The Reluctant Lark Read online

  The Reluctant Lark is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Loveswept eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1983 by Iris Johansen

  Excerpt from Along Came Trouble by Ruthie Knox copyright © 2013 by Ruth Homrighaus.

  Excerpt from The Notorious Lady Anne by Sharon Cullen copyright © 2013 by Sharon Cullen.

  Excerpt from Unforgettable by Linda Cajio copyright © 1989 by Linda Cajio.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.

  The Reluctant Lark was originally published in paperback by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. in 1983.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-54612-8

  www.ReadLoveSwept.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s Along Came Trouble

  Excerpt from Sharon Cullen’s The Notorious Lady Anne

  Excerpt from Linda Cajio’s Unforgettable

  One

  “You were absolutely terrific!” James O’Daniels said jubilantly. “You had them in the palm of your hand!”

  Sheena Reardon stood quietly in the wings as her uncle, Donal O’Shea, gently patted her face dry with a towel and Sean Reilly stood waiting with a glass of water to soothe her throat. Mr. O’Daniels was right, she thought indifferently, as the roaring applause continued even though she had walked off the stage two minutes earlier. The concert had gone exceptionally well, and this New York audience was tremendously responsive despite what she’d heard of their blasé sophistication.

  “The reviews are sure to be raves tomorrow,” the concert promoter continued enthusiastically. “You really blew their minds, and you didn’t even have your best song on the program.”

  Sheena’s hand tightened involuntarily on the glass. Then she took a sip of water and handed the glass back to Sean. She smiled with an effort and accepted her guitar from a waiting stagehand. “I’m glad you were pleased, Mr. O’Daniels.”

  As she turned to go to her dressing room, her uncle touched her shoulder caressingly. “All right, darlin’?” he asked gently, his gray eyes troubled.

  She kept the smile fixed firmly on her face as she nodded. “I’m fine,” she said huskily. She would be, she assured herself. She was always exhausted after a concert. This odd lethargy would disappear after a good night’s rest.

  Donal O’Shea fell into step beside her as she strode swiftly to her dressing room. “He’s right you know,” he said quietly. “They were with you all the way. You wrung the hearts out of them, love.”

  “That’s nice, Uncle Donal,” Sheena said listlessly. “Mr. O’Daniels seemed very happy about it all.”

  She opened the door to her dressing room, and he followed her in and closed the door behind him. “You could appear a little more enthusiastic,” he said reprovingly. “James O’Daniels is a very important man in concert circles, and he’s done a great deal for you. He’s even arranged this party tonight to introduce you to some very influential people.” He crossed to the easy chair in the corner of the room and dropped into it, watching her with narrowed eyes as she seated herself at the mirror and began to apply cream to remove the heavy stage makeup from her face. “I think it might be best if you wear the black gown tonight instead of the gray. We want you to make the proper dramatic impact.”

  “All right,” she murmured. It didn’t really matter what she wore. All her clothing was either black, gray, or white. Her uncle was convinced that it was important to maintain her image as “Ireland’s Mournful Dove” in her private life as well as on the stage, and he’d seen to it that her entire wardrobe echoed the theme. Though she’d noticed that black did make her appear a trifle gaunt of late.

  She was thinner than when the tour had started, she realized, gazing at herself in the mirror. The thinness of her face made her black eyes look even more enormous in their extravagant frame of long, dark lashes and threw her high cheekbones into startling prominence. Uncle Donal had always teased her about her “foreign” look, saying that she looked more like a wicked Spanish señorita than a good sturdy Irish colleen. Her full lower lip lent a curiously passionate look to her face, and her glossy dark hair was allowed to fall halfway down her back in a tangle of gypsylike curls.

  She made a face. “I wish I could just forget about the party and go back to the hotel.” She sighed. “I’m so tired.”

  “I know you are, darlin’,” Donal said soothingly. “It’s been a long, hard tour, and you’ve been an angel from heaven. I promise you that when we return to Dublin I’ll arrange for you to have a nice, long rest.”

  There was a wry smile on Sheena’s face as she watched him stand up and walk toward the door. Uncle Donal meant well, she knew, but he had been promising her that rest for almost three months now. He simply forgot that everyone did not possess his own driving energy.

  Even his appearance was almost overpoweringly aggressive, she thought affectionately. He was only a little above average height, but his square, powerful body and barrel chest had an intimidating strength. Then, too, for a man of fifty-eight, his blunt features were surprisingly youthful, and only a few grizzled gray streaks in his curly brown hair bore testament to his age.

  “Sheena, love,” he said hesitantly, as he paused by the door, “you’re going to do ‘Rory’s Song’ tomorrow night.”

  She inhaled sharply, and she could feel the color drain from her face. “Do I have to?” she asked faintly.

  Donal O’Shea nodded, his gray eyes warmly sympathetic. “I promised O’Daniels that you’d do it. It’s a great drawing card. Even more so since you haven’t done it for the entire American tour.”

