Suzanna's Surrender

  An hour later, Suzanna pulled up at Holt's cottage. R wasn't just impulse, she told herself. And it wasn't because she wanted to pressure him. Lecturing her­self, she climbed out of the truck. It certainly wasn't because she wanted his company. But she was a Calhoun, and Calhouns always paid their debts.

  She walked up the steps to the porch, again think­ing it was a charming place. A few touches—morning glories climbing up the railing, a bed of columbine and larkspur, with some snapdragons and lavender.

  Day lilies along that slope, she thought as she knocked. A border of impatiens. Miniature roses un­der the windows. And there, where the ground was rocky and uneven, a little herb bed, set off with spring bulbs.

  It could be a fairy-tale place—but the man who lived there didn't believe in fairy tales.

  She knocked again, noting that his car was there. As she had before, she walked around the side, but he wasn't in the boat this time. With a shrug, she decided she would do what she'd come to do.

  She'd already picked the spot, between the water and the house, where the shrub could be seen and enjoyed through what she'd determined was the kitchen window. It wasn't much, but it would add some color to the empty backyard. She wheeled around what she needed, then began to dig.'

  Inside his work shed, Holt had the boat engine bro­ken down. Rebuilding it would require concentration and time. Which was just what he needed. He didn't want to think about the Calhouns, or tragic love af­fairs, or responsibilities.

  He didn't even glance up when Sadie rose from her nap on the cool cement and trotted outside. He and the dog had an understanding. She did as she chose, and he fed her.

  When she barked, he kept on working. As a watchdog, Sadie was a bust. She barked at squirrels, at the wind in the grass, and in her sleep. A year before there'd been an attempted burglary in his house in Portland. Holt had relieved the would-be thief of his stereo equipment while Sadie had napped peacefully on the living room rug.

  But he did look up, he did stop working when he heard the low, feminine laughter. It skimmed along his skin, light and warm. When he pushed away from the workbench, his stomach was already in knots. When he stood in the doorway and looked at her, the knots yanked tight.

  Why wouldn't she leave him alone? he wondered, and shoved his hands into his pockets. He'd told her he'd think about it, hadn't he? She had no business coming here again.

  They didn't even like each other. Whatever she did to him physically was his problem, and so far he'd managed quite nicely to keep his hands off her.

  Now here she was, standing in his yard, talking to his dog. And digging a hole.

  His brows drew together as he stepped out of the shed. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Her head shot up. He saw her eyes, big and blue and alarmed. Her face, flushed from the heat and her work, went very pale. He'd seen that kind of look before—the quick, instinctive fear of a cornered vic­tim. Then it was gone, fading so swiftly he nearly convinced himself he'd imagined it. Color seeped slowly into her cheeks again as she managed to smile.

  “I didn't think you were here.”

  He stayed where he was and continued to scowl. “So, you decided to dig a hole in my yard.”

  “I guess you could say that.” Steady now, annoyed with herself for the instinctive jolt, she plunged the shovel in again, braced her foot on it and deepened the hole. “I brought you a bush.”

  Damned if he was going to take the shovel from her this time and dig the hole himself. But he did cross to her. “Why?”

  “To thank you for helping me out today. You saved me a good hour.”

  “So you use it to dig another hole.”

  “Uh-huh. There's a breeze off the water today.” She lifted her face to it for a moment. “It's nice.”

  Because looking at her made his palms sweat, he scowled down at the tidy shrub pregnant with sassy yellow blooms. “I don't know how to take care of a bush. You put it there, you're condemning it to death row.”

  With a laugh, she scooped out the last of the dirt. “You don't have to do much. This one's very hardy, even when it's dry, and it'll bloom for you into the fall. Can I use your hose?”

  “What?”

  “Your hose?”

  “Yeah.” He raked a hand through his hair. He hadn't a clue how he was supposed to react. It was certainly the first time anyone had given him flow­ers—unless you counted the batch the guys at the precinct had brought in when he'd been in the hos­pital. “Sure.”

  At ease with her task, she continued to talk as she went to the outside wall to turn on the water. “It'll stay neat It's a very well behaved little bush and won't get over three feet.” She petted Sadie, who was circling the bush and sniffing. “If you'd like some­thing else instead...”

  He wasn't going to let himself be touched by some idiotic plant or her misplaced gratitude. “It doesn't matter to me. I don't know one from the other.”

  “Well, this is a hypericwn kalmianum.”

  His lips quirked into what might have been a smile. “That tells me a lot.”

