Suzanna's Surrender, Page 5

  girls, she worried most about Suzanna. She had watched her ride away, a young bride radiant with hope. She had been there when Suzanna had come back, barely four years later, a pale, devastated woman with two small children. In the years since, she'd been proud to see Suzanna gain her feet, devoting herself to the difficult task of single parenthood, working hard, much too hard, to establish her own business.

  And she had waited, painfully, for the sad and haunted look that clouded her niece's eyes, to finally fade forever.

  “Couldn't you sleep?” Suzanna asked her.

  “I haven't even thought about sleep yet.” Coco let out a huff of breath. “That woman is driving me out of my mind.”

  Suzanna managed not to smile. She knew that woman was her Great-Aunt Colleen, the eldest of Bianca's children, and the sister of Coco's father. The rude, demanding and perpetually cranky woman had descended on them a week before. Coco was certain the move had been made with the sole purpose of making her life a misery.

  “Did you hear her at dinner?” Tall and stately in her draping caftan. Coco began to pace. Her com­plaints were issued in an indignant whisper. Colleen might have been well past eighty, her bedroom may have been two dozen feet away, but she had ears like a cat. “The sauce was too rich, the asparagus too soft. The idea of her telling me how to prepare coq au vin. I wanted to take that cane and wrap it around her—”

  “Dinner was superb, as always,” Suzanna soothed. “She has to complain about something, Aunt Coco, otherwise her day wouldn't be complete. And as I recall, there wasn't a crumb left on her plate.”

  “Quite right.” Coco drew in a deep breath, releas­ing it slowly. “I know I shouldn't let the woman get on my nerves. The fact is, she's always frightened me half to death. And she knows it. If it wasn't for yoga and meditation, I'm sure I'd have already lost my sanity. As long as she was living on one of those cruise ships, all I had to do was send her an occa­sional duty letter. But actually living under the same roof.” Coco couldn't help it—she shuddered.

  “She'll get tired of us soon, and sail off down the Nile or the Amazon or whatever.”

  “It can't be too soon for me. I'm afraid she's made up her mind to stay until we find the emeralds. Which is what this is all about anyway.” Coco calmed her­self enough to stand at the wall again. “I was using my crystal to meditate. So soothing, and after an eve­ning with Aunt Colleen—” She broke off because she was clenching her teeth. “In any case, I was just drift­ing along, when thoughts and images of Bianca filled my head.”

  “That's not surprising,” Suzanne put in. “She's on all of our minds.”

  “But this was very strong, dear. Very clear. There was such melancholy. I tell you, it brought tears to my eyes.” Coco pulled a handkerchief out of her caf­tan. “Then suddenly, I was thinking of you, and that was just as strong and clear. The connection between you and Bianca was unmistakable. I realized there had to be a reason, and thinking it through, I believe it's because of Holt Bradford.” Coco's eyes were shining now with discovery and enthusiasm. “You see, you've spoken to him, you've bridged the gap between Christian and Bianca.”

  “I don't think you can call my conversations with Holt a bridge to anything.”

  “No, he's the key, Suzanna. I doubt he understands what information he might have, but without him, we can't take the next step. I'm sure of it.”

  With a restless move of her shoulders, Suzanna leaned against the wall. “Whatever he understands, he isn't interested.”

  “Then you have to convince him otherwise.” She put a hand on Suzanna's and squeezed. “We need him. Until we find the emeralds, none of us will feel completely safe. The police haven't been able to find that miserable thief, and we don't know what he may try next time. Holt is our only link with the man Bianca loved.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you'll see him again. You'll talk to him.”

  Suzanna looked toward the cliffs, toward the shad­ows. “Yes, I'll see him again.”

  I knew she would come back. However unwise, how­ever wrong it might have been, I looked for her every afternoon. On the days she did not come to the cliffs.

  I would find myself staring up at the peaks of The Towers, aching for her in a way I had no right to ache for another man's wife. On the days she walked toward me, her hair like melted flame, that small, shy smile on her lips, I knew a joy like no other.

  In the beginning, our cbnversations were polite and distant. The weather, unimportant village gossip, art and literature. As time passed, she became more at ease with me. She would speak of her children, and I came to know them through her. The little girl, Col­leen, who liked pretty dresses and yearned for a pony. Young Ethan who only wanted to run and find ad­venture. And little Sean, who was just learning to crawl.

  It took no special insight to see that her children were her life. Rarely did she speak of the parties, the musicals, the social gatherings I knew she attended almost nightly. Not at all did she speak of the man she had married.

  I admit I wondered about him. Of course, it was common knowledge that Fergus Calhoun was an am­bitious and wealthy man, one who had turned a few dollars into an empire during the course of his life. He commanded both respect and fear in the business world. For that I cared nothing.

