Suzanna's Surrender

  “Of what?”

  “That no matter what happens, I've left something behind. The children are my real jewels.” As a cloud came over the sun she pressed her head to my shoul­der. “Hold me closer, Christian.''

  Neither of us spoke of the summer that was so quickly coming to an end, but I know we both thought of it at that moment when my arms held her tight and our hearts beat together in the dance. The Jury of what I was soon to lose again rushed through me.

  “I would give you emeralds, and diamonds, sap­phires.” I crushed my mouth to hers. “All that and more. Bianca, if I could.”

  “No.” She brought her hands to my face, and I saw the tears sparkling in her eyes. “Only love me,'' she said.

  Only love me.

  Chapter Seven

  Holt was home for less than three minutes when he knew someone had broken in. He might have turned in his shield, but he still had cop's eyes. There was nothing obviously out of place—but an ashtray was closer to the edge of the table, a chair was pulled at a slightly different angle to the fireplace, a corner of the rug was turned up.

  Braced and at alert, he moved from the living room into the bedroom. There were signs here, as well. He noted them—the fractional rearrangement of the pil­lows, the different alignment of the books on the shelves—as he crossed to get his gun from the drawer. After checking the clip, he took his weapon with him as he searched the house.

  Thirty minutes later, he replaced the gun. His face was set, his eyes flat and hard. His grandfather's can­vases had been moved, not much, but enough to tell Holt that someone had touched them, studied them. And that was a violation he couldn't tolerate.

  Whoever had tossed the place had been a pro. Nothing had been taken, little had been disturbed, but Holt was certain every inch of the cottage had been combed.

  He was also certain who had done the combing. That meant that Livingston, by whatever guise he was using, was still close. Close enough, Holt thought, that he had discovered the Bradford connection to the Calhouns. And the emeralds.

  Now, he decided as he dropped a hand on the head of the dog who whined at his feet, it was personal.

  He went through the kitchen door to sit on the porch with his dog and a beer and watch the water. He would let his temper cool and his mind drift, sort­ing through all the pieces of the puzzle, arranging and rearranging until a picture began to form.

  Bianca was the key. It was her mind, her emotions, her motivations he had to tap into. He lit a cigarette, resting his crossed ankles on the porch rail as the light began to soften and pearl toward twilight.

  A beautiful woman, unhappily married. If the cur­rent crop of Calhoun women were anything to go by, Bianca would also have been strong willed, passion­ate and loyal. And vulnerable, he added. That came through strongly in the eyes of the portrait, just as it came through strongly in Suzanna's eyes.

  She'd also been on the upper rungs of society's ladder, one of the privileged. A young Irishwoman of good family who had married extremely well.

  Again, like Suzanna.

  He drew on the cigarette, absently stroking Sadie's ears when she nuzzled her head into his lap. His gaze was drawn toward the little yellow bush, the slice of sunshine Suzanna had given him. According to the interview with the former maid, Bianca had also had a fondness for flowers.

  She had had children, and by all accounts had been a good and devoted mother, while Fergus had been a strict and disinterested father. Then Christian Brad­ford had come into the picture.

  If Bianca had indeed taken him as a lover, she had also taken an enormous social risk. Like Caesar's wife, a woman in her position was expected to be unblemished. Even a hint of an affair—particularly with a man beneath her station—and her reputation would have been in tatters.

  Yet she had become involved.

  Had it all grown to be too much for her? Holt won­dered. Had she been eaten up by guilt and panic, hid­den the emeralds away as some kind of last-ditch show of defiance, only to despair at the thought of the disgrace and scandal of divorce. Unable to face her life, she had chosen death.

  He didn't like it. Shaking his head, Holt blew out a slow stream of smoke. He just didn't like the rhythm of it. Maybe he was losing his objectivity, but he couldn't see Suzanna giving up and hurling herself onto the cliffs. And there were too many similarities between Bianca and her great-granddaughter.

  Maybe he should try to get inside Suzanna's head. If he understood her, maybe he could understand her star-crossed ancestor. Maybe, he admitted with a pull on the beer, he could understand himself. His feelings for her seemed to undergo radical changes every day, until he no longer knew exactly what he felt.

  Oh, there was desire, that was clear enough. But it wasn't simple. He'd always counted on it being sim-pie.

  What made Suzanna Calhoun Dumont tick? Her kids, Holt thought immediately. No contest there, though the rest of her family ran a dead heat. Her business. She would work herself ragged making it run. But Holt suspected that her thirst to succeed in business doubled right back around to her children and family.

