looked down at his glass and was about to say something, but put the glass down instead. “Preoccupied, I guess.”
With a knowing nod Sean kept staring, a look that Dion knew meant he didn’t believe a word he’d just said. It was that way with him and Sean. The three-year age difference didn’t really matter; sometimes they seemed as close as twins. He could complete Sean’s sentences and pick up on his moods, just as Sean could read him. The two Donovan boys were known for their good looks and wealth. They were also smart, both having graduated from Columbia, their father’s alma mater. Janean loved and spoiled her boys as much as Bruce would let her, but she’d always wanted a daughter. The day she brought home Lyra Anderson, she found just what she’d been looking for.
Sean and Dion weren’t thrilled about having a sister, but over the years they had grown to love her like a sister and keep a protective eye on her. They treated her just like she was related by blood, and in return she treated them and their parents like family.
Still, the fact remained that Lyra wasn’t their sister. And that, Dion had realized years ago, was a big problem.
“I’m cool,” he said trying to assure Sean. When his father walked in, Dion welcomed the distraction. “Hey, Dad,” he said, turning away from Sean toward his father.
“Dion! Sean!” the elder Donovan said in his booming voice as he made a beeline straight for the sofa. “Your mother has had me working all day, like some kind of hired help.” He rubbed his hand down the back of his neck and plopped down like he’d been dying to sit and relax all day.
Bruce Donovan was a tall, broad man, who had just a sprinkling of gray hair peppering his otherwise short dark brown curls. The gray gave him a distinguished look that only added to the impeccable reputation that Bruce was known for. More often than not he wore dress pants and a dress shirt—with or without a tie, depending on his schedule for the day—but he had a laid-back attitude that often disarmed his colleagues and made them think he was a pushover, which he definitely was not.
“You know how she is when it’s the family dinner night,” Sean said, chuckling.
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