by Arlene James
The home-wrecker label confused but did not concern Lucien. The Avis he knew was a woman of integrity, fiercely independent and definitely not his mistress. She was his lover, his love. Perhaps once he’d intended to assign her the role of a true mistress, make her dependent on him, keep her close and at his convenience, but Avis would never accept any relationship that made her less than his equal, which she was in every meaningful sense of the word. Heston Witt’s behavior clearly indicated that he had no one but himself to blame for having been cut out of his uncle’s will. Lucien wished he’d known the old man now. He’d have liked to have shaken Edwin Searle’s hand. Perhaps Edwin would approve of his nervy nephew getting his comeuppance, for life was about to change dramatically for Heston Witt.
Luc stepped up behind Witt just as he turned away from the table where he had been engaged in conversation. The fat mayor bounced off Lucien’s chest and looked up with a scowl, which quickly evaporated into something more akin to fear. The music still blared, but conversation seemed to have come to a halt.
“M-M-Mr. Tyrone!”
“Campaigning, Mayor?”
Witt smirked self-importantly. “Oh, I hardly bother with that kind of thing anymore. I’ve been re-elected repeatedly.” The little man drew himself up tall, but not tall enough to keep him from having to bend backward slightly in order to look Luc in the face.
“Is that so?” Lucien smiled benignly. “Well, everything comes to an end, you know.”
The mayor chuckled smugly. “I’m very popular around here.”
Lucien shed the smile. “A gossip is always popular in unsavory circles, but not in mine, and my circle is very, very large.”
The mayor gulped. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean that I won’t stand for you spreading lies and rumors about an innocent woman.”
“Innocent?” Witt scoffed, then backed up slightly as anger flared in Lucien’s eyes. “A-are you threatening me?”
Lucien brought his mouth close to the mayor’s ear. “Not at all. I’m warning you. You’ve hurt someone dear to me, spread lies about a woman whom I mean to be a significant and permanent part of my life. I won’t tolerate that. This town is no longer going to be comfortable for you, sir. You may want to start thinking about relocating.”
Witt jerked back. “Don’t be absurd! You don’t know what she’s done to me, what they’ve all done to me.”
Lucien hauled him close again. “I know what you’ve done to yourself, and I advise you to start packing.”
“B-but I was born here! I have deep roots in this community.”
“Not deep enough that I can’t dig them out.”
Heston Witt’s jowls quivered. “No one can throw a man out of his own town!”
“My,” Lucien said, showing his teeth, “what an uninformed life you lead.”
Witt shivered, his fat jiggling noticeably, and Lucien judged that his message had been received. He released the man, then turned and strode smoothly through the crowd. People looked at him with curiosity. No doubt some had overheard his exchange with the mayor. He didn’t really care. Heston Witt was already history; he just didn’t know it yet.
Lucien’s mind turned to the future, his and Avis’s, and he knew, finally, just what that future must be.
He spent the night at her house, and it seemed to Avis that he had taken on a new tenderness and care that frankly unnerved her. She was almost glad when he left her the next morning for Italy. She needed some breathing room suddenly, some time to recoup her energy and strength, to remind herself of who she was and what she really wanted. With that purpose in mind, she set out for Gwyn’s coffee shop, hoping for a chat with her old friend. Gwyn had a way of centering Avis’s thoughts, sometimes unintentionally.
She was surprised to find Sierra and Sam there, and, when Sierra rose to welcome her with a hug, was shocked to feel a wave of pure envy at the thought of Sierra’s pregnancy and Sam’s quiet, worshipful pride in it. Shoving that away, she smiled at the friend she had so sorely and shamefully neglected. “You’re looking well.”
Sierra smoothed her hands down the front of her blouse, pulling it tight and showing off the little mound of her belly. “I feel great. You should see Val, though. She’s huge already!”
“Val’s a small woman,” Sam pointed out, as if reassuring his wife, “and they’re further along than we are.”
We, Avis thought, as if they were both pregnant. Why did such a sweet sentiment cause her such a pang?
