Page 18 of Suzanna's Surrender

  the kids this morn­ing.”

  “Aunt Coco's going to go through the roof.” C.C. gave Suzanna another squeeze. “All four of us in a matter of months. She'll be in matchmaker heaven.”

  “All we need now is to get that creep behind bars and find the emeralds.” Amanda dashed a tear away. “Oh, no! Do you realize what this means?”

  “It means you have to organize another wedding,” Suzanna answered.

  “Not just that. It means we're going to be stuck with Aunt Colleen at least until the last handful of rice gets tossed.”

  Holt returned to The Towers in a foul mood. They'd found the house. Empty. They had no doubt that Livingston was living there. Bending the law more than a little, he had broken in and given the place as meticulous a search as Livingston had given his cottage. They'd found the stolen Calhoun papers, the lists the thief had made and a copy of the original blueprints of The Towers.

  They'd also found a typed copy of each woman's weekly schedule, along with handwritten comments that left no doubt as to the fact that Livingston had followed and observed each one of them. There was a well-ordered inventory of the rooms he had searched and the items he'd felt valuable enough to steal.

  They had waited an hour for his return, then uneasy about leaving the women alone, had phoned in the information to Koogar. While the police staked out the rented house on Bar Island, Holt and his compan­ions returned to The Towers.

  It was only a matter of waiting now. That was something he had learned to do well in his years on the force. But now it wasn't a job, and every moment grated.

  “Oh, my dear, dear boy.” Coco flew at him the moment he stepped into the house. He caught her by her sturdy hips as she covered his face with kisses.

  “Hey,” was all he could manage as she wept against his shoulder. Her hair, he noted, was no longer gleaming black but fire-engine red. “What'd you do to your hair?”

  “Oh, it was time for a change.” She drew back to blow her nose into he. hankie, then fell into his arms again. Helpless, he patted her back and looked at the grinning men around him for assistance.

  “It looks okay,” he assured her, wondering if that was what she was weeping about. “Really.”

  “You like it?” She pulled back again, fluffing at it. “I thought I needed a bit of dash, and red's so cheerful.” She buried her face in the soggy hankie. “I'm so happy,” she sobbed. “So very happy. I had hoped, you see. And the tea leaves indicated that it would all work out, but I couldn't help but worry. She's had such a dreadful time, and her sweet little babies, too. Now everything's going to be all right. I'd thought it might be Trent, but he and C.C. were so perfect. Then Sloan and Amanda. Then almost be­fore I could blink, our dear Max and Lilah. Is it any wonder I'm overwhelmed?”

  “I guess not.”

  “To think, all those years ago when you'd bring lobsters to the back door. And that time you changed a tire for me and were too proud to even let me thank you. And now, now, you're going to marry my baby.”

  “Congratulations.” Trent grinned and slapped Holt on the back while Max dug out a fresh handkerchief for Coco.

  “Welcome to the family.” Sloan offered a hand. “I guess you know what you're getting into.”

  Holt studied the weeping Coco. “I'm getting the picture.”

  “Stop all that caterwauling.” Colleen clumped down the stairs. “I could hear you wailing all the way up in my room. For heaven's sake, take that mess into the kitchen.” She gestured with her cane. “Pour some tea into her until she pulls herself together. Out, all of you,” she added. “I want to talk to this boy here.”

  Like rats deserting a sinking ship, Holt thought as they left him alone. Gesturing for him to follow, Col­leen strode into the parlor.

  “So, you think you're going to marry my grand-niece.”

  “No. I am going to marry her.”

  She sniffed. Damned if she didn't like the boy. “I'll tell you this, if you don't do better by her than that scum she had before, you'll answer to me.” She settled into a chair. “What are your prospects?”

  “My what?”

  “Your prospects,” she said impatiently. “Don't think you're going to latch on to my money when you latch on to her.”

  His eyes narrowed, pleasing her. “You can take your money and—”

  “Very good,” she said with an approving nod. “How do you intend to keep her?”

  “She doesn't need to be kept.” He whirled around the room. “And she doesn't need you or anyone else poking into her business. She's managed just fine on her own, better than tine. She came out of hell and managed to put her life together, take care of the kids and start a business. The only thing that's going to change is that she's going to stop working herself into the ground, and the kids'll have someone who wants to be their father. Maybe I won't be able to give her diamonds and take her to fancy dinner parties, but I'll make her happy.”

  Colleen tapped her fingers on the head of her cane. “You'll do. If your grandfather was anything like you, it's no wonder my mother loved him. So...” She started to rise, then saw the portrait over the mantel. Where her father's stern face had been was her mother's lovely one. “What's that doing there?”

