Courting Catherine, Page 3

  selling, never once thinking of the lives he affected. Of the dreams and hopes he created or destroyed.

  He wasn't going to mess with hers. He wasn't go­ing to cover the much-loved and much-cracked plas­ter walls with drywall and a coat of slick paint. He wasn't going to turn the drafty old ballroom into a nightclub. He wasn't going to touch one board foot of her wormy rafters.

  She would see to it. She would see to him.

  It was quite a situation, Trent decided. He parried Coco's tea talk while the Amazon Queen, as he'd begun to think of C.C, sat on a sagging sofa, swing­ing a scarred boot and glaring daggers at him. Nor­mally he would have politely excused himself, headed back to Boston to turn the whole business over to agents. But he hadn't faced a true challenge in a long time. This one, he mused, might be just what he needed to put him on track.

  The place itself was an amazement—a crumbling one. From the outside it looked like a combination of English manor house and Dracula's castle. Towers and turrets of dour gray stone jutted into the sky. Gar­goyles—one of which had been decapitated—grinned wickedly as they clung to parapets. All of this seemed to sit atop a proper two-story house of granite with neat porches and terraces. There was a pergola built along the seawall. The quick glimpse Trent had had of it had brought a Roman bathhouse to mind for reasons he couldn't fathom. As the lawns were un­even and multileveled, granite walls had been thrown up wherever they were terraced.

  It should have been ugly. In fact, Trent thought it should have been hideous. Yet it wasn't. It was, in a baffling way, charming.

  The way the window glass sparkled like lake water in the sun. Banks of spring flowers spread and nod­ded. Ivy rustled as it inched its patient way up those granite walls. It hadn't been difficult, even for a man with a pragmatic mind, to imagine the tea and garden parties. Women floating over the lawns in picture hats and organdy dresses, harp and violin music playing.

  Then there was the view, which even on the short walk from his car to the front door had struck him breathless.

  He could see why his father wanted it, and was willing to invest the hundreds of thousands of dollars it would take to renovate.

  “More tea, Trenton?” Coco asked.

  “No, thank you.” He sent her a charming smile. “I wonder if I might have a tour of the house. What I've seen so far is fascinating.”

  C.C. gave a snort Coco pretended not to hear. “Of course, I'd be delighted to show you through.” She rose and with her back to Trent wiggled her eyebrows at her niece. “C.C., shouldn't you be getting back?”

  “No.” She rose and, with an abrupt change of tac­tics, smiled. “I'll show Mr. St. James through, Aunt Coco. It's nearly time for the children to be home from school.”

  Coco glanced at the mantel clock, which had stopped weeks before at ten thirty-five. “Oh, well...”

  “Don't worry about a thing.” C.C. walked to the doorway and with an imperious gesture of her hand waved Trent along. “Mr. St. James?”

  She started down the hall in front of him then up a floating staircase. “We'll start at the top, shall we?” Without glancing back, she continued on and up, cer­tain Trent would start wheezing and panting by the third flight.

  She was disappointed.

  They climbed the final circular set that led to the highest tower. C.C. put her hand on the knob and her shoulder to the thick oak door. With a grunt and a hard shove, it creaked open.

  “The haunted tower,” she said grandly, and stepped inside amid the dust and echoes. The circular room was empty but for a few sturdy and fortunately empty mouse traps.

  “Haunted?” Trent repeated, willing to play.

  “My great-grandmother had her hideaway up here.” As she spoke, C.C. moved over to the curved window. “It's said she would sit here, on this window seat, looking out to sea as she pined for her lover.”

  “Quite a view,” Trent murmured. It was a dizzy­ing drop down to the cliffs and the water that slapped and retreated. “Very dramatic.”

  “Oh, we're full of drama here. Great-Grandmama apparently couldn't bear the deceit any longer and threw herself out this very window.” C.C. smiled smugly. “Now, on quiet nights you can hear her pac­ing this floor and weeping for her lost lover.”

  “That should add something to the brochure.”

  C.C. jammed her hands into her pockets. “I wouldn't think ghosts would be good for business.”

  “On the contrary.” His lips curved. “Shall we move on?”

  Tight-lipped, C.C. strode out of the room. Using both hands, she tugged on the knob, then dug in a bit and prepared to put her back into it. When Trent's hand closed over hers, she jolted as though she'd been scalded.

  It felt as though she had.

  “I can do it,” she muttered. Her eyes widened as she felt his body brush hers. He brought his other arm around, caging her, trapping her hands under his. C.C.'s heart bounded straight into her throat, then back-flipped.