  She moistened her lips nervously. “I know, Uncle Donal, but …”

  There was a thread of steel beneath Donal O’Shea’s kindly tone as he said coaxingly, “I know it’s difficult for you, love, but you know that it’s necessary. We mustn’t let them forget about Rory and the way he died, even if it’s painful for us to remember. You wouldn’t want that, would you, dear?”

  Sheena closed her eyes for a moment, experiencing a swift jab of pain at the gentle reproof. Then her lids slowly lifted to reveal tear-bright eyes. “No, I wouldn’t want that,” she said huskily. The door closed softly behind him.

  Sheena sat quite still and drew a deep breath, fighting for composure. How foolish to allow herself to become so upset. She knew that she couldn’t avoid including “Rory’s Song” in her repertoire indefinitely. She had been lucky that her uncle had not deemed it necessary before this. She knew that he tried to spare her the ordeal as much as possible, but there were times when he had to insist on the song. It wouldn’t be so bad, she assured herself desperately. Her uncle and Sean would be there to offer their usual comfort and support. They were always there when she needed them.

  She mustn’t think of that now. She automatically plucked out a tissue and began wiping the cream from her face. She had O’Daniels’s party to get through, and her uncle would be most upset if she didn’t say and do the right things. Not that she would hear anything but the gentlest reproach from him. After her p
arents’ death in an automobile accident when she was eleven, he’d been kindness itself, taking her brother, Rory, and her into his home and his life without a thought and lavishing on them a bountiful tenderness. But his care and affection deserved to be returned with equal thoughtfulness.

  She searched her mind frantically for a subject to distract her thoughts from the ordeal to come the next night. Then, as if by magic, a bronzed, rugged face and a pair of strange golden eyes appeared on her mental horizon. She stared absently into the mirror, not seeing her own finely drawn face but the bold, masculine features that had been haunting her ceaselessly of late. She felt a tiny frisson of excitement surge through her. Would he be there again tonight?

  He was there again.

  Sheena’s eyes had searched the crowded room with an almost compulsive fascination until she spotted the tall, muscular figure leaning with casual grace against the wall on the far side of the room. She didn’t know if what she felt was fear or excitement when she finally ascertained that he was indeed present once again.

  “I see you’ve spotted our social lion,” Barbara O’Daniels said cheerfully, as she came up behind her. She handed her the cocktail she had wrested from a passing waiter before continuing enthusiastically. “He’s really quite something, isn’t he? Even if he wasn’t such a fabulous catch, he could still put his shoes under my bed anytime.”

  Sheena felt an obscure sense of shock at the remark from so young a girl as her host’s pretty nineteen-year-old daughter. But then she had felt the same discomfort ever since she had arrived in America three months earlier. Young women seemed to grow up very quickly over here, she thought uneasily, or perhaps it was her own sheltered upbringing that led to this conclusion. At any rate, Barbara O’Daniels had been very pleasant to her since she had arrived at this cocktail party, and she had no right to be critical.

  “And who is your social lion?” Sheena asked lightly, trying to mask her sudden intense interest in Barbara’s answer.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Barbara asked incredulously, her blue eyes widening. “That’s Rand Challon!”

  “He’s some sort of entertainer?” Sheena inquired, knowing the answer even before Barbara shook her head. That magnetic, powerful figure possessed a charisma that had no connection with the limelight.

  “Good Lord, no!” Barbara said derisively. “He owns practically the whole state of Texas, plus several other parts of the world. He’s head of Challon Oil and owns a fabulous ranch called Crescent Creek. The man’s a billionaire and one of the most powerful men in the world!”

  “Is he Irish-American?” Sheena asked. Everything that the younger girl had told her had just increased her puzzlement.

  Barbara shrugged, “Not so far as I know,” she answered. “Why?”

  Sheena shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t know. I just had an idea I’d seen him before. I thought perhaps he might be a fan of Irish folk music and I might have seen him at one of my concerts or perhaps at one of the parties afterward.”

  Barbara’s eyes widened with curiosity. “Really, where?”

  “Chicago,” Sheena answered quietly. She wondered if the girl would think she’d gone completely mad if she mentioned that she’d also seen Challon in Miami and San Francisco as well.

  “You must be mistaken,” Barbara O’Daniels said positively, “I’m sure I’d know if he was interested in folk concerts. Daddy is one of the foremost concert promoters in New York, and I’m certain he would have mentioned it.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Sheena said slowly. “I must have been mistaken. It was probably someone who resembled him.”

  “That would be practically impossible,” Barbara said, giving Sheena an impish grin. “There’s no one who looks like Rand Challon. The man positively oozes sex appeal. Just watch my gorgeous stepmother hanging on his every word.”

  Sheena noticed for the first time that the woman standing talking to Challon was indeed her hostess, Bridget O’Daniels, and she could see why Barbara’s voice was tinged with cynicism. Bridget O’Daniels’s chatter appeared to be electric in vivacity while Challon’s response seemed to be amused indulgence.