  Restless, he rose to pace the length of the porch. A whippoorwill came to roost in the old wind-bent maple and lifted its voice in its three-note call. Roused, the insects began to whisper in the grass. Hie first firefly, a lone sentinel, flickered near the water that lapped the bank.

  This, too, was something he wanted. The simple quiet of solitude. But as he stood, looking out into the night, he thought of Suzanna. Not just the way she had felt in his arms, the way she made his blood swim. But what it would be like to have her beside him now, waiting for moonrise.

  He needed to get inside her head, to make her trust him enough to tell him what she felt, how she thought If he could make the link with her, he would be one step closer to making it with Bianca.

  But he was afraid he was already in too deep. His own thoughts and feelings were clouding his judg­ment. He wanted to be her lover more than he had ever wanted anything. To sink into her, to watch her eyes darken with passion until that sad, injured look was completely banished. To»have her give herself to him the way she had never given herself to any­one—not even the man she had married.

  Holt pressed his hands to the rail, leaned out into the growing dark. Alone, with night to cloak him, he admitted that he was following the same pattern as his grandfather.

  He was falling in love with a Calhoun woman.

  It was late before he went back inside. Later still before he slept.

  Suzanna hadn't slept at all. She had lain awake all night trying not to think about the two small suitcases she had packed. When she managed to get her mind off that, it had veered toward Holt Thoughts of him only made her more restless.

  She'd been up at dawn, rearranging the clothes she'd already packed, adding a few more things, checking yet again to be sure she had included a few of their favorite toys so that they wouldn't feel home­sick.

  She'd been cheerful at breakfast, grateful that her family had been there to add support and encourage­ment. Both children had been whiny, but she'd nearly joked them out of it by noon.

  By one, her nerves had been frayed and the chil­dren were cranky again. By two she was afraid Bax had forgotten the entire thing, then was torn between fury and hope.

  At three the car had come, a shiny black Lincoln. Fifteen horrible minutes later, her children were gone.

  She couldn't stay home. Coco had been so kind, So understanding, and Suzanna had been afraid they would both dissolve into puddles of tears. For her aunt's sake as much as her own, she decided to go to work.

  She would keep herself busy, Suzanna vowed. So busy that when the children got back, she hardly would have noticed they'd been gone.

  She stopped by the shop, but Carolanne's sympathy and curiosity nearly drove her over the edge.

  “I don't mean to badger you,” Carolanne apolo­gized when Suzanna's responses became clipped. “I'm just worried about you.”

  “I'm fine.” Suzan
na was selecting plants with al­most obsessive care. “And I'm sorry for being short with you. I'm feeling a little rough today.”

  “And I'm being too nosy.” Always good-natured, Carolanne shrugged. “I like the salmon-colored ones,” she said as Suzanna debated over the group of New Guinea impatiens. “Listen, if you want to blow off some steam, just call me. We can have a girls' night out.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Anytime,” Carolanne insisted. “It'll be fine. That's a really nice grouping,” she added as Suzanna began to load her choices into the truck. “Are you putting in another bed?”

  “Paying off a debt.” Suzanna climbed into the truck, gave a wave then drove off. On the way to Holt's, she busied her mind by designing and rede­signing the arrangement for the flower bed. She'd al­ready scouted out the spot, bordering the front porch so he could enjoy it whenever he came or went from the cottage. Whether he wanted to or not.

  The job would take her the rest of the day, then she would unwind by walking along the cliffs. To­morrow she would put in a full day at the shop, then spend the cool of the evening working the gardens at The Towers.

  One by one, the days would pass.

  She didn't bother to announce herself after she'd parked the truck, but set right to work staking out the bed. The result was not what she'd hoped for. As she dug and hoed and worked the soil there was no sooth­ing response. Her mind didn't empty of worries and fill with the pleasure of planting. Instead a headache began to work nastily behind her eyes. Ignoring it, she wheeled over a load of planting medium and dumped it. She was raking it smooth when Holt stepped out.'

  He'd watched her from the window for nearly ten minutes, hating the fact that the strong shoulders were slumped and her eyes dull with sadness.

  “I thought you were taking the day off.”

  “I changed my mind.” Without glancing up, she rolled the wheelbarrow back to the truck and loaded it with flats of plants.

  “What the hell are all of those?”

  “Your paycheck.” She started with snapdragons, delphiniums and bright shasta daisies. “This was the deal.”

  Frowning, he came down a couple of steps. “I said maybe you could put in a couple of bushes.”

  “I'm putting in flowers.” She packed down the soil. “Anyone with an ounce of imagination can see that this place is crying for flowers.”

  So she wanted to fight, he noted, rocking back on his heels. Well, he could oblige her. “You could have asked before you dug up the yard.”

  “Why? You'd just sneer and make some nasty ma­cho remark.”

