Suzanna's Surrender

  planned. The music would be playing. She would open the box, look inside....

  Her hands were draped with emeralds. He frowned, giving himself a little shake. That wasn't right. He hadn't bought her emeralds. But the image focused so clearly. Suzanna on her knees holding emeralds. Three glittering tiers flanked by icy diamonds and centered by a glowing teardrop stone of dreamy green.

  The Calhoun necklace. He felt the chill on his neck and ignored it. He'd seen the picture Max had found in the old library book. He knew what the emeralds looked like. It was the atmosphere, the humming si­lence and the flickering candles that made him think of them. That made him see them.

  He didn't believe in visions. But when he closed his eyes to clear it from his mind, it seemed imprinted there. Suzanna kneeling on the floor with emeralds dripping from her fingers.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around.

  There was no one there, only shadows and light thrown by the candles. But the feeling remained, with an urgency that had his hackles rising.

  It was crazy, he told himself. And it was time to put an end to the whole insane business.

  “Listen,” he began. And the portrait of Bianca crashed to the floor.

  Coco gave a piping squeak and jolted out of the chair. “Oh, my. Oh, my goodness,” she murmured, patting her speeding heart.

  Amanda was already racing forward. “Oh, I hope it isn't damaged.”

  “I don't think it will be.” Lilah released Holt's hand. “Do you?”

  The clear and steady gaze made him uncomfort­able. Ignoring her, he turned to Suzanna. Her hand was like ice in his. “What is it? What's wrong?”

  “Nothing.” But she gave a quick shudder. “I think you'd better check the portrait.”

  He rose to go over where the others were crouched. As he did, Suzanna looked down the length of the table at her great-aunt. Colleen's white skin had paled like glass. Her eyes were dark and damp. Without a word, Suzanna rose and poured her a brandy. “It's going to be all right,” she murmured, laying a hand on the thin shoulder.

  “The frame cracked.” Sloan ran a finger along it before he rose. “Funny that it would fall that way. Those nails are sturdy.”

  Holt started to shrug it off, but when he bent closer to where the frame had separated from the backing, he went very still. “There's something between the canvas and the back.” Hefting the portrait, he laid it facedown on the table. “I need a knife.”

  Sloan pulled out his pocketknife and offered it. Holt made a long thin slit just beneath the cracked frame and slid out several sheets of paper.

  “What is it?” The question was muffled as Coco had her hands pressed to her mouth.

  “It's my grandfather's writing.” The emotion sprang up strong and fast. It churned in Holt's eyes as he lifted them to Suzanna's. “It looks like a kind of diary. It's dated 1965.”

  “Sit down, dear.” Coco put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Trent, would you pour the brandy? I'll brew some tea for C.C.”

  He did need to sit, and he hoped the drink would steady him. For now, he could only stare at the papers and see his grandfather. Sitting on the back porch of the cottage, watching the water. Standing in his loft, slashing paint on canvas. Walking on the cliffs, telling a young boy stories.

  When Suzanna came back to lay a hand on his, he turned his palm up and gripped her fingers. “It's been there all this time, and I didn't know.”

  “You weren't meant to know,” she said quietly. “Until tonight.” When he looked at her again, she curled her fingers tight around his. “Some things we just have to take on faith.”

  “Something happened tonight. Something upset you.”

  “I'll tell you. Not yet.”

  Composed, Coco brought in the tea, then took her seat. “Holt, whatever your grandfather wrote belongs to you. No one here will ask you to share it. If after you read it, you feel you prefer to keep it to yourself, we'll understand.”

  He glanced down at the papers again, then lifted the first sheet. “We'll read it together.” He took a long breath, kept Suzanna's hand tight in his. '“The moment I saw her, my life changed.”'

  No one spoke as Holt read through his grandfa­ther's memories. But around the table, hands linked again. There was no sound but his voice and the wind breathing through the trees outside the windows. When he was finished, the room remained silent.

  Lilah spoke first, her voice thick with tears while others slid down her cheeks. “He never stopped lov­ing her. Always, even though he made a life for him­self, he loved her.”

  “How he must have felt, to come here that night and find out she was gone.” Amanda leaned her head on Sloan's shoulder.

  “But he was right.” Suzanna watched one of her tears drop on the back of Holt's hand. “She didn't take her own life. She couldn't have. Not only did she love him too much, but she would have tolerated anything to protect her children.”

  “No, she didn't jump.” Colleen whispered the words. She lifted her snifter with a trembling hand, then set it down again. “I've never spoken of that night, not to anyone. Through the years I've some­times thought what I saw was a dream. A terrible, terrible nightmare.”