“Still,” Sierra said, “she’s huge.”
“Maybe it’s twins,” Avis suggested.
“It’s not twins,” Gwyn said, arriving with the coffee pot and a hug. “It’s a boy, a big boy. Must take after his daddy.”
“I didn’t know they’d found out!” Sierra exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Well, that’s perfect timing.”
“How so?” Avis asked, pulling out a chair at the table.
Sierra dropped back down into her own seat while Gwyn produced a cup and filled it for Avis. “Before you get into that,” Gwyn said, looking at Avis, “can I get you anything else? I have sweet rolls, fresh-made this morning.”
“No, thanks.”
“Thought you’d say that,” Gwyn grumped, moving off. “Wait’ll you hear what they’re cooking up.”
“It’s not that unusual,” Sam protested, sitting down sideways on his chair next to his wife.
“New one on me,” Gwyn said over her shoulder.
“Why should the men get left out?” he asked as she went for the sweet roll.
“Left out of what?” Avis wanted to know.
“A baby shower,” Sierra answered eagerly. “We want to give one for Val and Ian.”
“Val and Ian,” Avis echoed.
“Well, the guys don’t have to take part in all the giggly stuff,” Sam said defensively. “We could play cards or barbecue something, but it’s not fair to leave us out completely. I mean, these days the men are involved in the pregnancy from the very beginning.”
“I can vouch for that,” Sierra quipped, then chortled as his cheeks turned red.
“You know what I’m talking about.” He slid his arms around her, his hand passing possessively over her middle. “It’s my baby, too, and I know that Ian feels the same way about his wife and their pregnancy.”
Sierra turned her head and kissed him on the mouth. Avis had to look away. They seemed at ease with public displays of affection, but she knew that she never could be. She just wasn’t meant for that kind of thing, much as she might want to be.
“So what do you think?” Sierra asked. “Is it too weird, a couples baby shower?”
Avis looked at Sam’s face. Love for Sierra and their child shone in his eyes and excitement over the coming birth literally emanated from his pores. “No, it’s not weird.”
“You’ll come then?”
Avis felt her stomach drop. She wasn’t part of a couple, not really, not all the time, but she was Val and Ian’s friend, as well as Sierra and Sam’s. She smiled, refusing even to think of inviting Luc to such an event. This was part of her life, not his. “Of course.”
“Excellent.” Sierra relaxed into her husband’s embrace. “I’ll let you know the particulars as soon as they’re decided.”
Avis creamed her coffee and sipped. Not even Lucien’s coffee was as good as Gwyn’s. She really ought to bring him here. Then again, this place was too personal, too much “hers.” She sighed inwardly, wondering why it had to be so complicated.
Sierra groaned. “Not him again.”
Avis looked around to see Heston Witt bearing down upon them. The other patrons of the coffee shop, relatively few, thank goodness, stopped what they were doing to watch. Heston came right up to her.
“Call him off,” he hissed. He jerked a hand angrily, taking in everyone at the table. “You owe me, damn it, all of you. Just call him off and we’ll say it’s even!”
Avis could only gape. It was Sam who demanded, “Wh
at are you talking about now?”
“That damn tycoon!” Heston muttered. Avis gasped, and he targeted her. “He can’t do this to me. You can’t let him do this to me. Call him off!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Avis said softly, painfully aware of eavesdroppers.
“The state attorney general’s office called me this morning!” Heston whined. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his brow. “I haven’t done anything. I won’t have them poking around in my books, in the city’s books. I know he’s behind this, and I want it stopped!”
Avis shook her head, confused, appalled. “He wouldn’t.”
Heston leaned in close. “You have everything. My uncle’s money and now a billionaire husband! All I have is my office and this town.”
“Husband!” Avis exclaimed. “We’re not married.”
“As good as,” Heston insisted. “He told me so last night.”