  “It looks like a two-man job.” With this, Trent gave a hard tug that brought the door to and C.C. back smartly against him.

  They stood there a moment, like lovers looking out at a sunset. He caught himself drawing in the scent of her hair while his hands remained cupped over hers. It passed through his mind that she was quite an armful—an amazingly sexy armful—then she jumped like a rabbit, slamming back against the wall.

  “It's warped.” She swallowed, hoping to smother the squeak in her voice. “Everything around here is warped or broken or about to disintegrate. I don't know why you'd even consider buying it.”

  Her face was pale as water, Trent noted, making her eyes that much deeper. The panicked distress in them seemed more than a warped tower door war­ranted. “Doors can be repaired or replaced.” Curious, he took a step toward her and watched her brace as if for a blow. “What's wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.” She knew if he touched her again she would go off like a rocket through what was left of the roof. “Nothing,” she repeated. “If you want to see anything else, we'd better go down.”

  C.C. let out a long, slow breath as she followed him down the circular stairs. Her body was still throb­bing oddly, as if she'd brushed a hand over a live wire. Not enough to get singed, she thought, just enough to let you know there was power.

  She decided that gave her two reasons to get rid of Trenton St. James quickly.

  She took him through the top floor, through the servants' wing, the storage rooms, making certain to point out any cracked plaster, dry rot, rodent damage. It pleased her that the air was chill, slightly damp and definitely musty. It was even more gratifying to see that his suit was sprinkled with dust and his shoes were rapidly losing their shine.

  Trent peered into one room that was crowded with furniture boxes, broken crockery. “Has anyone gone through all this stuff?”

  “Oh, we'll get around to it eventually.” She watched a fat spider sneak away from the dim light. “Most of these rooms haven't been opened in fifty > years—since my great-grandfather went insane.”

  “Fergus.”

  “Right. The family only uses the first two floors, and we patch things up as we have to.” She ran her finger along an inch-wide crack in the wall. “I guess you could say if we don't see it, we don't worry about it. And the roof hasn't crashed down on our heads. Yet.”

  He turned to study her. “Have you ever thought about turning in your socket wrench for a real estate license?”

  She only smiled. “There's more down this way.” She particularly wanted to show him the room where she had tacked up plastic to cover the broken win­dows.

  He walked with her, gingerly across a spot where two-by-fours had been nailed over a hole in the floor. A high arched door caught his eyes, and before C.C. could stop him, he had his hand on the knob.

  “Where does this lead to?”

  “Oh, nowhere,” she began, and swore when he pulled it open. Fresh spring air rushed in. Trent stepped out onto the narrow stone terrace and turned toward
the pie-shaped granite steps.

  “I don't know how safe they are.”

  He flicked a glance over his shoulder. “A lot safer than the floor inside.”

  With an oath, C.C. gave up and climbed after him.

  “Fabulous,” he murmured as he paused on the wide passageway between turrets. “Really fabulous.”

  Which was exactly why C.C. hadn't wanted him to see it. She stood back with her hands in her pockets while he rested his palms on the waist-high stone wall and looked out.

  He could see the deep blue waters of the bay with the boats gliding lightly over it. The valley, misty and mysterious, spread like a fairy tale. A gull, hardly more than a white blur, banked over the bay and soared out to sea.

  “Incredible.” The wind ruffled his hair as he fol­lowed the passage, down another flight, up one more. From here it was the Atlantic, wild and windy and wonderful. The sound of her ceaseless war on the rocks below echoed up like thunder.

  He could see that there were doors leading back in at various intervals, but he wasn't interested in the interior just now. Someone, one of the family, he imagined, had set out chairs, tables, potted plants. Trent looked out over the roof of the pergola, to the tumbling rocks below.

  “Spectacular.” He turned to C.C. “Do you get used to it?”

  She moved her shoulders. “No. You just get ter­ritorial.”

  “Understandable. I'm surprised any of you spend time inside.”

  With her hands still tucked in her pockets, she joined him at the wall. “It's not just the view. It's the fact that your family, generations of them, stood here. Just as the house has stood here, through time and wind and fire.” Her face softened as she looked down. “The children are home.”

  Trent looked down to see two small figures race across the lawn toward the pergola. The sound of their laughter carried lightly on the wind.

  “Alex and Jenny,” she explained. “My sister Su-zanna's children. They've stood here, too.” She turned to him. “That means something.”

  “How does their mother feel about the sale?”

  She looked away then as worry and guilt and frus­tration fought for control. “I'm sure you'll ask her yourself. But if you pressure her.” Her head whipped around, hair flying. “If you pressure her in any way, you'll answer to me. I won't see her manipulated again.”