  Holt dipped his hands into his pockets. “It seemed to me that was where it belonged. That's where my grandfather would have wanted it.”

  Colleen eased herself back into the chair. “Thank you.” Her voice was strained, but her eyes remained fierce. “Now go away. I want to be alone.”

  He left her, amazed that he was growing fond of her. Though he didn't look forward to another scene, he started toward the kitchen to ask Coco where he could find Suzanna.

  But he found her himself, following the music that drifted down the hall. She was sitting at a piano, play­ing some rich, haunting melody he didn't recognize. Though the music was sad, there was a smile on her lips and one in her eyes. When she looked up, her fingers stilled, but the smile remained.

  “I didn't know you played.”

  “We all had lessons. I was the only one they stuck with.” She reached out a hand for his. “I was hoping we'd have a minute alone, so I could tell you how wonderful you were with the kids this morning.”

  With his fingers meshed with hers, he studied the ring he'd given her. “I was nervous.” He laughed a little. “I didn't know how they'd take it. When Jenny asked if she could call me Daddy...it's funny how fast you can fall in love. Suzanna.” He kept toying with her hands, studying the ring. “I think I under­stand now what a parent would feel, what he'd go through to make sure his kids were safe. I'd like to have more. I know you'd need to think about it, and I don't want you to feel that I would care less about Alex and Jenny.”

  “I don't have to think about it.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I've always wanted a big family.”

  He drew her close so her head rested on his shoul­der. “Suzanna, do you know where the nursery was when Bianca lived here?”

  “On the third floor of the east wing. It's been used as a storeroom as long as I can remember.” She straightened. “You think she hid the necklace there?”

  “I think she hid them somewhere Fergus wouldn't look, and I can't see him spending a lot of time in the nursery.”

  “No, but you'd think someone would have come across them. I don't know why I say that,” she cor­rected. “The place is filled with boxes and old fur­niture. The Tower's version of a garage sale.”

  “Show me.”

  It was worse than he'd imagined. Even overlooking the cobwebs and dust, it was a mess. Boxes, crates, rolled-up rugs, broken tables, shadeless lamps stood, sat or reclined over every inch of space. Speechless, he turned to Suzanna who offered a sheepish grin.

  “A lot of stuff collects in eighty-odd years,” she told him. “Most of what's valuable's been culled out, and a lot of that was sold when we were—well, when things were difficult. This floor's been closed off for a long time, since we couldn't afford to heat it. We had to concen
trate on keeping up the living space. Once we got everything under some kind of control, we were going to kind of attack the other sections a room at a time.”

  “You need a bulldozer.”

  “No, just time and elbow grease. We had plenty of the latter, but not nearly enough of the former. Over the last couple of months, we've gone through a lot of the old rooms, inch by inch, but it's a slow process.”

  “Then we might as well get started.”

  They worked for two grueling and dirty hours. They found a tattered parasol, an amazing collection of nineteenth-century erotica, a trunk full of musty clothes from the twenties and a box of warped pho­nograph records. There was also a crate filled with toys, a miniature locomotive, a sad, faded rag doll, assorted yo-yos and tops. Among them were a set of lovely old fairy-tale prints that Suzanna set aside.

  “For our nursery,” she told him. “Look.” She held up a yellow christening gown. “It might have been my grandfather's.”

  “You'd have thought this stuff would have been packed up with more care.”

  “I don't think Fergus ran a very tidy household after Bianca died. If any of this stuff belonged to his children, I'd wager the nanny bundled it away. He wouldn't have cared enough.”

  “No.” He pulled a cobweb out of her hair. “Lis­ten, why don't you take a break?”

  “I'm fine.”

  It was useless to remind her that she'd been work­ing all day, so he used another tactic. “I could use a drink. You think Coco's got anything cold in the re­frigerator—maybe a sandwich to go with it?”

  “Sure. I'll go check.”

  He knew that her aunt would insist on putting the quick meal together, and Suzanna would get that much time to sit and do nothing. “Two sandwiches,” he added, and kissed her.

  “Right.” She rose, stretching her back. “It's sad to think about those three children, lying in here at night knowing their mother wasn't going to come and tuck them in again. Speaking of which, I'd better tuck in my own before I come back.”

  “Take your time.” He was already headfirst in an­other crate.

  She started out, thinking wistfully of Bianca's ba­bies. Little Sean, who'd barely have been toddling, Ethan, who would grow up to father her father, Col­leen, who was even now downstairs surely rinding fault with something Coco had done. How the woman had ever been a sweet little girl...

  A little girl, Suzanna thought, stopping on the sec­ond-floor landing. The oldest girl who would have been five or six when her mother died. Suzanna de-toured and knocked on her great-aunt's door.