Avis jerked to her feet. Luc had told Heston that they were getting married? He’d used his influence to have the attorney general investigate the mayor’s office? She felt a chill sweep over her, penetrating all the way to the marrow of her bones. She’d thought he understood, thought he’d meant what he said. Beneath the indignation and horror lurked a secret, feminine thrill, but darker emotions overwhelmed and smothered it. Panic crowded close. She couldn’t let him take over her life like this.
She had a thing or two to say to Lucien Tyrone. No more Miss Sweetness and Light, going along to get along. He was going to hear her this time or that would be the end for them. Mustering every ounce of her much-prized self-possession, she calmly took her leave.
“Excuse me. I have some personal business to attend to.”
She heard Gwyn calling to her. “Avis, think it through.”
She nodded, but she knew what she had to do. She had to protect herself. Her hard-won autonomy could not be sacrificed for something as ephemeral as love. Oh, the fairy tale of it might be magically compelling, but she knew the hard truth. Everything in her demanded that she quash this ridiculous notion of a marriage between herself and Lucien Tyrone, everything except one, small, forlorn voice.
Chapter Thirteen
“This is Lucien Tyrone. I am unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message, try again later or call my assistant at—”
Avis hung up the telephone before the impulse to say in a recorded message what should be said in person could win out over her sense of propriety. A mature woman did not issue ultimatums via recordings. She made them face to face, or at least to a live person on the other end of the phone. And, if unsatisfied that her conditions would be met, she walked away with her head held high and simply carried on with her life, the life she chose for herself.
It was that last part that troubled her. Privately, she could admit that her record of walking away from Lucien Tyrone and making it stick hadn’t been very impressive thus far, but she was determined to carry through this time. He had to understand that she, and she alone, retained the right to order her own life, and that included dealing with Heston Witt. She had to make him understand for her own sake. With that resolved for the umpteenth time, she decided that she would just wait for him to reappear and set him straight in person.
Then again, what was the point in putting herself through an emotional personal confrontation when the thing could be handled more calmly over the telephone? In fact, now that she thought about it, that seemed the best way, less messy all around. She could have her say then end the conversation before it escalated into undignified shouting and name-calling. Lucien could rant and rave all he wanted in private, and then when they finally met, they’d both be calmer and more rational. It was just a pity that Lucien was not available via his personal cell.
She toyed briefly with the idea of calling up Lofton, but ultimately rejected that notion. Even if he could put her in touch with Lucien, it was bound to be under circumstances less than ideal for her purposes. Besides, it might breach the privacy of her relationship with Lucien in a way she could not foresee. No, it was best to leave Lofton out of the loop entirely.
She tapped a fingernail impatiently against her chin. The sooner she got this over with the better. Already she’d spent two sleepless nights thinking about this, wavering and waffling until she couldn’t stand any more. He might still be in San Francisco. She might catch him there. Telling herself that it wasn’t cowardice that made her want to do this over the phone rather than face to face, she lifted the receiver and quickly dialed again. She had never called the San Francisco number before, but she had memorized it in case she needed to.
A man answered on the second ring. “Tyrone residence. Who’s calling please?”
“Hello, this is Avis Lorimer.”
He repeated the name suspiciously. “Avis Lorimer?”
“Yes. Calling for Lucien, ah, Mr. Tyrone.”
“I see. From Texas, I presume.”
“That’s right. May I ask to whom I’m speaking?”
“I’m Archie, Mrs. Tyrone’s secretary.”
“Mrs. Tyrone?” For one insane moment, Avis imagined that it had happened again. Luc had lied to her in the worst possible way. She had gotten involved with a married man. The relationship was at an end. Done. Finished. And good riddance. The next instant, she knew how foolish that notion was. Had she actually hoped, even for an instant, that history actually had repeated itself in that fashion? She shook her head and inadvertently stated aloud what she already knew to be true. “Mrs. Tyrone is Eugenia, Lucien’s mother.”
“Of course. Could you hold please?”
Confused, Avis didn’t manage an answer before the phone clicked and went silent. Several moments later, it clicked again, but the voice that followed was not Lucien’s. It was a woman’s, deep, husky and heavily flavored but definitely female.