  He came down another step. “It's my yard, babe.”

  “And I'm planting flowers in it. Babe.” She tossed her head up. Yeah, she was mad enough to spit nails, he noted. And she was also miserable. “If you don't want to bother to give them any water or care, then I will. Why don't you go back inside and leave me to it?”

  Without waiting for a response, she went back to work. Holt took a seat while she added lavender and larkspur, dahlias and violas. He smoked lazily, noting that her hands were as sure and graceful as usual.

  “Planting posies doesn't seem to be improving your mood today.”

  “My mood is just fine. In fact, it's dandy.” She snapped a sprig off some freesia and swore. “Why shouldn't it be, just because I had to watch Jenny get in that damn car with tears running down her cheeks? Just because I had to stand there and smile when Alex looked back at me, his little mouth quivering and his eyes begging me not to make him go.”

  When her eyes filled, she shook the tears away. “And I had to stand there and take it when Bax ac­cused me of being an overprotective, smothering mother who was turning his children, his children into timid weaklings.”

  She hacked her spade into the dirt. “They're not timid or weak,” she said viciously. “They're just children. Why shouldn't they be afraid to go with him, when they hardly know him? And with his wife who stood there in her silk suit and Italian heels look­ing distressed and helpless. She won't have a clue what to do if Jenny has a bad dream or Alex gets a stomachache. And I just let them go. I just stood there and let them get in that awful car with two strangers. So I'm feeling just fine. I'm feeling terrific.”

  She sprang up to shove the wheelbarrow back to the truck. When she came back to do the mulching, he was gone. She forced herself to do the work carefully, reminding herself that at least here, over this one thing, she had control.

  Holt came back, dragging the hose from around the other side of the house and holding two beers. “I'll water them. Have a beer.”

  Swiping a hand over her brow, she frowned at the bottles. “I don't drink beer.”

  “That's all I've got.” He shoved one into her hand, then pushed the lever for the sprayer. “I think I can handle this part by now,” he said dryly. “Why don't you have a seat?”

  Suzanna walked to the steps and sat. Because she was thirsty she took one long sip, then rested her chin on her hand and watched him. He'd learned not to drown the plants, or pound them with a heavy spray. She let out a little sigh, then sipped again.

  No words of sympathy, she thought. No comforting pats or claims to understand just how she felt. Instead, he'd given her exactly what she'd needed, a silent wall to hurl her misery and anger against. Did he know he'd helped her? She couldn't be sure. But she knew she had come here, to him, not only to plant flowers, not only to get out of the house, but because she loved him.

  She hadn't given herself time to think about that, not since the feeling had opened and bloomed inside of her. Nor had she given herself a chance to wonder what it would mean to either of them.

  It wasn't something she wanted. She wanted never to love again, never to risk hurt and humiliation at a man's hands again. But it had happened.

  She hadn't looked for it. She had looked only for peace of mind, for security for her children, for simple contentment for herself. Yet she had found it.

  And what -would his reaction be if she told him. Would it please his ego? Would it shock or appall or amuse? It didn't matter, Suzanna told herself as she slipped an arm around the dog who had come to join her. For now, perhaps for always, the love was hers. She no longer expected emotions to be shared.

  Holt shut off the spray. The colorful bed added charm to the simple wooden cottage. It even pleased him tnWfie recognized some of the blooms by name. He wasn't going to ask her about the ones that were unfamiliar. But he'd look them up.

  “It looks pretty good.”

  “They're mostly perennials,” she said in the same casual tone. “I thought you might find it rewarding to see them come back year after year.”

  He might, but he also thought he would remember, much too vividly, how hurt and unhappy she'd looked when she'd planted them. He didn't dare dwell on how much it upset him to picture Alex and Jenny climbing tearfully into a car and driving away.

  “They smell okay.”

  “That's the lavender.” She took a deep breath of it herself before rising. “I'll go around and turn off the hose.” She'd nearly turned the corner when he called her name.

  “Suzanna. They'll be all right.”

  Not trusting her voice, she nodded and continued around back. She was crouched down, the dog's face in hers when he joined her.

  “You know, if you put some day lilies and some sedum on that bank, you'd solve most of the erosion problem.”

  He cupped a hand under her elbow to pull her to her feet “Is working the only thing you use to take your mind off things?”

  “It does the job.”

  “I've got a better idea.”

  Her heart gave a quick jolt. “I really don't—”

  “Let's go for a ride.”

  She blinked. “A ride?”

  “In the boat. We've got a couple of hours before dark.”

  “A ride in the boat,” she said, unaware that she amused him with her long, relieved sigh. “I'd like that.”