  If Challon was the high-powered tycoon that Barbara described, he must also be something of a sportsman, Sheena decided. In his early thirties, the man’s deep tan and muscular body were evidence of a vigorous outdoor life. His thick, curly hair must have been brown at one time, but it was now sun bleached to a tawny shade between gold and bronze. His features were too blunt and rough-hewn for conventional good looks, but they had a power and rugged attraction that was obviously wildly pleasing to the besotted Bridget. The tailoring of his pale beige business suit and vest was both faultless and expensive.

  The object of Sheena’s curiosity looked up suddenly, as if conscious of her perusal of him, and met her eyes. Sheena felt an electric shock surge through her that was startling in its intensity. His eyes were a clear amber gold and had the piercing hunger of a stalking lion. For a moment she felt absurdly as if she were caught, captured, held in that glance like a helpless gazelle in the paws of the lion of her mental simile.

  There was no surprise in his eyes as they held hers. It was almost as if he had been waiting for this moment of realization and recognition. Sheena felt a tingle of fear run down her spine at the bold, possessive sureness in that stare, but for some reason she found it impossible to look away.

  Then arching a brow and smiling mockingly, Challon lifted his glass in a silent toast.

  Sheena’s cheeks burned with embarrassment as she hurriedly looked away from his arrogantly knowing expression. What had possessed her to be caught gawking like a schoolgirl at her first dance? There had been both tolerant amusement and a teasing challenge in that mocking gesture before she forced herself to look away.

  It was quite clear that the man was used to the effect that his virile magnetism had on women, she thought vexedly. Well, she would be most careful to keep from increasing that egotistical self-confidence.

  Barbara O’Daniels had observed the exchange with bright, curious eyes. “Perhaps he does recognize you,” she said. “You know you’ve really become quite well-known over here since you started touring.” Then, realizing that she might have committed a faux pas, she added hurriedly, “not that you weren’t already famous, of course. All of Europe knew you as ‘Ireland’s Mournful Dove.’ It’s just that Daddy says that a performer can’t really consider herself an international star until she’s accepted by American audiences.”

  “I’m sure your father is right,” Sheena said soothingly. “I don’t see why my uncle would have arranged this tour if he didn’t agree with him.”

  “Thanks heavens you’re not one of those temperamental artistic types,” Barbara said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Daddy would have been perfectly furious with me if I’d offended you. Tonight’s concert was a tremendous success, and the one tomorrow is sure to be a sellout. He thinks you’re absolutely super.”

  “Your father has been very kind to me. I’m glad that I didn’t disappoint him.”

  “No chance,” Barbara said. “You’re really good. That passionate, husky little voice of yours could be sexy as hell if you’d sing something besides those gloomy tearjerkers.” Then, abruptly realizing what she’d said, she grinned sheepishly. “Oh, Lord, I’ve done it again. I guess you’ve noticed that diplomacy isn’t one of my principal attributes.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Sheena said, a ghost of a twinkle in her dark eyes.

  “It’s just that I’m more into rock than folk songs at the moment,” Barbara said lamely. She was obviously uncomfortable, and her glance was ricocheting around the room in search of an escape route. Her face lit up as she spied Sean Reilly across the room. “There’s that dishy red-haired assistant of your uncle’s. I think I’ll just go over and extend a little seductive American hospitality.” She raised her eyebrows inquiringly. “Unless I’m poaching on your preserves?”

  “What?” Sheena was startled. “No, of
course not.” She had never thought of Sean in that way. He was just her uncle’s assistant, an extension of that comforting presence that protected and pampered her. Following Barbara’s gaze to the corner of the room where Sean stood chatting with the smooth, easy courtesy that she’d grown accustomed to, she realized that he was very attractive. His auburn hair, bright blue eyes, and tall, sturdy body were doubtlessly very appealing. “We’re just friends.”

  “Good,” Barbara said with satisfaction. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, a-hunting I will go.” She disappeared into the crowd.

  Sheena stared after her for a moment, feeling oddly lonely in the crowded and smoky room. It was almost suffocatingly hot, and she was beginning to feel claustrophobic. Surely she’d done her duty for the evening and could go back to the hotel. It seemed that she’d been introduced to hundreds of people, and her smile felt as if it were frozen on her face. She was just making her way across the room to ask Sean if he knew of her uncle’s whereabouts, when she felt a hand on her arm.

  “Come on, little dove,” a deep, masculine voice murmured in her ear. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  She had never heard that voice in her life before, but she didn’t have to glance up at that bold, rough-hewn face to realize to whom it belonged. Ignoring her gasp of protest, Challon propelled her across the room toward the french doors that led to the penthouse terrace.

  As he opened the door and pushed her out ahead of him, the only protest she could think to utter was a weak “But it’s raining outside!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said grimly. “You won’t melt in the real world, despite what your uncle tells you.” Rand Challon closed the glass doors behind them with a sharp click that had an ominously final sound to it. He then swept her a little to the side, where the overhanging eaves sheltered them from the steadily falling rain.

  She looked up at him, trepidation gradually being replaced by indignation. The arrogance of the man, sweeping her from the room like a pirate with booty! “You may enjoy standing in the rain, but I do not, Mr. Challon,” she said icily. “If you’ll kindly release my arm, I’d like to return to the party.”