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Bruce shook his head. “I don’t know why. It’s just the family. Everybody knows what the house looks like on good and bad days. You’d think she was entertaining the king and queen or some other foolishness.”
“Why doesn’t she hire a maid?” Dion asked—a question he already knew the answer to. Still, it bothered him that his mother, at sixty-one, was working like a woman half her age.
“Now you know that’s not going to happen,” Sean replied.
“And don’t you let her hear you asking about it, either,” Bruce chimed in with a warning glare that belied his amusement. “She’ll bust your butt for even uttering the idea that she needs help with this house.”
Dion laughed along with his father and his brother, enjoying the family joke. It had always been that way with his family. They could laugh and cry together and talk about anything. Bruce and Janean had long ago taught them to be open and honest in the Donovan household. The thought made Dion’s stomach knot with regret. He hadn’t been honest with himself years ago, and because of that he’d ruined what might have been the best friendship he’d ever had. Now she was coming home, and Dion didn’t know how he was going to handle that.
* * *
Lyra was going home.
She’d stepped off the plane at Miami International, taking a commercial flight rather than the private jet the Donovans had offered. When she’d left ten years ago, it had been on that private jet, taking her across the country to begin her new life. Now she was back, and everything was different. She had no idea if that was going to be a good or bad thing.
Knocking on the door felt strange, but Lyra lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it clang against the door. All the while she took deep steadying breaths, drawing upon everything she’d learned in yoga class about centering herself and clearing her mind. When the door swung open, all that centering and mind-clearing fled as she was quickly scooped up into strong arms and spun around so that her feet didn’t even touch the floor.
“Little Lyra! You’re back!” Parker Donovan said in his smooth as silk voice that was lined with the barest hint of humor. Parker was Reginald and Carolyn Donovan’s oldest son, Dion and Sean’s first cousin, and one of the many big brother figures Lyra had while growing up.
“Hi, Parker. You can put me down now. I’m not Little Lyra anymore,” she said, unable to contain her laughter as he set her petite five-foot-five, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame down on the floor again.
“You still look little to me,” he said, continuing to smile at her and giving her a soft punch on the shoulder. “Just a bit more tanned, but still little and pretty as ever.”
Lyra smiled up at him, remembering his cool gray-green eyes and dark skin tone. Several of the Donovan men had the same eyes, which only added to their attractiveness. From a distance she could hear the laughter and chatter of the other Donovan family members. Sunday dinners for the Donovans were a must to attend, and the only acceptable excuse was death or being as close to death as one could possibly be.
“Gang’s all here, huh?” she said, knowing she was stalling.
“You know how these dinners go,” he said with a shrug.
And she did know, Lyra thought as she looked around. The décor had changed a bit, much more modern than it had been when she’d left, but still warm and welcoming. She glanced around the foyer, across the shining champagne-and-gold marbled floor, up the winding staircase with its thick banister and wide stairs. Her room used to be all the way down the hall to the left. She had a huge canopy bed, a window with a small balcony, plush carpet, lovely draperies, a desk, a closet full of clothes and practically everything a girl could ever want—even if she wasn’t a member of the Donovan family, biologically speaking.
“And the prodigal daughter returns.”
Lyra heard his voice and felt warmth spiral through her spine, sliding downward like a warm waterfall. She needed another moment, another couple of minutes or an hour to gather herself before seeing him. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like she was going to get it.
“She’s all grown up now, man. Doesn’t she look good?” Parker asked, and Lyra wanted to kick him as she had so many times in the past. He always did have a knack for saying what others wanted kept quiet. His playfulness was a big part of his adorable personality, but right now was a pain in her behind. She slowly turned, having decided it was time to face the inevitable.
“Hey, Dion,” she said with all the casual aloofness she could muster.
He walked toward her. He still had the tall muscular body she remembered as if it were yesterday. He didn’t smile. His look was much more intense. Dion Donovan stood at least six feet six inches tall, with a honey complexion, short-cropped black hair and a swagger that said he looked good even if you didn’t want to admit it. He wore jeans and a T-shirt that hugged every inch of his eight-pack and wrapped around his thick biceps like candy coating.
“Hey, Lyra. It’s good to see you,” he said as he came closer.
He was going to hug her, Lyra knew. Not as eagerly as Parker had, but he would wrap his arms around her, because that’s how the Donovans were with family. And she was family, she reminded herself. She’d grown up in this house, had been taken in because her own mother couldn’t seem to get her act together. Janean and Bruce Donovan had raised her as one of their own, giving her every advantage and expecting just as much from her as they did their own children. She owed them everything.