“Hello. Mrs. Lorimer?”
Avis realized that she was speaking to Lucien’s mother. “Yes?”
“Your ears must be burning, my dear,” Eugenia Tyrone purred. “Isn’t that the saying, when someone has been spoken of very recently? We were speaking of you only this morning, my son and I.”
Avis felt her throat begin to burn. “I-is Lucien available?”
“No, I am sorry to say, my son is no longer here. He is returning, I believe, to you in Texas. To ask you to marry him.” Avis blanched, but Eugenia Tyrone laughed. While pleasant, it didn’t sound very merry at all. “Oh, my, I have spoiled the surprise, have I not? Lucien will be very angry with me. But you mustn’t let my carelessness influence you. Lucien is quite convinced that he has found the mother his son needs at last.”
The mother his son needs. Avis put a hand to her throat, feeling as if she were choking.
Eugenia Tyrone went on smoothly, purposefully. “I’m sure you know what great guilt Lucien feels for so often being away from dear Nico, but as I always tell him, it takes a special person to deal with our poor boy. The nurse and therapist are a great help, of course, but—”
“Nurse?” Avis gasped, horrified. “Therapist?”
“Lucien has spoken to you of Nico, his special needs, has he not?”
“Special needs,” Avis murmured, her stomach sinking.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll manage to cope,” Eugenia said hopefully. “Lucien describes you as a kind and gentle woman, soft-spoken, caring. I believe you nursed your late husband through a long illness, did you not? Of course, it isn’t the same thing.” Eugenia sighed. “I have carried the burden alone for so very long, not that I am complaining. He is my grandson, and I love him, but perhaps I have devoted myself to his care and special needs long enough. Lucien certainly seems to think so, and I’m sure he knows best. Don’t you agree?”
Avis could only babble. “I, ah, I-I’m sure Lucien has his son’s best interest at heart. P-please excuse me, Mrs. Tyrone, I’m afraid I have to go. If you speak to Lucien before…ah, no, never mind. Goodbye, Mrs. Tyrone.” Avis dropped the telephone receiver into the cradle as if it
were a hot rock.
She doubled over, a muscle in her abdomen cramping with sudden ferocity. She could barely breathe. He wasn’t married, oh no, but this was history repeating itself! She tried to think of all the times Lucien had mentioned Nicholas and realized that they had been relatively few and spectacularly uninformative. Now she understood why. The boy had some terrible malady that required constant attention and care—and Lucien had pegged her for the job!
No wonder he was suddenly talking marriage. His son needed a mother, a caretaker, apparently, a nurse, and who better than a childless widow once devoted to the care of an ailing spouse? If Lucien also got a willing bed partner into the bargain, what more could he ask for? No doubt she was meant to be grateful that he would punish Heston Witt for her, or was it more about silencing Heston, quelling any unsavory rumors about the future Mrs. Lucien Tyrone? It all made horrible sense now.
She got up from the side of her bed and paced a few steps away, refusing to think of that little boy in San Francisco. He wasn’t her responsibility, and she wouldn’t let Lucien make him her responsibility. She closed her eyes and wondered why she was surprised, disappointed, hurt, when she’d known all along how it would be. She lifted her shoulders and felt resolution settle there as the last doubts about her course of action fell away. She felt a certain amount of grief, but relief was there, also, and she held on to that. Desperately.
Lucien checked the table once more. A cloth of gold brocade draped the round top. Two china plates on expensive crystal chargers rested at a slight angle to each other, flanked by identical rows of heavy, gold-inlaid flatware. Red napkins intricately folded into the shape of roses lay dead center on the plates, which were crowned with an array of crystal flutes. A red vase of white roses and trailing ivy formed the centerpiece. Behind it stood a silver-and-gold wine bucket chilling an especially expensive vintage of champagne. A blue velvet jeweler’s tray containing a fortune in diamond rings sat open to one side.