  It was the private man who obsessed me. The man who had the right to call her wife. The man who lay beside her at night, who touched her. The man who knew the texture of her skin, the taste of her mouth. The man who knew how it felt to have her move be­neath him in the dark.

  I was already in love with her. Perhaps I had been from the moment I had seen her walking with the child through the wild roses.

  It would have been best for my sanity if I had cho­sen another place to paint. I could not. Already know­ing I would have no more of her, could have no more than a few hours of conversation, I went back. Again and again.

  She agreed to let me paint her. I began to see, as an artist must see, the inner woman. Beyond her beauty, beyond her composure and breeding was a desperately unhappy woman. I wanted to take her in my arms, to demand that she tell me what had put that sad and haunted look in her eyes. But I only painted her. I had no right to do more.

  I have never been a patient or a noble man. Yet with her, I found I could be both. Without ever touch­ing me, she changed me. Nothing would be the same for me after that summer—that all too brief summer when she would come, to sit on the rocks and look out to sea.

  Even now, a lifetime later, I can walk to those cliffs and see her. I can smell the sea that never changes, and catch the drift of her perfume. I have only to pick a wild rose to remember the fiery lights of her hair. Closing my eyes, I hear the murmur of the water on the rocks below and her voice comes back as clear and as sweet as yesterday.

  I am reminded of the last afternoon that first sum­mer, when she stood beside me, close enough to touch, as distant as the moon.

  “We leave in the morning,” she said, but didn't look at me. “The children are sorry to go.”

  “And you?”

  A faint smile touched her lips but not her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if I've lived before. If my home was an island like this. The first time I came here, it was as if I had been waiting to see it again. I'll miss the sea.”

  Perhaps it was only my own needs that made me think, when she glanced at me, that she would miss me, as well. Then she looked away again and sighed.

  “New York is so different, so full of noise and ur­gency. It's hard to believe such a place exists when I stand here. Will you stay on the island through the winter?”

  I thought of the cold and desolate months ahead and cursed fate for taunting me with what I could never have. “My plans change with my mood.” I said it lightly, fighting to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

  “I envy you your freedom.” She turned away then to walk back to where her nearly completed portrait rested on my easel. “And your talent. You've made me more than what I am.''

  �
��Less.'' I had to curl my hands into fists to keep from touching her. “Some things can never be cap­tured with paint and canvas.''

  “What will you, call it?”

  “Bianca. Your name’s enough.”

  She must have sensed my feelings, though I tried desperately to hold them in myself. Something came into her eyes as she looked at me, and the look held longer than it should. Then she stepped back, cau­tiously, like a woman who had wandered too close to the edge of a cliff.

  “One day you'll be famous, and people will beg for your work.”

  I couldn't take my eyes off her, knowing I might never see her again. “I don't paint for fame.''

  “No, and that's why you'll have it. When you do, I'll remember this summer. Goodbye, Christian.''

  She walked away from me—for what I thought was the last time—away from the rocks, through the wild grass and the flowers that fight through both for the sun.

  Chapter Four

  Coco Calhoun McPike didn't believe in leaving things up to chance—particularly when her horoscope that day had advised her to take a more active part in a family matter and to visit an old acquaintance. She felt she could do both by paying an informal call on Holt Bradford.

  She remembered him as a dark, hot-eyed boy who had delivered lobster and loitered around the village, waiting for trouble to happen. She also remembered that he had once stopped to change a flat for her while she'd been struggling on the side of the road trying to figure out which end of the jack to put under the bumper. He'd refused—stiffly, she recalled—her offer of payment and had hopped back on his motorcycle and ridden off before she'd properly thanked him.

  Proud, defiant, rebellious, she mused as she ma­neuvered her car into his driveway. Yet, in a grudging sort of way, chivalrous. Perhaps if she was clever—

  and Coco thought that she was—she could play on all of those traits to get what she wanted.

  So this had been Christian Bradford's cottage, she mused. She'd seen it before, of course, but not since she'd known of the connection between the families. She paused for a moment. With her eyes closed she tried to feel something. Surely there was some rem­nant of energy here, something that time and wind hadn't washed away.

  Coco liked to consider herself a mystic. Whether it was a true evaluation, or her imagination was ripe, she was certain she did feel some snap of passion in the air. Pleased with it, and herself, she trooped to the house.

  She'd dressed very carefully. She wanted to look attractive, of course. Her vanity wouldn't permit oth­erwise. But she'd also wanted to look distinguished and just the tiniest bit matronly. She felt the old and classic Chanel suit in powder blue worked very well.