  Chuckling, she set it in place. “A sunshine shrub in layman's terms.” Still smiling, she tilted her head back to look at him. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought he was embarrassed. Fat chance. “I thought you could use some sunshine. Why don't you help me plant it? It'll mean more to you then.”

  He'd said he wasn't going to get sucked in, and damn it, he'd meant it. “Are you sure this isn't your idea of a bribe? To get me to help you out?''

  Sighing a little, she sat back on her heels. “I won­der what makes someone so cynical and unfriendly. I'm sure you have your reasons, but they don't apply here. You did me a favor today, and I'm paying you back. Very simple. Now if you don't want the bush, just say so. I'll give it to someone else.”

  He lifted a brow at the tone. “Is that how you keep your kids in line?”

  “When necessary. Well, what's it to be?”

  Maybe he was being too hard on her. She'd made a gesture and he was slapping it back in her face. If she could be casually friendly, so could he. “I've al­ready got a hole in my yard,” he pointed out then knelt beside her. The dog lay down in the sunlight to watch. “We might as well put something in it.”

  And that, she supposed, was his idea of a thank-you. “Fine.”

  “So how old are your kids?” Not that he cared, he told himself. He was just making conversation.

  “Five and six. Alex is the oldest, then Jenny.” Her eyes softened as they always did when she thought of them. “They're growing up so fast, I can hardly keep up.”

  “What made you come back here after the di­vorce?”

  Her hands tensed in the soil, then began to work again. It was a small and quickly concealed gesture, but he had very sharp eyes. “Because it's home.”

  There was a tender spot, he thought and eased around it. “I heard you're going to turn The Towers into a hotel.”

  “Just the west wing. That's C.C.'s husband's busi­ness.”

  “It's hard to picture C.C. married. The last time I saw her she was about twelve.”

  “She's grown up now, and beautiful.”

  “Looks run in the family.”

  She glanced up, surprised, then back down again. “I think you've just said something nice.”

  “Just stating a fact. The Calhoun sisters were al­ways worth a second look.” To please himself, he reached out to toy with the tip of her ponytail. “Whenever guys got together, the four of you were definitely topics of conversation.”

  She laughed a little, thinking how easy life had been back then. “I'm sure we'd have been flattered.”

  “I used to look at you,” Holt said slowly. “A lot.”

  Wary, she lifted her head. “Really? I never no­ticed.”

  “You wouldn't have.” His hand dropped away again. “Princesses don't notice peasants.”

  Now she frowned, not only at the words but at the clipped tone. “What a ridiculous thing to say.”


  “It was easy to think of you that way, the princess in the castle.”

  “A castle that's been crumbling for years,” she said dryly. “And as I recall, you were too busy swag­gering around and juggling girls to notice me.”

  He had to grin. “Oh, between the swaggering and juggling, I noticed you all right.”

  Something in his eyes set off a little warning bell. It might have been some time since she'd heard that particular sound, but she recognized it and heeded it. She looked down again to firm the dirt around the bush.

  “That was a long time ago. I imagine we've both changed quite a bit.”

  “Can't argue with that.” He pushed at the dirt.

  “No, don't shove at it, press it down—firm, but gentle.” Scooting closer, she put her hands over his to show him. “All it needs is a good start, and then—”

  She broke off when he turned his hands over to grip hers.

  They were close, knees brushing, bodies bent to­ward each other. He noted that her hands were hard, callused, a direct and fascinating contrast to the soft eyes and tea rose complexion. There was a strength in her fingers that would have surprised him if he hadn't seen for himself how hard she worked. For reasons he couldn't fathom, he found it incredibly erotic.

  “You've got strong hands, Suzanna.”

  “A gardener's hands,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “And I need them to finish planting this bush.”

  He only tightened his grip when she tried to draw away. “We'll get to it. You know, I've thought about kissing you for fifteen years.” He watched the faint smile fade away from her face and the alarm shoot into her eyes. He didn't mind it. It might be best for both of them if she was afraid of him. “That's a long time to think about anything.”

  He released one hand, but before she could let out a sigh of relief, he had cupped the back of her neck. His fingers were firm, his grip determined. “I'm just going to get it out of my system.”

  She didn't have time to refuse. He was quick. Be­fore she could deny or protest, his mouth was on hers, covering and conquering. There was nothing soft about him. His mouth, his hands, his body when he pulled her against him, were hard and demanding. The swift frisson of fear had her lifting a hand to push against his shoulder. She might as well have tried to move a boulder.

  Then the fear turned to an ache. She fisted her hand against him, forced to fight herself now rather than him.