  “Come in, damn it. I'm not getting up.”

  “Aunt Colleen.” She stepped, amused to see the old woman was engrossed in a romance novel. “I'm sorry to disturb you.”

  “Why? No one else is.”

  Suzanna bit the tip of her tongue. “I was just won­dering, the summer...that last summer, were you still in the nursery with your brothers?”

  “I wasn't a baby, no need for a nursery.”

  “So you had your own room,” Suzanna prompted, struggling to contain the excitement. “Near the nurs­ery?”

  “At the other end of the east wing. There was the nursery, then Nanny's room, the children's bath, and the three rooms kept for children of guests. I had the corner room at the top of the stairs.” She frowned down at her book. “The next summer, I moved into one of the guest rooms. I didn't want to sleep in the room my mother had decorated for me, knowing she wouldn't come back to it.”

  “I'm sorry. When Bianca told you that you were going away, did she come to your room?”

  “Yes. She let me pick out a few of my favorite dresses, then she packed them herself.”

  “Then after—I suppose they were unpacked again.”

  “I never wore those dresses again. I never wanted to. Shoved the trunk under my bed.”

  “I see.” So there was hope. “Thank you.”

  “Moth-eaten by now,” Colleen grumbled as Su-zanna went out again. She thought of her favorite white muslin with its blue satin sash and with a sigh got up to walk to the terrace.

  Dusk was coming early, she thought. Storm brew­ing. She could smell it in the wind, see it in the bad-tempered clouds already blocking the sun.

  Suzanna raced up the stairs again. The sandwiches would have to wait. She pushed open the door of Colleen's old room. It too had been consigned to stor­age, but being smaller than the nursery wasn't as cramped. The wallpaper, perhaps the same that Bianca had picked for her daughter, was faded and spotted, but Suzanna could still see the delicate pat­tern of rosebuds and violets.

  She didn't bother with the cases or boxes, but dragged or pushed them aside. She was looking for a traveling trunk, suitable for a young girl. What better place? she thought as she pushed aside a crate marked Winter Draperies. Fergus hadn't cared for his daugh­ter. He would hardly have bothered to look through a trunk of dresses, particularly when that trunk had been shoved out of sight by a traumatized young girl.

  It had no doubt been opened in later years. Perhaps someone—Suzanna's own mother?—had shaken out a dress or two, then finding them quaint but useless, had designated them to storage.

  It could be anywhere, of course, she mused. But what better place to start than the source?

  Her heart pounded dully as she stumbled across an old leather-strapped truck. Pulling it open, she found bolts of material carefully folded in tissue. But no little girl's dresses. And no emeralds.

  Because the light was growing dim, she rose and started toward the door. She would get Holt, and a flashlight, before continuing. In the gloom, she rapped her shin sharply. Swearing, she looked down and saw the small trunk.

  It had once been a glistening white, but now it was dull with age and dust. It had been shoved to the side, piled with other boxes and nearly hidden by them and a faded tapestry. Kneeling in the half-light, Suzanna uncovered it. She flexed her unsteady fingers then opened the lid.

  There was a smell of lavender, sealed inside per­haps for decades. She lifted the first dress, a frilly white muslin, going ivory with time and banded by a faded blue satin sash. Suzanna set it carefully aside and drew out another. There were leggings and rib­bons, pretty bows and a lacy nightie. And there, at the bottom, beside a small stuffed bear, a box and a book.

  Suzanna put a trembling hand to her lips, then slowly reached down to lift the book.

  Her journal, she thought as tears misted her eyes.

  Suzanna put a trembling hand to her lips, then slowly reached down to lift the book.

  Her journal, she thought as tears misted her eyes. Bianca's journal. Hardly daring to breathe, she turned the first page.

  Bar Harbor June 12, 1912

  I saw him on the cliffs, overlooking Frenchman Bay

  Suzanna let out an unsteady breath and laid the book in her lap. This was not for her to read alone. It would wait for her family. Heart pounding, she reached down to take the box from the trunk. She knew before she opened it. She could feel the change in the room, the trembling of the air. As the first tear slid down her cheek, she opened the lid and uncovered Bianca's emeralds.

  They pulsed like green suns, throbbing with life and passion. She lifted the necklace, the glorious three tiers, and felt the heat on her hands. Hidden eighty years before, in hope and desperation, they were now free. The gloom that filled the room was no match for them.

  As she knelt, the necklace dripping from her fin­gers, she reached into the box and took out the match­ing earrings. Strange, she thought. She'd all but for­gotten them. They were lovely, exquisite, but the necklace dominated. It was made to dominate.