  Determined, she cleared her blurred vision and strengthened her voice. “He understood her, her Christian. He couldn't have written about her that way and not have known her heart. She was beautiful, but she was also kind and generous. I have never been loved as I was loved by my mother. And I have never hated as I hated my father.”

  She straightened her shoulders.. Already the burden had lessened. “I was too young to understand her unhappiness or her desperation. In those days a man ruled his home, his family, as he chose. No one dared to question my father. But I remember the day she brought the puppy home, the little puppy my father would not have in his home. She did send us upstairs, but I hid at the top and listened. I had never heard her raise her voice to him before. Oh, she was valiant. And he was cruel. I didn't understand the names he called her. Then.”

  She paused to drink again, for her throat was dry and the memory bitter. “She defended me against him, knowing as even I knew he barely tolerated me, a female. When he left the house after the argument, I was glad. I prayed that night he would never come back. The next day, my mother told me we were go­ing to take a trip. She hadn't told my brothers yet, but I was the eldest. She wanted me to understand that she would take care of us, that nothing bad would happen.

  “Then, he came back. I knew she was upset, even frightened. I was to stay in my room until she came for me. But she didn't come. It grew late, and there was a storm. I wanted my mother.” Colleen pressed her lips together. “She wasn't in her room, so I went up to the tower where she often spent her time. I heard them as I crept up the stairs. The door was open and I heard them. The terrible argument. He was rag­ing, crazed with fury. She told him that she would no longer live with him, that she wanted nothing from him but her children and her freedom.”

  Because Colleen was shaking, Coco rose and walked down to take her hand.

  “He struck her. I heard the slap and raced to the door. But I was afraid, too afraid to go in. She had a hand to her cheek, and her eyes were blazing. Not with fear, with fury. I will always remember that there was no fear in her at the end. He threatened her with scandal. He screamed at her that if she left his house, she would never lay eyes on any of his children again. She would never ruin his reputation. She would never throw an obstacle in the path of his ambitions.”

  Though her lips trembled, Colleen lifted her chin. “She did not beg. She did not weep. She hurled words back at him like thunderbolts.” Fisting a hand, she pressed it to her mouth to smother her own tears. “She was magnificent. Her children would never be taken from her, and scandal be damned. Did he think she cared what people thought of her? Did he think she feared his power to have society shun her? She would take her children and she would make a life where both she and they could be loved. And I think it was that which d
rove him mad. The idea that she would choose another man over him. Over him. Fer­gus Calhoun. That she would toss his money and power and position back at him, rather than bow to his wishes. He grabbed her, lifting her from her feet, shaking her, screaming into her face while his own purpled with rage. I think I screamed then, and hear­ing me, she began to fight. When she struck him, he threw her aside. I heard the crash of the glass. He ran to it, roaring for her, but she was gone. How long he stood there while the wind and rain poured in, I don't know. When he turned his face was white, his eyes glazed. He walked past me without even seeing me. I went inside, over to the broken window and looked down until Nanny came and carried me away.”

  Coco pressed a kiss to the white hair, then gently stroked. “Come with me, dear. I'll take you upstairs. Lilah will bring you a nice cup of tea.”

  “Yes, I'll be right there.” Lilah wiped her cheeks dry. “Max?”

  “I'll come with you.” He slipped an arm around her waist as Coco led Bianca's daughter from the room.

  “Poor little girl,” Suzanna murmured, and let her head rest on Holt's shoulder as he drove away from The Towers. “To have seen something so horrible, to have had to live with it all of her life. I think of Jenny—”

  “Don't.” He put a firm hand over hers. “You got out. Bianca didn't.” He waited a moment. “You knew, didn't you? Before Colleen told us the story.”

  “I knew she hadn't committed suicide. I can't ex­plain how, but tonight, I knew. It was as if she was standing right behind me.”

  He thought of the sensation of having a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe she was. After a night like this, it's hard for me to convince myself the picture falling off the wall was a coincidence.”

  Suzanna closed her eyes. “It was beautiful, what your grandfather wrote about her. If we never find the emeralds, we have that—we'll know she had that. To love that way,” she said on a sigh. “It hardly seems possible. I don't want to think of the tragedy or sad­ness, but of the time they had together. Dancing in the wild roses.”

  He'd never danced with her in the sunlight, Holt thought. Or read her poetry or promised her eternal love.

  When they reached the cottage, Sadie leaped out the back window of the car to race around the yard and sniff at the flower bed she'd planted for him. When Holt leaned across her, Suzanna looked down in surprise.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I'm opening the door for you.” He shoved it open. “If I'd gotten out to do it, you wouldn't have waited.”