  She was taut as a wire. He could feel her nerves sizzle and snap as he clamped her against him. He knew it was wrong, unfair, even despicable, but damn it, he needed to wipe out this fever that continued to burn in him. He needed to convince .himself that she was just another woman, that his fantasies of her were only remnants of a boy's foolish dreams.

  Then she shuddered. A soft, yielding sound fol­lowed. And her lips parted beneath his in irresistible and avid invitation. Swearing, he plunged, dragging her head back by the hair so that he could take more of what she so mindlessly offered.

  Her mouth was a banquet, and he too racked with hunger to stem the greed. He could smell her hair, fresh as rainwater, her skin, seductively musky with heat and labor, and the rich and primitive fragrance of earth newly turned. Each separate scent slammed into his system, pumping through his blood, roaring through his head to churn a need he'd hoped to dispel.

  She couldn't breathe, or think. All of the weighty and worrisome cares she carried in her vanished. In their place, rioting sensations sprinted. The tensed rip­ple of muscle under her fingers, the hot and desperate taste of his mouth, the thunder of her heartbeat that raced with dizzying speed. She was wrapped around him now, her fingers digging in, her body straining, her mouth as urgent and impatient as his.

  It had been so long since she had been touched. So long since she had tasted a man's desire on her lips. So long since she had wanted any man. But she wanted now—-to feel his hands on her, rough and de­manding, to have his body cover hers on the soft, sunny grass. To be wild and willful and wanton until this clawing ache was soothed.

  The sheer power of that want ripped through her, tearing through her lips in a sobbing moan.

  His fingers were curled into her shirt, had nearly ripped it aside before he caught himself, cursed him­self. And released her. Her shallow ragged breaths were both condemnation and seduction as he forced himself to pull away. Her eyes had gone to cobalt and were wide with shock.

  Small wonder, he thought in livid self-disgust. The woman had nearly been shoved to the ground and ravished in broad daylight.

  Her lashes lowered before he could see the shame.

  “I hope you feel better now.”

  “No.” His hands were far from steady, so he curled them into fists. “I don't”

  She didn't look at him, couldn't. Nor could she afford to think, just at this moment, of what she had done. To comfort herself she began to spread mulch around the newly planted bush. “If it stays dry, you'll have to water this regularly until it's established.”

  For a second time, he gripped her hands. This time she jolted. “Aren't you going to belt me?”

  Using well-honed control, she relaxed and looked up. There was something in her eyes, something dark and passionate, but her voice was very calm. “There doesn't seem to be much point in that. I'm sure you're of the opinion that a woman like me would be... needy.”

  “I wasn't thinking about your needs when I kissed you. It was a purely selfish act, Suzanna. I'm good at being selfish.”

  Because his grip was light, she slipped her hands from under his. “I'm sure you are.” She brushed her palms on her thighs before she rose. The only thought in her head was of getting away, but she made herself load the wheelbarrow calmly. Until he gripped her arm and whirled her around.

  “What the hell is this?” His eyes were stormy, his voice as rough as his hands. He wanted her to rage at him—needed it to soothe his conscience. “I all but took you on the ground, without giving a hell of a lot of consideration to whether you'd have liked it or not, and now you're going to load up your cart and go away?”

  She was very much afraid she would have liked it. That was why it was imperative that she stay very calm and very controlled. “If you want to pick a fight or a casual lover. Holt, you've come to the wrong person. My children are expecting me home, and I'm very tired of being grabbed.”

  Yes, her voice was calm, he thought, even firm, but her arm was trembling lightly under his hold. There was something here, he realized, some secrets she held behind those sad and beautiful eyes. The same stubbornness that had had him pursuing his gold shield made it essential that he discover them.

  “Grabbed in general, or just by me?”

  “You're the one doing the grabbing.” Her patience was wearing thin. The Calhoun temper was always difficult to control. “I don't like it.”

  “That's too bad, because I have a feeling I'm going to be doing a lot more of it before we're through.”

  “Maybe I haven't made myself clear. We are through.” She shook loose and grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow.

  He simply put his weight on it to stop her. He wasn't sure if she realized she'd just issued an irre­sistible challenge. His grin came slowly. “Now you're getting mad.”

  “Yes. Does that make you feel better?”

  “Quite a bit. I'd rather have you claw at me than crawl off like a wounded bird.”

  “I'm not crawling anywhere,” she said between her teeth. “I'm going home.”

  “You forgot your shovel,” he told her, still grin­ning.

  She snatched it up and tossed it into the wheelbar­row with a clatter. “Thanks.”

  “You're welcome.”

