m a lark!”

  Rand looked at her face thoughtfully, before he smiled with a warm tenderness and pride. “Yes, I believe you are.”

  Sheena returned his smile with serene contentment and slipped her hand in his. She held her other hand out to Nick, and together the three walked out the stage door and into the night.

  THE EDITOR’S CORNER

  Welcome to Loveswept!

  We’re celebrating May Day with two exciting e-originals! Spring and romance come to Star Harbor for one sexy sheriff and the town’s beautiful doctor in Elisabeth Barrett’s scorching third Star Harbor book LONG SIMMERING SPRING. We also have Toni Aleo’s exhilarating debut TAKING SHOTS – the first in a red-hot new series featuring the hockey hunks of the Nashville Assassins. These books will definitely turn up the heat.

  We’re also pleased to offer LADY AND THE UNICORN, a scintillating story from bestselling author Iris Johansen; RUN WILD WITH ME and SCARLET BUTTERFLY, two scorching stories of love and passion from beloved author Sandra Chastain, and HOT AND BOTHERED and DANCING IN THE DARK, celebrated author Linda Cajio’s seductive and tantalizing novels.

  We also have a special treat from bestselling author Virna DePaul – the three novellas of her contemporary Red-Hot Cops series are available together in this eBook anthology: ARRESTED BY LOVE.

  If you love romance … then you’re ready to be Loveswept!

  Gina Wachtel

  Associate Publisher

  P.S. Watch for these terrific Loveswept titles coming soon: In June, we’re excited about Ruthie Knox’s utterly fantastic FLIRTING WITH DISASTER, Toni Aleo’s blazing TRYING TO SCORE, Linda Cajio’s superb DOUBLE DEALING, Iris Johansen’s magnificent FOREVER DREAM and three more red-hot books from Sandra Chastain SINNER AND SAINT, SHOWDOWN AT LIZARD ROCK, and SCARLET LADY. Don’t miss any of these extraordinary reads. July brings Samantha Kane’s sensual new e-original, TEMPTING A DEVIL, Toni Aleo’s third captivating book featuring hockey hunks, EMPTY NET, Ruth Owen’s dazzling AND BABIES MAKE FOUR, Jean Stone’s enthralling SINS OF INNOCENCE, Katie Rose’s utterly irresistible A HINT OF MISCHIEF, Iris Johansen’s seductive TIL THE END OF TIME, and Sandra Chastain’s enticing stories, DANNY’S GIRL and SILVER BRACELETS. I promise that you’ll fall in love and treasure these stories for years to come.…

  Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept titles …

  Read on for an excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s

  Along Came Trouble

  Chapter One

  “Get out of my yard!” Ellen shouted.

  The weasel-faced photographer ignored her, too busy snapping photos of the house next door to pay her any mind.

  No surprise there. This was the fifth time in as many days that a man with a camera had violated her property lines. By now, she knew the drill.

  They trespassed. She yelled. They pretended she didn’t exist. She called the police.

  Ellen was thoroughly sick of it. She couldn’t carry on this way, watching from the safety of the side porch and clutching her glass of iced tea like an outraged southern belle.

  It was all very well for Jamie to tell her to stay put and let the professionals deal with it. Her pop-star brother was safe at home in California, nursing his wounds. And anyway, this kind of attention was the lot he’d chosen in life. He’d decided to be a celebrity, and then he’d made the choice to get involved with Ellen’s neighbor, Carly. The consequences ought to be his to deal with.


  Ellen hadn’t invited the paparazzi to descend. She’d made different choices, and they’d led her to college, law school, marriage, divorce, motherhood. They’d led her to this quiet cul-de-sac in Camelot, Ohio, surrounded by woods.

  Her choices had also made her the kind of woman who couldn’t easily stand by as some skeevy guy crushed her plants and invaded Carly’s privacy for the umpteenth time since last Friday.

  Enough, she thought. Enough.

  But until Weasel Face crushed the life out of her favorite hosta—her mascot hosta—with his giant brown boot, she didn’t actually intend to act on the thought.

  Raised in Chicago, Ellen had grown up ignorant of perennials. When she first moved to Camelot, a new wife in a strange land, she did her best to adapt to the local ways of lawn-mowing and shade-garden cultivation, but during the three years her marriage lasted, she’d killed every plant she put in the ground.

  It was only after her divorce that things started to grow. In the winter after she kicked Richard out for being a philandering dickhead, their son had sprouted from a pea-sized nothing to a solid presence inside her womb, breathing and alive. That spring, the first furled shoots of the hosta poked through the mulch, proving that Ellen was not incompetent, as Richard had so often implied. She and the baby were, in fact, perfectly capable of surviving, even thriving, without anyone’s help.