  Amused, Suzanna stepped out. “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome.” When he reached the house, he unlocked the front door, then held that open. Keep­ing her face sober, Suzanna inclined her head as she slipped past him.

  “Thank you.”

  Holt just let the screen slam shut. Brow lifted, Su­zanna scanned the room.

  “You've done something different.”

  “I cleaned it up,” he muttered.

  “Oh. It looks nice. You know, Holt, I've been meaning to ask you if you think Livingston is still on the island.”

  “Why? Did something happen?”

  His response was much too abrupt, Suzanna noted and moved casually around the room. “No, I've just been wondering where he may be staying, what his next move might be.” She ran a fingertip down one of the candles he'd bought. “Any ideas?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You're the expert on crime.”

  “And I told you to leave Livingston to me.”

  “And I told you I couldn't do that. Maybe I'll start poking around on my own.”

  “Try it and I'll handcuff you and lock you in a closet.”

  “The urban counterpart to hog-tying,” she mur­mured. “I wouldn't have to try it if you'd tell me what you know. Or what you think.”

  “What brought this up now?”

  She moved her shoulder. “Since we have a little time to ourselves, I thought we could talk about it.”

  “Look, why don't you just sit down?” He pulled out his lighter.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I'm lighting candles.” His nerves were stretching like taffy. “What does it look like I'm doing?”

  She did sit, and steepled her hands. “Since you're so cranky, I have to assume that you do know some­thing.”

  “You don't have to assume anything except your ticking me off.” He stalked to the stereo.

  “How close are you?” she asked as a bluesy sax filled the air.

  “I'm nowhere.” Since that was a lie, he decided to temper it with part of the truth. “I think he's in the area because he broke in here and took a look around a couple weeks ago.”

  “What?” She catapulted out of the chair. “A cou­ple of weeks ago, and you didn't tell me?”

  “What were you going to do about it?” he coun­tered. “Pull out a magnifying glass and deer-hunter's hat?”

  “I had a right to know.”

  “Now you know. Just sit down, will you? I'll be back in a minute.”

  He stalked out and she began to pace. Holt knew more than he was saying, but at least she'd annoyed a piece from him. Livingston was close, close enough that he'd known Holt might have something of interest. The fact that Holt was wound like a top at the moment made her think something more was working on him. It shouldn't be difficult, she thought, now that she already had him irritated, to push a little more out of him.

  The candles were scented, she noted, and smiled to herself. She couldn't imagine that he'd bought jas­mine candles on purpose. Especially a half a dozen of them. She traced a finger over the calla lilies he'd stuck—not very artistically—in a vase. Maybe work­ing with flowers was getting to him, she thought. He wasn't pretending so hard not to like them.

  When he came back in, she smiled then looked puzzled. “Is that champagne?”

  “Yeah.” And he was thoroughly disgusted. He'd imagined she'd be charmed. Instead she questioned everything. “Do you want some or not?”

  “Sure.” The curt invitation was so typical she didn't take offense. After he'd poured, she tapped her glass absently against his. “Now, if you're sure it was Livingston who broke in, I think—”

  “One more word,” he said with dangerous calm. “One more word about Livingston and I'll pour the rest of the bottle over your hard head.”

  She sipped, knowing she'd have to be careful if she didn't want to waste a bottle of champagne and end up with sticky hair. “I'm only trying to get a clear picture.”

  He let out what was close to a roar of frustration and spun away. Champagne sloshed over his glass as he paced. “She wants a clear picture, and she's blind as a bat. I shoveled two months' worth of dust out of this place. I bought candles and flowers. I had to listen to some jerk try to teach me about wine. That's the picture, damn it.”

  She'd wanted to irritate information from him, not infuriate him. “Holt—”

  “Just sit down and shut up. I should have known this would get screwed up. God knows why I tried to do it this way.”

  A light dawned, and she smiled. He'd set the stage, but she'd been too focused on her own scheme to take note. “Holt, it's very sweet of you to do all of this. I'm sorry if I didn't seem to appreciate it. If you wanted me to come here tonight so we could make love—”

  “I don't want to make love with you.” He swore, viciously. “Of course I want to make love with you, but that's not it. I'm trying to ask you to marry me, damn it, so will you sit down!”

  Since her legs had dissolved from knees to toe, she slid into a chair.

  “This is perfect.” He gulped down champagne and started pacing again. “Just perfect. I'm trying to tell you that I'm crazy about you, that I don't think I can live without you, and all you can do is ask me what I'm doing and nag me about some obsessed jewel thief.”

  Cautiously she brought the glass to her lips. “Sorry.”