  He waited until she'd gone about ten feet. “Su-zanna.”

  She slowed but didn't stop, and tossed a look over her shoulder. “What?”

  “I'm sorry.”

  Her temper eased a bit as she shrugged. “Forget it.”

  “No.” He dipped his hands into his pockets and rocked back on
his heels. “I'm sorry I didn't kiss you like that fifteen years ago.”

  Swearing under her breath, she quickened her pace. When she was out of sight, he glanced back at the bush. Yeah, he thought, he was sorry as hell, but planned to make up for lost time.

  She needed some time to herself. That wasn't a commodity Suzanna found very often in a house as filled with people as The Towers. But just now, with the moon on the rise and the children in bed, she took a few precious moments alone.

  It was a clear night, and the heat of the day had been replaced by a soft breeze that was scented with the sea and roses. From her terrace she could see the dark shadow of the cliffs that always drew her. The distant murmur of water was a lullaby, as sweet as the call of a night bird from the garden.

  Tonight it wouldn't ease her into sleep. No matter how tired her body was, her mind was too restless. It didn't seem to matter how often she told herself she had nothing to worry about. Her children were safely tucked into bed, dreaming about the day's adventures. Her sisters were happy. Each one of them had found her place in the world, just as each one of them had found a mate who loved her for who and what she was. Aunt Coco was happy and healthy and looking forward to the day when she would become head chef of The Towers Retreat.

  Her family, always Suzanna's chief concern, was content and settled. The Towers, the only real home she'd ever known, was no longer in danger of being sold, but would remain the Calhoun home. It was pointless to worry about the emeralds. The family was doing all that could be done to find the necklace.

  If they hadn't been exploring every avenue, she would never have gone to Holt Bradford. Her ringers curled on the stone wall. That, she thought, had been a useless exercise. He was Christian Bradford's grandson, but he didn't feel the connection. It was obvious that the past held no interest for him. He thought only about the moment, about himself, about his own comfort and pleasures.

  Catching herself, Suzanna sighed and forced her­self to relax her hands. If only he hadn't made her so angry. She despised losing her temper, and it had come dangerously close to breaking loose that day. It was her own fault, and her own problem that some­thing else had broken loose.

  Needs. She didn't want to need anyone but her family—the family she could love and depend on and worry about. She'd already learned a painful lesson about needing a man, one man. She didn't intend to repeat it.

  He'd kissed her on impulse, she reminded herself. It had been a kind of dare to himself. There had cer­tainly been no affection in it, no softness, no romance. The fact that it had stirred her was strictly chemical. She'd cut herself off from men for more than two years. And the last year or so of her marriage—well, there had been no affection, softness or romance there, either. She'd learned to do without those things when it came to men. She could continue to do with­out them.

  If only she hadn't responded to him so...blatantly. He might as well have knocked her over the head with a club and dragged her into a cave by the hair for all the finesse he'd shown. Yet she had thrown herself into the moment, clinging to him, answering those hard and demanding lips with a fervor she'd never been able to show her own husband.

  By doing so, she'd humiliated herself and amused Holt. Oh, the way he had grinned at her at the end had had her steaming for hours afterward. That was her problem, too, she thought now. Just as it was her problem that she could still taste him..

  Perhaps she shouldn't be so hard on herself. As embarrassing as the moment had been, it had proved something. She was still alive. She wasn't the cold shell of a woman that Bax had tossed so carelessly aside. She could feel, and want.

  Glosing her eyes, she pressed a hand to her stom­ach. Want too much, it seemed. It was like a hunger, and the kiss, like a crust of bread after a long fast, had stirred the juices. She could be glad of that—to feel something again besides remorse and disillusion­ment. And feeling it, she could control it. Pride would prevent her from avoiding Holt. Just as pride would save her from any new humiliation.

  She was a Calhoun, she reminded herself. Calhoun women went down fighting. If she had to deal with Holt again in order to widen the trail to the emeralds, then she would deal with him. She would never, never let herself be dismissed and destroyed by a man again. He hadn't seen the last of her.

  “Suzanna, there you are.”

  Her thoughts scattered as she turned to see her aunt striding through the terrace doors. “Aunt Coco.”

  “I'm sorry, dear, but I knocked and knocked. Your light was on so I just peeked in.”

  “That's all right.” Suzanna slipped an arm around Coco's sturdy waist. This was a woman she'd loved for most of her life. A woman who had been mother and father to her for more than fifteen years. “I was lost in the night, I guess. It's so beautiful.”

  Coco murmured an agreement and said nothing for a moment. Of all of her