  “Good.” He took her hand and pul
led her to the pier. “You cast off.” When the dog jumped in beside him, Suzanna realized this was an old routine. For a man who didn't want to appear to have any sentiment, it was a telling thing that he took a dog along for company when he set out to sea.

  The engine roared to life. Holt waited only until Suzanna had climbed on board before he headed into the bay.

  The wind slapped against her face. Laughing, she clapped a hand to her cap to keep it from flying off. After she'd pulled it on more securely, she joined him at the wheel.

  “I haven't been out on the water in months,” she shouted over the engine.

  “What's the use of living on an island if you never go out on the water?”

  “I like to watch it.”

  She turned her head and caught the bright glint of window glass from the secluded houses on Bar Island. Overhead gulls wheeled and screamed. Sadie barked at them, then settled on the boat cushions with her head on the side so that the wind could send her ears flying.

  “Has she ever jumped out?” Suzanna asked him.

  He glanced back at the dog. “No. She just looks stupid.”

  “You'll have to bring her by the house again. Fred hasn't been the same since he met her.”

  “Some women do that to a man.” The salt breeze was carrying her. scent to him, wrapping it around his senses so that he drew her in with every breath. She was standing close, braced against the boat's motion. The expression in her eyes was still far off and trou­bled, and he knew she wasn't thinking of him. But he thought of her.

  He moved expertly through the bay traffic, keeping the speed slow and steady as he maneuvered around other boats, passed a hotel terrace where guests sat under striped umbrellas drinking cocktails or eating an early dinner. Far to starboard, the island's three-masted schooner streamed into port with its crowd of waving tourists.

  Then the bay gave way to the sea and the water became less serene. The cliffs roared up into the sky. Arrogantly, defiantly, The Towers sat on its ridge overlooking village and bay and sea. Its somber gray stone mirrored the tone of the rain clouds out to the west. Its old, wavy glass glinted with fanciful rain­bows. Like a mirage, there were streaks and blurs of color that was Suzanna's garden.

  “Sometimes when I went lobstering with my fa­ther, I'd look up at it.” And think of you. “Castle Calhoun,” Holt murmured. “That's what he called it.”

  Suzanna smiled, shading her eyes with the flat of her hand as she studied the imposing house on the cliffs. “It's just home. It's always been home. When I look up at it I think of Aunt Coco trying out some new recipe in the kitchen and Lilah napping in the parlor. The children playing in the yard or racing down the stairs. Amanda sitting at her desk and work­ing her meticulous way through the mounds of bills it takes to hold a home together. C.C. diving under the hood of the old station wagon to see if she could make a miracle happen and get one more year out of the engine. Sometimes I see my parents laughing at the kitchen table, so young, so alive, so full of plans.” She turned around to keep the house in sight. “So many things have changed, and will change. But the house is still there. It's comforting. You'd understand that or you wouldn't have chosen to live in Chris­tian's cottage, with all his memories.”

  He understood exactly, and it made him uneasy. “Maybe I just like having a place on the water.”

  Suzanna watched Bianca's tower disappear before she shifted to face him. “Sentiment doesn't make you weak. Holt.”

  He frowned out over the water. “I could never get close to my father. We came at everything from dif­ferent directions. I never had to explain or justify any­thing I felt or wanted to my grandfather. He just ac­cepted. I guess I figured there was a reason he left me the place when he died, even though I was only a kid.”

  It moved her in a very soft, very lovely way that he had shared even that much with her. “So you came back to it. We always come back to what we love.” She wanted to ask him more, what his life had been like during the span of years he'd been away. Why he had turned his back on police work to repair boat motors and props. Had he been in love, or had his heart broken? But he hit the throttle and sent the boat streaking out over the wide expanse of water.

  He hadn't come out to think deep thoughts, to worry or to wonder. He had come to give her, and himself, an hour of relaxation, a respite from reality. Wind and speed worked that particular miracle for him. It «l#ays had. When he heard her laugh, when she tossed her face up into the sun, he knew he'd chosen well.

  “Here, take the wheel.”

  It was a challenge. She could hear the dare in his voice, see it in his eyes when he grinned at her. Su-zanna didn't hesitate, but took his place at the helm.

  She gloried in the control, in the power vibrating under her fingertips. The boat sliced through the water like a blade, racing to nowhere. There was only sea and sky and unlimited freedom. The Atlantic rough­ened, adding a dash of danger. The air took on a bite that shivered along the skin and made each breath a drink of icy wine.

  Her hands were firm and competent on the wheel, her body braced and ready. The wistful look in her eyes had been replaced by a bright fearlessness that quickened his blood. Her face was flushed with ex­citement, dampened by the