She especially owed them the respect of not pining after their eldest son as if he were the only man on earth that could make her body hum with arousal. Even though, the fact still remained, he was.
“It’s good to see you, too,” she managed as soon as his hands brushed her shoulders and he pulled her up close. He smelled wonderful—some expensive and insanely sexy cologne that she knew would stay with her for days to come.
“I missed you,” he whispered in her ear and Lyra remained silent.
She wouldn’t say the same, couldn’t tell him how much she’d missed him. It was pointless, and she’d made a promise not to move backward. Her new life was her future. Reviving feelings from the past was a futile and emotionally self-destructive exercise, and that was something she refused to engage in. But she’d missed the hell out of him, too.
Chapter 2
Food was everywhere, on fine china platters and crystal and silver condiment bowls and trays along the length of the eight-foot mahogany table covered in an antique-lace tablecloth. Candied yams, homemade macaroni and cheese, corn bread, a huge baked turkey, glazed pineapple ham, mashed potatoes, corn bread stuffing, green beans and corn was more than Lyra could take in in one glance. The dining room hadn’t changed much since she’d left. The massive table was still in the center of the room with chairs all around it, the large china cabinet that spread across the expanse of champagne-colored walls was filled with expensive china patterns, even though several of the pieces were being used on the table and the sideboard, which held even more food.
The atmosphere felt homely, warm and welcoming, and the people sitting and standing around the table greeted her in a way that echoed those feelings.
“You’re back!” Regan Donovan was across the room in seconds, her long arms wrapping around Lyra before she could do anything but smile.
Lyra stumbled back a step as Regan embraced her. “Hey, Regan. It’s good to see you, too.”
“Oh, my God! When I got your email I was ecstatic. You know we need to get together so we can catch up. We can’t do that here with everybody around, but I want to hear everything that’s happened in L.A. And I mean everything,” she said, her large expressive eyes indicating that she wanted to hear things Lyra couldn’t talk about around the rest of the Donovans.
“Let her go, Regan. The rest of us would like to say hello, too.” Savian, Regan Donovan’s older brother, pushed her aside.
“Hi, Savian,” Lyra said, welcoming a hug from the quiet and reserved Donovan cousin, who rarely ever smiled. But there was still a warmth and sincerity evident in his hazel eyes.
“Hey, kiddo. I see you survived it out there in la-la land.”
“I did.” She smiled, pulling away from him. “It wasn’t so bad,” she said biting her inner cheek to keep from blurting out how bad those years away had really been. It wasn’t anybody’s business she’d told herself. She’d left to pursue her goals to become a photographer. And in that regard, she’d done pretty damned well for herself. It was everything else that had fallen apart.
“Well, you look fabulous,” said Carolyn Donovan, a tall, slim woman with a warm chocolate complexion and hair that had a silvery glow. She was beautiful and looked elegant in her cream-colored linen slacks and pale pink blouse. Her hair was flawless as usual and just barely grazed her shoulders. Her eyes smiled as she reached out to hug Lyra.
“Aunt Carolyn, it’s good to see you.”
“Yes,” Carolyn said when she released Lyra from her grip, putting her hands on Lyra’s shoulders as she continued looking her up and down. “Just fabulous. The sun’s kissed your skin so you look even more Native American then you did when you were a little girl. And you’ve blossomed.”
Lyra didn’t know she could still blush, but the heat in her cheeks said she hadn’t grown out of that habit. The Donovans had always told her of her Native American heritage, to which Lyra simply smiled and nodded. She’d never known her father, and her mother, Paula Anderson, certainly wasn’t Native American. She was an African-American, and had grown up in the Lemon City area of Miami, which was known for its large community of Haitian immigrants. But that’s where Mama Nell, Lyra’s grandmother, had lived, so that’s where Paula grew up until she felt like she was old enough to make it on her own. But Lyra’s mother thought she was grown the minute she learned to talk, and at age thirteen Paula took to the streets because Mama Nell’s restrictions were too strict for her.
Lyra didn’t really grow up in one place in Miami, seeing as how Paula dragged her to whatever dirty couch or boarded-up row house she could find in her search for her next high or next john, whichever she was fiendin’ for at the time.