  “I have no intention of manipulating anyone.”

  She gave a bark of bitter laughter. “Men like you make a career out of manipulation. If you think you've happened across four helpless women, Mr. St. James, think again. The Calhouns can take care of themselves, and take care of their own.”

  “Undoubtedly, particularly if your sisters are as obnoxious as you.”

  C.C.'s eyes narrowed, her hands fisted. She would have moved in then and there for the kill, but her name was murmured quietly behind her.

  Trent saw a woman step through one of the doors. She was as tall as C.C., but willowy, with a fragile aura that kicked Trent's protective instincts into gear before he was aware of it. Her hair was a pale and lustrous blond that waved to her shoulders. Her eyes were the deep blue of a midsummer sky and seemed calm and serene until you looked closer and saw the heartbreak beneath.

  Despite the difference in coloring, there was a re­semblance—the shape of the face and eyes and mouth—that made Trent certain he was meeting one of C.C.'s sisters.

  “Suzanna.” C.C. moved between her sister and Trent, as if to shield. Suzanna's mouth curved, a look that was both amused and impatient.

  “Aunt Coco asked me to come up.” She laid a hand on C.C.'s arm, soothing her protector. “You must be Mr. St. James.”

  “Yes.” He accepted her offered hand and was sur­prised to find it hard and callused and strong.

  “I'm Suzanna Calhoun Dumont. You'll be staying with us for a few days?”

  “Yes. Your aunt was kind enough to invite me.”

  “Shrewd enough,” Suzanna corrected with a smile as she put an arm around her sister. “I take it C.C.'s given you a partial tour.”

  “A fascinating one.”

  “I'll be glad to continue it from here.” Her fingers pressed lightly but with clear meaning into C.C.'s arm. “Aunt Coco could use some help downstairs.”

  “He doesn't need to see any more now,” C.C. ar­gued. “You look tired.”

  “Not a bit. But I will be if Aunt Coco sends me all over the house looking for the Wedgwood turkey platter.”

  “All right then.” She sent Trent a last, fulminating glance. “We aren't finished.”

  “Not by a long shot,” he agreed, and smiled to himself as she slammed back inside. “Your sister has quite an...outgoing personality.”

  “She's a fire-eater,” Suzanna said. “We all are, given the right circumstances. The Calhoun curse.” She glanced over at the sound of her children laugh­ing. “This isn't an easy decision, Mr. St. James, one way or the other. Nor is it, for any of us, a business one.”

  “I've gathered that. For me it has to be a business one.”

  She knew too well that for some men business came first, and last. “Then I suppose we'd better take it one step at a time.” She opened the door that C.C. had slammed shut. “Why don't I show you where you'll be staying?”

  Chapter Three

  “So, what's he like?” Lilah Calhoun crossed her long legs, anchoring her ankles on one arm of the couch and pillowing her head on the other. The half-dozen bracelets on her arm jingled as she ges­tured toward C.C. “Honey, I've told you, screwing your face up that way causes nothing but wrinkles and bad vibes.”

  “If you don't want me to screw my face up, don't ask me about him.”

  “Okay, I'll ask Suzanna.” She shifted her sea-green eyes toward her older sister. “Let's have it.”

  “Attractive, well mannered and intelligent.”

  “So's a cocker spaniel,” Lilah put in, and sighed. “And here I was hoping for a pit bull. How long do we get to keep him?”

  “Aunt Coco's a little vague on the particulars.” Suzanna sent both of her sisters an amused look. “Which means she's not saying.”

  “Mandy might be able to pry something out of her.” Lilah wiggled her bare toes and shut her eyes. She was the kind of woman who felt there was some­thing intrinsically wrong with anyone who stretched out on a couch and didn't nap. “Suze, have the kids been through here today?”

  “Only ten or fifteen times. Why?”

  “I think I'm lying on a fire engine.”

  “I think we ought to get rid of him.” C.C. rose and, to keep her restless hands busy, began to lay a fire.

  “Suzanna said you already tried to throw him off the parapet.”

  “No,” Suzanna corrected. “I said I stopped her before she thought to throw him off the parapet.” She rose to hand C.C. the fireplace matches she'd forgot­ten. “And while I agree it's awkward to have him here while we're all so undecided, it's done. The least we can do is give him a chance to say his piece.”

  “Always the peacemaker,” Lilah said sleepily, and missed Suzanna's quick wince. “Well, it might be a moot point now that he's gone through the place. My guess is that he'll be making some clever excuse and zooming back to Boston.”