  Stunned, she stared down at the power in her hands. They weren't just gems, she realized. They were far from being simply beautiful stones. They were Bianca's passions and hopes and dreams. From the time she had placed them in the box until now, when they had been lifted out by her descendant, they had waited to see the light again.

  “Oh, Bianca.”

  “A charming sight.
”

  Her head jerked up at the voice. He stood in the doorway, hardly more than a shadow. When he stepped into the room, she saw the glint of the gun in his hand.

  “Patience pays off,” Livingston said. “I watched you and the cop go into the room down the hall. I've been losing quite a bit of sleep wandering these rooms at night.”

  As he came closer, she stared at him. He didn't look like the man she remembered. His coloring was wrong, even the shape of his face. She rose very slowly, clutching the book and earrings in one hand, the necklace in the other.

  “You don't recognize me. But I know you. I know all of you. You're Suzanna, just one of the Calhouns who owes me quite a bit.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Three months of my time, and not a little trouble. Then there was the loss of Hawkins, of course. He wasn't much of a partner, but he was mine. Just as those are mine.” He looked down at the necklace and his mouth watered. They dazzled him. More than he had dreamed, more than he had imagined. Everything he wanted. His fingers trembled lightly on the gun as he reached out. Suzanna jerked away. He lifted a brow. “Do you really think you can keep them from me? They're meant to be mine. And when they are, everything they are will be mine.”

  He stepped closer, and as she looked around for the best route of escape, his hand closed over her hair. “Some stones have power,” he told her softly. “Tragedy seeps into them, making them stronger. Death and grief. It hones them. Hawkins didn't un­derstand that, but he was a simple man.”

  And the one she was facing was a mad one. “The necklace belongs to the Calhouns. It always has. It always will.”

  He jerked her hair hard and fast She would have yelped, but the gun was now pressed against the rac­ing pulse in her throat. “It belongs to me. Because I've been clever enough, I've been determined enough to wait for it. The moment I read about it, I knew. Now tonight, it's done.”

  She wasn't certain what she would have done— given it to him, tried to reason. But at the moment, her little girl moved into the doorway. “Mom.” Her voice trembled as she rubbed her eyes. “It's thun­dering. You're supposed to come get me when it thunders.”

  It happened fast. He turned, swinging the gun. With all her strength, Suzanna hurled herself at him, block­ing his aim. “Run!” she screamed to Jenny. “Run down the hall to Holt.” She shoved, and raced after her daughter. The decision had to be made the minute she hit the doorway. As she watched Jenny streak toward the right and—she hoped—safety, Suzanna plunged in the opposite direction.

  He would follow her, not the child, she told herself.

  Because she still had the necklace. The next decision had to be made at the steps. To go down to her family and risk them. Or to go up, alone.

  She was halfway up the stairs when she heard him pounding behind her. She jerked in shock as a bullet plowed into the plaster an inch from her shoulder.

  Breathless, she streaked up, only now hearing the boom of thunder that had frightened Jenny and made her look for her mother. Her single thought was to put as much distance between the madman behind her and her child. Her feet clattered on the winding metal staircase that led to Bianca's tower.

  His fingers darted through the open treads and snatched at her ankle. With a sound of terror and fury, she kicked out, dislodging them, then stumbled up the rest of the way. The door was shut. She nearly wept as she threw her weight against the thick wood. It gave, with painful slowness, then allowed her to fall inside. But before she could slam it closed, he was hurtling in.

  She braced, certain it would be only seconds before she felt the bullet. He was panting, sweating, his eyes glazed. At the corner of his mouth, a muscle ticked and jerked. “Give it to me.” The gun shook as he advanced on her. A flash of lightning had him looking wildly around the shadowy room. “Give it to me now.”

  He's afraid, she realized. Of this room. “You've been in here before.”

  He had, only once, and had run out again, terrified. There was something here, something that hated him.

  It crawled cold as ice along his skin. “Give me the necklace, or I'll just kill you and take it.”

  “This was her room,” Suzanna murmured, keeping her eyes on his. “Bianca's room. She died when her husband threw her from that window.”

  Unable to resist, he looked at the glass, dark with gloom, then away again.

  “She still comes here, to wait, and to watch the cliffs.” She heard, as she had known she would, the sound of Holt racing up the steps. “She's here now. Take them.” She held the emeralds out. “But she won't let you leave with them.”

  His face was bone white and sheened with sweat as he reached for the necklace. He gripped it, but rather than the heat Suzanna had felt, he felt only cold. And a terror.

  “They're mine now.” He shivered and stumbled.

  “Suzanna,” Holt said quietly from the doorway. “Move away from him.” His weapon was drawn, gripped in both hands. “Move away,” he repeated. “Slow.”