The brothers, Bruce and Reginald, had been standing near one of the windows in the airy room, but with all the commotion they turned to look at her. Reginald with his round face and dark eyes smiled a toothy grin, and she walked to him quickly, falling into his thick arms. “Hi, Uncle Reggie.”
“Hey, Peanut. Carolyn’s right, you’re prettier than you were when you left.”
Being the smallest of the Donovans’ children when they were growing up had earned Lyra the nickname Peanut. The cousins had come up with their own nicknames for her.
“Thanks,” she replied before letting her gaze settle on Bruce Donovan. Tall and broad-shouldered, his medium-brown complexion blended handsomely with the graying mustache and beard.
He reached for her and she walked easily into his embrace. Of all the Donovan men, Bruce held a special place in her heart. He’d been the only father she’d ever known, and there were nights when she’d lain awake in the pretty pink room she had upstairs and thanked God for blessing her with him.
“Hi,” she said in a whisper.
“Hi to you, too, little girl.” He hugged her tight, just as he had on the tarmac that day she left to go to L.A. Over the past ten years he and Janean had called and written to her regularly, sending pictures, asking if she needed anything. She’d needed them both terribly, but had refused to admit it.
“I missed you,” she admitted, with her cheek rubbing against the soft cotton of his dress shirt.
“Missed you, too. You stayed away too long and I don’t like that,” he chastised lightly.
Pulling away she looked up into those familiar warm eyes. There was always love and understanding there, no matter what she’d done, he always looked at her the same way. “I know. But I’m back now.”
With long fingers, Bruce tweaked her nose. “You bet you are. And you’re staying put this time.”
Lyra wasn’t too sure about that, but figured it was better to keep the thought to herself. Instead she just smiled.
“What are you all standing around for? Take a seat, we’re about to bless this food so we can—” Janean abruptly stopped, as her husband, Bruce, with his hands on Lyra’s shoulders, turned her around to face the door that led to the kitchen.
There she was, the woman who was responsible for all that Lyra was. She still wore her church clothes, a plum-colored silk dress that hung on her marvelously mature body as if it had been cut especially for her. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a bun and her cherublike face bore just a light sheen of makeup. Even though she was ten years older, she was even more beautiful than Lyra had remembered.
“Hi, Ms. Janean,” she said, then cleared her throat because for a second she swore she sounded just like that ten-year-old girl Janean had seen at Easterntowne Elementary School.
Janean Donovan had no words, and that was saying something, since she had always been talkative and opinionated. But now she stood silent, her hands holding the handles of a pot with steam billowing upward. She took a step toward Lyra and Lyra took a step toward her. Sean stepped in and took the pot along with the potholders out of Janean’s hands. She wiped them on the stone-gray apron splattered with what looked like flour.
“My baby” was what she finally whispered, lifting her hands and clapping them against both Lyra’s cheeks. “My baby’s come home,” she repeated, her eyes clouding with tears.
Lyra’s heart pounded in her chest as her own eyes threatened to well up. “My pretty little girl all grown up.”
“I really missed you,” Lyra readily admitted, falling into Janean’s arms, resting her head on her shoulder in a familiar gesture. Lyra couldn’t even begin to remember how many times she’d cried on Janean’s shoulder, how many times Janean had whispered that everything would be all right, or how many times the woman and her family had actually made everything all right.
“I really missed you, too. Don’t you ever stay away that long again,” she told her.
“I won’t,” Lyra promised, realizing at that very moment how much this family really meant to her.
“Can we eat now? I’m starving. Minister Moore preached for a solid hour today and I’m still not sure what it was about,” Parker complained.
“That’s because you never pay attention,” Carolyn told her son as they moved around the table to take their seats. “You probably don’t even know the scripture he quoted from.”
“What matters is that I showed up in the first place,” Parker said in his own defense.
“It’d be good if you could get something out of showing up, son,” Uncle Reggie said, holding the chair for Carolyn and scooting her in before taking his own seat.
Regan laughed. “I’m surprised he showed up at all.”
“Right,” Savian added. “I wonder what young lady we have to thank for getting him into the house of the Lord today.”
“Doesn’t matter what got him there,” Carolyn said. “As long as he showed up he can receive a blessing.”
“That’s right,” Parker agreed with a nod.
“Even though I think he’d have to stay awake in order to do that,” Carolyn finished. “Next time you’ll know what Minister Moore’s preaching about if you stop yawning and nodding off.”
