sharp, boy—sharp as a tack. That’s why that girl’s trying to get you to put a ring on it.” Throwing her head back Paula laughed as she sashayed her pitiful backside out of the parking lot.
“She’s still guilting you into giving her drug money,” Dion said from behind as Lyra rubbed her fingers against her temples.
“This is an old conversation,” she said. Taking a deep breath she turned around and walked right up to Dion. “It’s not your concern. I can handle my mother.”
Dion nodded and fell into step beside her, heading to the double glass doors of the building. “By giving her whatever she wants so she’ll leave you alone. That’s a good way to handle her. It’s like feeding a stray cat because you don’t want to see it starve. It’s going to keep coming back, Lyra. I know you know all this already.”
Lyra reached for the door and yanked it open. “Then why do you insist on saying it over and over again?” she said, glancing over her shoulder before walking through.
Dion followed her inside. “Because you never listen,” he mumbled through clenched teeth. “She’s never going to leave you alone until you make her.”
Spinning around to quickly face him she asked, “And just how do I do that? How do I turn my back on the only family I have, Dion?”
He stopped cold, looking her dead in the eye. Then his voice lowered. “I thought we were your family.”
Lyra sighed. This was how this conversation always went with them. Dion told her what to do, she argued about it, then he made her feel like crap because deep down she knew he was right. “You don’t understand,” she said finally. “I just want to move on. I just want to do my job and live my life without all these problems clouding it.”
Dion started walking ahead, waving at the two guards who manned the front desk. Lyra followed behind him, waving at the guards, as well. They’d let her in because she was with him. Later today they’d get a memo from human resources with her name, a photo ID and the department she worked in. Tomorrow morning when she walked in alone, they’d smile and greet her just as they had Dion. That’s how it worked in the world of the Donovans, a world she’d tiptoed around in for most of her life.
“You don’t want problems, then deal with them, Lyra. Stop acting like the victim here, because you’re not.”
They were in the elevator now, a seething Dion standing beside her, briefcase clasped in both hands in front of him. She could smell his cologne, felt the waves of warmth as his scent wafted to her nose, down the back of her throat, into her chest, and downward until she was completely full of him.
“Stop acting like an asshole, Dion. Oh, I forgot, you can’t help that.”
He chuckled. “Calling me names isn’t going to solve your problem.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, since you know so much, tell me what is going to solve my problem?”
“Grow a backbone,” he said just as the elevator dinged and the doors opened. “Until then Paula and needy people just like her are going to walk all over you every time.”
He stepped off the elevator and Lyra wanted nothing more than to follow him and keep the argument going, but that would be futile. She was always the one to get upset, to yell and scream and develop a mega headache trying to prove her point to Dion Donovan. And he was the one who kept a cool head, a sarcastic tone and deflected each and every argument she came up with. Some things never changed.
Chapter 4
“Tomorrow is the Vina Vanell shoot. She’s on the October cover with a feature story that coincides with the release of her new CD.”
“And she just announced her engagement and confirmed her baby bump with rapper Jride,” Lyra finished Regan’s sentence typing notes into the calendar on her iPad.
Regan was an editor at Infinity. She mainly focused on the celebrity aspect of the magazine, leaving the business profiles and features to her brother Savian. Regan had always loved the glitz and glamour of Hollywood growing up. Lyra remembered spending endless nights at her house, where they dressed in all Regan’s pretty gowns and pretended they were walking the red carpet. Lyra always hated that, standing and posing, smiling and gesturing. She would’ve much rather been on the sidelines with the paparazzi getting the perfect shot, not arriving in a limo and wearing a designer dress.
“You know about that, huh?” Regan asked, crossing one long, evenly tanned leg over the other, showing off another one of her passions, shoes. They were platforms, copper and black in a lace print with five-inch heels that only added to Regan’s already-tall stature.
“I hear things,” Lyra said with a smile.
They were in her office. She had an office, Lyra thought with an inward smile. In L.A. she’d been working for Jacque Landow, one of the best-known photographers around. Then Mark had gotten the job offer in Miami and announced he was coming back home, about ten seconds after he asked her to marry him. A twinge of nervous energy slid over her and she sat up in her chair, focusing more on the calendar than she needed to.
“Then Friday there’s the Heat game. They’re in the NBA Finals, so getting good shots of the Big Three is crucial.”
“Right,” Regan said nodding. “And next Saturday’s the gala. Have you gotten a dress yet? Probably not. I know how you hate shopping, even though I’m loving that blouse you’re wearing. I have the coolest royal blue mini that would be perfect with it, because those pants aren’t doing a damned thing for you.”
That was Regan, too, the fashion guru, and forever trying to be a stylist for Lyra.
“I like what I’m wearing. It’s comfortable and professional so it works just fine.”
“If you’re a nun,” Regan joked.
Lyra didn’t laugh but did look down at her gray Ann Taylor low-ride pants and sensible black pumps. Her top was a crisp white button-down with sleeves she’d folded because they were too long and she hated when her clothes interfered with her photography. She’d taken only a few shots this morning after Dion had left her at the elevator. The shots were mostly of the office, no one in particular, just things that caught her eye. She’d been eager to feel the camera in her hands, to hear the click of the shutter capturing a moment in time.
“I like my outfit,” she murmured again.
“Of course you do. So listen, what about the wedding? When’s the big day? And what are we wearing? I’m putting in my bid right now for fuchsia. I look great in pinks.”
Lyra had to smile at that. Regan Lorae Donovan looked great in a dirty lamp shade and wrinkled sheet. She was a classic beauty, not stunning or striking, but still good-looking. On the other hand, Lyra saw herself as cute, not plain Jane or someone to write home about, but reasonably attractive. When she stood next to Regan, Lyra figured her cuteness was ratcheted up a couple notches, but that wasn’t something she strived for. Being in the spotlight was not important to Lyra.
“Not sure,” she answered glibly, and knew in that instant she’d said the wrong thing.
“What do you mean ‘not sure’?” Not sure about the date or not sure about marrying Mark?”
Now Lyra had two options—she could lie and say she was simply not sure about the date and Regan would immediately know she was lying. She’d push even harder to get the truth. Or she could simply fess up and finally confide everything that had been weighing on her mind.
“Both. Kind of…” She sat back in the chair and waited for Regan’s barrage of questions that surprisingly didn’t come.
“You don’t want to marry him.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“You’ve been with him off and on for around nine years, but you don’t want to marry him?” Regan continued.
“You