  She knocked, putting what she hoped was a wise and comforting smile on her face. The wild barking , and the steady stream of curses from within had her placing a hand on her breast.

  Five minutes out of the shower, his hair dripping and his temper curdled, Holt yanked open the door. Sadie bounded out. Coco squeaked. Good reflexes had Holt snatching the amorous dog by the collar be­fore she could~send Coco over the porch railing.

  “Oh my.” Coco looked from dog to man, juggling the plate of double-fudge brownies. “Oh, goodness. What a very large dog. She certainly does look like our Fred, and I'd so hoped he'd stop growing soon. Why you could practically ride her if you liked, couldn't you?” She beamed a smile at Holt. “I'm so sorry, have I interrupted you?”

  He continued to struggle with the dog, who'd got­ten a good whiff of the brownies and wanted her share. Now. “Excuse me?”

  “I've interrupted,” Coco repeated. “I know it's early, but on days like this I just can't stay in bed. All this sun and twittering birds. Not to mention the sawing and hammering. Do you suppose she'd like one of these?” Without waiting for an answer, Coco took one of the brownies off the plate. “Now you sit and behave.”

  With what was certainly a grin, Sadie stopped straining, sat and eyed Coco adoringly.

  “Good dog.” Sadie took the treat politely then padded back into the house to enjoy it. “Well, now.” Pleased with the situation, Coco smiled at Holt. “You probably don't remember me. Goodness, it's been years.”

  “Mrs. McPike.” He remembered her, all right, though the last time he'd seen her, her hair had been a dusky blond. It had been ten years, he thought, but she looked younger. She'd either had a first-class face-lift or had discovered the fountain of youth.

  “Why, yes. It's so flattering to be remembered by an attractive man. But you were hardly more than a boy the last time. Welcome home.” She offered the plate of brownies.

  And left him no choice but to accept it and ask her in.

  “Thanks.” He studied the plate as she breezed in­side. Between plants and brownies, the Calhouns were making a habit of bearing gifts. “Is there some­thing I can do for you?”

  “To tell you the truth, I've just been dying to see the place. To think this is where Christian Bradford lived, and worked.” She sighed. “And dreamed of Bianca.”

  “Well, he lived and worked here anyway.”

  “Suzanna tells me you're not quite convinced they loved each other. I can appreciate your reluctance to fall right in with the story, but you see, it's a part of my family history. And yours. Oh, what a glorious painting!”

  She crossed the room to a misty seascape hung above the stone fireplace. Even through the haze of fog, the colors were ripe and vivid, as though the vitality and passion were fighting to free themselves from the thin graying curtain. Turbulent whitecaps, the black and toothy edge of rock, the gloom-crowned shadows of islands marooned in a cold, dark sea.

  “It's powerful,” she murmured. “And, oh, lonely. It's his, isn't it?”

  “Yes.”

  She let out a shaky sigh. “If you'd like to see that view, you've only to walk on the cliffs beneath The Towers. Suzanna walks there, sometimes with the children, sometimes alone. Too often alone.” Shaking off the mood, Coco turned back. “My niece seems to feel that you're not particularly interested in confirm­ing Christian and Bianca's relationship, and helping to find the emeralds. I find that difficult to believe.”

  Holt set the plate aside. “It shouldn't be, Mrs. McPike. But what I told your niece was that if and when I was convinced there had been a connection of any importance, I'd do what I could to help. Which, as I see it, is next to nothing.”

  “You were a police officer, weren't you?”

  Holt hooked his thumbs in his pockets, not trusting the change of subject. “Yeah.”

  “I have to admit I was surprised when I heard you'd chosen that profession, but I'm sure you were well suited to the job.”

  The scar on his back seemed to twinge. “I used to be.”

  “And you'd have solved cases, I suppose.”

  His lips curved a little. “A few.”

  “So you'd have looked for clues and followed them up until you found the right answer.” She smiled at him. “I always admire the police on tele­vision who solve the mystery and tidy everything up before the end of the show.”

  “Life's not tidy.”

  On certain men, she thought, a sneer was not at all unattractive. “No, indeed not, but we could certainly use someone on our side who has your experience.” She walked back toward him, and she was no longer smiling. “I'll be frank. If I had known what trouble it would cause my family, I might have let the legend of the emeralds die with me. When my brother and his wife were killed, and left their girls in my care, I was also left the responsibility of passing along the story of the Calhoun emeralds—when the time was right. By doing what I consider my duty, I've put my family in danger. I'll do anything in my power, and use anyone I can, to keep them from being hurt. Until those emeralds are found, I can't be sure my family is safe.”

  “You need the police,” he began.