By then everyone was laughing and taking their seats. Everything felt like the good old days. And then the entire Donovan family joined hands as Bruce began the prayer for the family meal. Dion, who sat right beside Lyra, just as he used to all those years ago, took her hand. Lyra’s fingers nervously entwined with his and her traitorous body warmed.
Everything was not like the good old days, and that’s what had kept her away all those years. It was also, damn her wayward emotions, what had brought her back.
Chapter 3
She was on the dock looking out as the moonlight’s illumination danced along the water in sparkling ripples. He’d known she’d be right there, staring as if she were in her own little world, just like she used to.
Tonight Dion had been ambushed with memories, and he wasn’t at all surprised. Three days ago he’d found out she was coming home, even though she hadn’t been the one to tell him. That little omission stung, he’d readily admit. They’d been thick as thieves as kids growing up, even though he was four years older than she. But the minute he’d realized she loved to ride bikes, jump wheelies and climb trees as much as he did, Lyra had been one of his best buddies. For as much as he could be best buddies with a girl. Sean, on the other hand, never had much time for dirt bikes and running races, playing football and wrestling until somebody’s face was being ground into the dirt and they had no other choice but to cry mercy. No, as kids that was fun for him and Lyra, and they’d both enjoyed it.
Then things had changed and they’d made that one fatal mistake—or rather, he’d made that one mistake. For ten years he’d kicked himself for kissing Lyra. Now there was a part of him that was kicking himself for not doing more than kiss her.
“So I hear you’re finally going to marry him, huh?” he asked when his own silence was threatening to give him ideas that would only get him in more trouble.
She turned just as a slight breeze whisked past them lifting the ends of her curly hair slightly. She wore slacks and a tank top. The coral hue of the top added a vibrant tint to her burnt-orange complexion, giving her a more alluring quality than he knew she was aiming for. Gold bangles cuffed each of her wrists, matching the gold hoops at her ears. She looked so young standing there, so vulnerable.
“Good news travels fast,” she said with a shrug.
“It took you long enough to set a date. I thought you’d have gotten married as soon as you left with Stanford.” Saying the man’s name—even if it was only his last name—left a bitter taste in Dion’s mouth, but he did it anyway. He had to prove to himself that he could say the name of the man who would now and forever hold Lyra’s heart without screaming bloody murder and hurting someone in the process.
She slipped her hands into her pockets and shrugged. The act made her pert breasts rise and fall, and Dion swallowed hard. She was his little sister. He’d do well to remember that. Hadn’t that been what he’d been telling himself since the day he first noticed she had said breasts in the first place?
“I didn’t leave to marry him. We just left together.”
Dion nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home today? The last time you emailed me you said you were looking for another job.”
“I found one.”
“At Infinity? If you wanted to work there all you had to do was let me know. You’ve been so hell bent on being independent, making your own way in the world, I thought I was abiding by your wishes by leaving you alone in L.A.”
She smiled and it was like a sucker punch to his gut. It was taking an amazing amount of self-control for him not to get closer to her, to touch her, one more time.
“Since when have you abided by anybody’s wishes but your own, Mr. Donovan?”
“There’re a few people I’d go the extra mile for,” he answered trying to keep this reunion as light as possible.
Dinner had been trying. She was sitting so close to him, laughing, talking with that voice that he heard in his sleep too many nights to count. Now they were standing out here in a place where they’d had so many conversations before, talking about her upcoming wedding of all things.
“I had to come back. This is where it all began, after all,” she said, then turned to the side to look out at the water again. A boat filled with young party-goers passed by in the distance. Drinks were raised as the passengers waved like they knew Dion and Lyra personally. The waters along Key Biscayne were filled with cruise ships or yachts at all times of the day and night.
“You met him here that last summer when you interned at a small newspaper.” It was a statement, one that had stuck in his mind since she’d told him all those years ago. “Then you left to go to L.A. with him four months later.”
She nodded. “Then we broke up a year after that.”
“Because he wanted more than you did,” Dion added. Lyra had called him late one night needing to talk about the breakup. It had been uncomfortable for Dion, just as thinking about her with any man was. But Lyra was his closest friend and he was hers. No way was he going to let something as small as jealousy keep him from being there for her?
“He wanted it all, marriage, house, kids. I wasn’t ready for that.”
“But you are now?”
“We’ve been back together for two years now. I think I’m ready.”
“You think?”
She faced him again, looked up at him like she couldn’t believe he’d said that.