  “The sooner the better,” C.C. muttered, watching the flames begin to lick at the apple wood.

  “I've been dismissed,” Amanda announced. She hurried into the room as she hurried everywhere. Pushing a hand through her chin-length honey-brown hair, she perched on the arm of a chair. “She's not talking, either.” Amanda's busy hands tugged at the hem of her trim business suit. “But I know she's up to something, something more than real estate trans­actions.”

  “Aunt Coco's always up to something.” Suzanna moved automatically to the old Belker cabinet to pour her sister a glass of mineral water. “She's happiest when she's scheming.”

  “That may be true. Thanks,” she added, taking the glass. “But I get nervous when I can't get past her guard.” Thoughtful, she sipped, then swept he
r gaze over her sisters. “She's using the Limoges china.”

  “The Limoges?” Lilah pushed up on her elbows. “We haven't used that since Suzanna's engagement party.” And could have bitten her tongue. “Sorry.”

  “Don't be silly.” Suzanna brushed the apology away. “She hasn't entertained much in the past cou­ple of years. I'm sure she's missed it. She's probably just excited to have company.”

  “He's not company,” C.C. put in. “He's nothing but a pain in the—”

  “Mr. St. James.” Suzanna rose quickly, cutting off the finale of her sister's opinion.

  “Trent, please.” He smiled at her, then with some wryness at C.C.

  It was quite a tableau, he thought, and had enjoyed it for perhaps a minute before Suzanna had seen him in the doorway. The Calhoun women together, and separately, made a picture any man still breathing had to appreciate. Long, lean and leggy, they sat, stood or sprawled around the room.

  Suzanna stood with her back to the window, so that the last lights of the spring evening haloed around her hair. He would have said she was relaxed but for that trace of sadness in her eyes.

  The one on the sofa was definitely relaxed—and all but asleep. She wore a long, flowered skirt that reached almost to her bare feet and regarded him through dreamy amused eyes as she pushed back a curling mass of waist-length red hair.

  Another sat perched on the arm of a chair as if he would spring up and into action at the sound of a bell only she could hear. Sleek, slick and professional, he thought at first glance. Her eyes weren't dreamy or sad, but simply calculating.

  Then there was C.C. She'd been sitting on the stone hearth, chin on her hands, brooding like some mod­ern-day Cinderella. But she had risen quickly, defen­sively, he noted, to stand poker straight with the fire behind her. This wasn't a woman who would sit pa­tiently for a prince to fit a glass slipper on her foot.

  He imagined she'd kick him smartly in the shins or somewhere more painful if he attempted it.

  “Ladies,” he said, but his eyes were on C.C. with­out him even being aware of it. He couldn't resist the slight nod in her direction. “Catherine.”

  “Let me introduce you,” Suzanna said quickly. “Trenton St. James, my sisters, Amanda and Lilah. Why don't I fix you a drink while you—”

  The rest of the offer was drowned out by a war whoop and storming feet. Like twin whirlwinds, Alex and Jenny barreled into the room. It was Trent's mis­fortune that he happened to be standing in the line of fire. They slammed into him like two missiles and sent him tumbling to the couch on top of Lilah.

  She only laughed and said she was pleased to meet him.

  “I'm so sorry.” Suzanna collared each child and sent Trent a sympathetic glance. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” He untangled himself and rose.

  “These are my children, Disaster and Calamity.”

  She kept a firm maternal arm around each. “Apolo­gize.”

  “Sorry,” they told him. Alex, a few inches taller than his sister looked up from under a mop of dark hair.

  “We didn't see you.”

  “Didn't,” Jenny agreed, and smiled winningly.

  Suzanna decided to go into the lecture about storm­ing into rooms later and steered them both toward the door. “Go ask Aunt Coco if dinner's ready. Walk!” she added firmly but without hope.

  Before anyone could pick up the threads of a con­versation, there was a loud, echoing boom.

  “Oh, Lord,” Amanda said into her glass. “She's dragged out the gong again.”

  “That means dinner.” If there was one thing Lilah moved quickly for, it was food. She rose, tucked her arm through Trent's and beamed up at him. “I'll show you the way. Tell me, Trent, what are your views on astral projection?”

  “Ah...” He sent a glance over his shoulder and saw C.C. grinning.

  Aunt Coco had outdone herself. The china gleamed. What was left of the Georgian silver that had been a wedding present to Bianca and Fergus Calhoun glittered. Under the fantasy light of the Wa-terford chandelier the rack of lamb glistened. Before any of her nieces could comment, she dived cleanly into polite conversation.

  “We're dining formal style, Trenton. So much more cozy. I hope your room is