  “You should be sorry,” he said bitterly. “I was ready to make a fool of myself tonight for yo
u, and you won't even let me do that. I've been in love with you nearly half my life. Even when I moved away, I couldn't get you out of my mind. You spoiled every other woman for me. I'd start to get close to someone, and then...they weren't you. They just weren't yoa, and I'd never even gotten past your back door.”

  In love. The two words reeled in her head. In love. “I thought you didn't even like me.”

  “I couldn't stand you.” He raked his free hand through his hair. “Every time I looked at you I wanted you so much I couldn't breathe. My mouth would go dry and my stomach would knot, and you'd just smile and keep walking.” His dark and turbulent eyes locked on hers. “I wanted to strangle you. You run into me and knock me off my bike and I'm lying there bleeding and—and mortified. You're leaning over me, smelling like heaven and running your hands over me to see if anything was broken. One more minute of that and I'd have dragged you onto the asphalt with me.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “Lord, you were only sixteen.”

  “You swore at me.”

  His face was a picture of anger and disgust. “Damn right, I swore at you. You were better off with that than with what I wanted to do to you.” He was calm­ing, little by little. He sipped again but kept pacing. “I talked myself into believing it was just an adoles­cent fantasy. Even a crush, and that was tough to swallow. Then you came walking across my yard. I looked at you and my throat went dry, my stomach knotted up. We were both past being adolescents.”

  He set his glass down, noting that she was gripping hers with both hands. Her eyes were huge and fixed on his. Cursing both of them, he fumbled for a cig­arette then tossed it aside.

  “I'm not good at this, Suzanna. I thought I could pull it off. Set the mood, you know? And after you'd had enough champagne, I'd convince you I could make you happy.”

  She couldn't relax her grip. She tried but couldn't. “I don't need champagne and candlelight, Holt.”

  He smiled a little. “Babe, you were born for it. I could lie to you and tell you I'll remember to give it to you every night. But I won't.”

  She looked down at her glass and wondered if she was ready to take this sort of chance again. Loving him was one thing. Being loved by him was incred­ible. But marriage... “Why don't you just tell me the truth then?”

  He walked over to sit on the arm of the couch and face her. “I love you. I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. Whatever happens, I'll never feel like this about anyone else again. There's no tak­ing back what's happened to either of us in the last few years, but maybe we can make things better for both of us. For the kids.”

  Her eyes changed, darkened. “It may never be easy. Bax would always be their legal father.”

  “He wouldn't be the one who loved them.” When her eyes filled, he shook his head. No, she hadn't needed candlelight and champagne to make her vul­nerable and open to his needs. Only a mention of her children. “I won't use them to get to you. I know I could, but first it has to be between you and me. Maybe I'm stuck on them, and I want to—I think I could be pretty good at being their father, but I don't want you to marry me for them.”

  She took a deep breath. Odd, her fingers had re­laxed on the stem of the glass without her being aware. “I never wanted to love anyone again. And I certainly never wanted to get married.” Her lips curved. “Until you.” Setting the glass aside, she reached for his hand. “I can't claim to have loved you as long, but you couldn't love me more than I love you.”

  He didn't settle for her hand, but pulled her into his arms. When he at last managed to tear his mouth from hers, he buried his face in her hair. “Don't tell me you need to think about it, Suzanna.”

  “I don't need to think about it.” She couldn't re­member the last time her heart and mind had been so at peace. “I'll marry you.”

  Before the words were out of her mouth, she was tumbling with him onto the couch. She was laughing as they tugged at each other's clothes, laughing still when the frantic movements sent them rolling onto the floor.

  “I knew it.” She nipped his bare shoulder. “You did bring me here to make love.”

  “Can I help it if you can't keep your hands off me?” He trailed a necklace of quick kisses around her throat.

  She smiled, tilting her head to give him easy ac­cess. “Holt, did you really think about pulling me down on the street after you'd fallen off your bike.”

  “After you'd run into me,” he corrected, nuzzling her ear. “Yeah. Let me show you what I had in mind.”

  Later they lay like rag dolls on the floor, a tangle of limbs. When she could manage it, she lifted her head from his chest. “It was much better that we didn't try that twelve years ago.”

  Lazily he opened his eyes. She was smiling down at him, her hair brushing his shoulders, the candlelight glowing in her eyes. “Much better. I wouldn't have had any skin left on my back.”

  She chuckled then shifted to trace the shape of his face. “You always scared me a little. Looking so dark and dangerous. And, of course, the girls used to talk about you.”

  “Oh, yeah? What did they say?”

  “I'll tell you when you're sixty. You could prob­ably use it then.” He pinched her, but she only laughed then rested her cheek on his. “When you're sixty, we'll be an old married couple with grandchil­dren.”