  “They're doing what they can. It isn't enough.” Reaching out, she put a hand on his. “They aren't personally involved, and can't possibly understand. You can.”

>   Her faith and her obstinate logic made him uneasy. “You're overestimating me.”

  “I don't think so.” Coco held his hand another moment, then gave it a brief squeeze before releasing it “But I don't mean to nag. I only came so I could add my input to Suzanna's. She has such a difficult time pushing for what she wants.”

  “She does well enough.”

  “Well, I'm glad to hear it. But with her work and Mandy's wedding, and everything else that's been go­ing on, I know she hasn't had time to speak with you again for the last couple of days. I tell you, our lives have been turned upside down for the last few months. First C.C.'s wedding, and the renovations, now Amanda and Sloan—and Lilah already setting a date to marry Max.” She paused and hoped to look wistful. “If I could only find some nice man for Su-zanna, I'd have all my girls settled.”

  Holt didn't miss the speculative look. “I'm sure she'll take care of that herself when she's ready.”

  “Not when she doesn't give herself a moment to look. And after what that excuse for a man did to her.” She cut herself off there. If she started on Bax­ter Dumont, it would be difficult to stop. And it would hardly be proper conversation. “Well, in any case, she keeps herself too busy with her business and her children, so I like to keep my eye out for her. You're not married, are you?”

  At least no one could accuse her of being subtle, Holt thought, amused. “Yeah. I've got a wife and six kids in Portland.”

  Coco blinked, then laughed. “It was a rude question,” she admitted. “And before I ask another, I'll leave you alone.” She started for the door, pleased that he had enough manners to accompany her and open it for her. “Oh, by the way, Amanda's wedding is Saturday, at six. We're holding the reception at the ballroom in The Towers. I'd like for you to come.”

  The unexpected curve had him hesitating. “I really don't think it's appropriate.”

  “It's more than appropriate,” she corrected. “Our families go back quite a long way, Holt. We'd very much like to have you there.” She started toward her car then turned, smiling again. “And Suzanna doesn't have an escort. It seems a pity.”

  The thief called himself by many names. When he had first come to Bar Harbor in search of the emer­alds, he had used the name Livingston and had posed as a successful British businessman. He had only been partially successful and had returned under the guise of Ellis Caufield, a wealthy eccentric. Due to bad luck and his partner's fumbling, he'd had to abandon that particular cover.

  His partner was dead, which was only a small in­convenience. The thief now went under the name of Robert Marshall and was developing a certain fond­ness for this alter ego.

  Marshall was lean and tanned and had a hint of a Boston accent. He wore his dark hair nearly shoulder length and sported a drooping mustache. His eyes were brown, thanks to contact lenses. His teeth were slightly bucked. The oral device had cost him a pretty penny, but it had also changed the shape of his jaw.

  He was very comfortable with Marshall, and de­lighted to have signed on as a laborer on The Towers renovation. His references had been forged and had added to his overhead. But the emeralds would be worth it. He intended to have them, whatever the price.

  Over the past months they had gone from being a job to an obsession. He didn't just want them. He needed them. He found the risk of working so close to the Calhouns only added spice to the game. He had, in fact, passed within three feet of Amanda when she had come into the west wing to talk to Sloan O'Riley. Neither of them, who had known him only as Livingston, had given him a second glance.

  He did his job well, hauling equipment, cleaning up debris. And he worked without complaint. He was friendly with his co-workers, even joining them oc­casionally for a beer after work.

  Then he would go back to his rented house across the bay and plan.

  The security at The Towers posed no problem— not when it would be so easy for him to disengage it from the inside. By working for the Calhouns, he could stay close, he could be certain he would hear about any new developments in their search for the necklace. And with care and skill, he could do some searching on his own.

  The papers he had stolen from them had offered no real clue as yet. Unless it came from the letter he'd discovered. One that had been written to Bianca and signed only “Christian.” A love letter, Marshall mused as he stacked lumber. It was something he had to look into.

  “Hey, Bob. Got a minute?”

  Marshall looked up and gave his foreman an affa­ble smile. “Sure, nothing but minutes.”

  “Well, they need some tables moved into the ball­room for that wedding tomorrow. You and Rick give the ladies a hand.”

  “Right.”

  Marshall strolled along, fighting back a trembling excitement at being free to walk through the house. He took his instructions from a flustered Coco, then hefted his end of the heavy hunt table to move it up to the next floor.

  “Do you think he'll come?” C.C. asked Suzanna as they finished washing down the glass on the mir­rored walls.

  “I doubt it.”

  C.C. brushed back her short cap of black hair as she stood aside to search for streaks. “I don't see why he wouldn't. And maybe if we all gang up on him,