Courting Catherine

by Nora Roberts

  Newspapers and tabloids had been rife with spec­ulation on the Calhoun emeralds for more than a week. They'd been termed priceless and tragic and legendary—all the right adjectives to ensure more newsprint.

  Fergus Calhoun's business exploits had been re­hashed, along with his wife's suicide. An enterprising reporter had even managed to track down Colleen Calhoun aboard a cruise ship in the Ionian Sea. The grande dame's pithy reply had been printed in italics.

  “Humbug.''

  He wondered if C.C. had seen the papers. Of course, she had, he thought. Just as she'd probably been hounded by the press.

  How was she taking it? Was she hurt and misera­ble, forced to answer questions when some nosy re­porter stuck a tape recorder in her face? He smiled a little. Forced? He imagined she'd throw a dozen re­porters out of the garage if they had the nerve to try.

  God, he missed her. And missing her was eating him alive. He woke up each morning wondering what she was doing. He went to bed each night to toss restlessly as thoughts of her invaded his brain. When he slept, she was in his dreams. She was his dream.

  Three weeks, he thought. He should have adjusted by now. Yet every day that he was here and she was somewhere else, it got worse.

  The revised contracts for the sale of The Towers were sitting on his desk. He should have signed them days ago. Yet he couldn't make himself take that final step. The last time he had looked at them, he had only been able to focus on three words.

  Catherine Colleen Calhoun.

  He'd read it over and over, remembering the first time she'd told him her name, tossing it at him as though it had been a weapon. She'd had grease on her face, Trenton remembered. And fire in her eyes.

  Then he would think of other times, odd moments, careless words. The way she had scowled at him from her perch on the arm of the sofa while he'd had tea with Coco. The look on her face when they'd stood on the terrace together, watching the sea. How per­fectly her mouth had fit to his when he had kissed her under an arbor of wisteria not yet in bloom.

  It would be blooming now, he mused. Those first fragrant flowers would be opening. Would she think of him at all when she walked there?

  If she did, he was very much afraid the thoughts wouldn't be kind.

  She'd cursed him when she'd seen him last She'd leveled those deep green eyes at him and had hoped that the kiss, the last kiss they'd shared, would keep him up at night He doubted even she could know how completely her wish had come true.

  Rubbing his tired eyes, he walked back to his desk. It was, as always, in perfect order. As his business was—as his life had been.

  Things had changed, he was forced to admit. He had changed, but perhaps he hadn't changed so com­pletely. Once again, he picked up the contracts to study them. He was still a skilled and organized busi­nessman, one who knew how to maneuver a deal and make it work to his advantage.

  He picked up his pen and tapped it lightly on the papers. A germ of an idea had rooted in his mind a few days before. Now he sat quietly and let it form, shift, realign.

  It was unusual, he considered. Maybe even mildly eccentric, but...but, he thought as a smile began to curve his mouth, if he played his cards right, it could work. It was his job to make it work. Slowly he let out a long breath. It might just be the most important deal of his life.

  He picked up the phone and, employing all of the St. James clout, began to turn the first wheels.

  Hank finished sanding the fender on the '69 Mus­tang, then stood back to admire his work. “Coming along just fine,” he called to C.C.

  She glanced over, but her hands were full with the brake shoes she was replacing above her head. “It's going to be a beauty. I'm glad we got the shot at reconditioning it.”

  “You want me to start on the primer?”

  She swore as brake fluid dripped onto her cheek. “No. You told me three times today that you've got a hot date tonight. Get cleaned up and take off.”

  “Thanks.” But he'd been too well trained to leave without replacing tools and material. “You found an­other house yet?”

  “No.” She ignored the sudden ache in her stomach and concentrated on her work. “We're all going out tomorrow to look.”

  “Won't be the same, not having Calhouns in The Towers. Sure is something about that necklace, though. Papers are full of stories about it.”

  “They'll die down.” She hoped.

  “Guess if you find it, you'd be millionaires. You could retire and move to Florida.”

  Despite her mood, she had to chuckle. “Well, we haven't found it yet.” Just the receipt, she mused, which Lilah had unearthed during her one and only shift in the storeroom. “Florida'll have to wait. The brakes won't.”

  “Guess I'll be going. Want me to lock up the of­fice?”

  “Go ahead. Have a good time.”

  He went out whistling, and C.C. stopped a moment to rest her arms and neck. She wished she'd been able to keep Hank around a while longer, for company, for the distraction. Even if he rambled on about the house and the necklace, he helped keep her mind occupied.

  No matter how loudly she played the radio, once she was alone, there was too much silence.

  They would hear from the lawyer any day. Perhaps Aunt Coco had gotten a call from Stridley that after­noon, telling her that the contracts had been signed and a settlement date set.

  Would Trent come to the settlement? she won­dered. No, no, of course not. He would send a rep­resentative, and that was for the best.

  Besides, she had too much to do to worry about it. House hunting, the search through old papers for a clue to the emeralds' whereabouts, the classic Mus­tang she intended to baby along to gleaming perfec­tion. She barely had a moment to catch her breath much less brood about seeing Trent over the settle­ment table.

  If only it would stop hurting, even for a few mo­ments.

  It would get better, she told herself as she returned to the brake job. It had to. After they'd found a new house and settled in. After the talk of the necklace had died away. Everything would get back to nor­mal—or what she would have to accept as normal. If the ache never completely went away, then she would learn to live with it.

  She had her family. Together, they could handle anything.

  Her shoulders were stiff by the time she'd finished. Rolling them a little, she started to step out from un­der the car when she realized the radio had stopped playing. She glanced over. And saw Trent standing by the workbench. The wrench she was holding clat­tered to the floor.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you to finish.” She looked fabulous, was all he could think. Absolutely fabulous. “How are you?”

  “Busy.” Rocked from the pain, she turned to hit a button on the wall. The lift groaned as it brought the car down. “You're here about the house, I guess.”

  “Yes, you could say that's a large part of it.”

  “We've been expecting to hear from the lawyer.”

  “I know.”

  When the car was settled, she took a rag and wiped her hands, keeping her eyes on them. “Amanda's handling the details. She's at the BayWatch if you need to discuss anything.”

  “What I need to discuss concerns you. Us.”

  She looked up, then took a quick step back when she realized he'd moved over to stand next to her. “I really don't have anything else to say to you.”

  “Okay, then I'll do the talking. In just a minute.”

  He moved fast. Still, she was certain if she'd been expecting it, she could have evaded him. She wasn't certain she would have tried.

  It felt so good, so right, to have his mouth covering hers, his hands framing her face. Her pride faltered long enough to have her reaching up to grasp his wrists, holding on as she let her needs flow into the kiss.

  “I've thought about doing that for three and a half weeks,” he murmured.

  She squeezed her eyes tight. “Go away, Trent.”

  “Catherine—”

&nbs
p; “Damn you, I said go away.” She yanked free, then turned to brace her palms on the bench. “I hate you for coming here, for making a fool out of me again.”

  “You're not the fool. You never were.”

  When his hand brushed lightly over her shoulder, she snatched up a hammer and whirled. “If you touch me again, so help me, I'll break your nose.”

  He looked at her. The fire was in her eyes again. “Thank God. You're back.” Delighted but cautious, he held up a hand. “Just listen, please. Business first.”

  “My business with you is settled.”

  “There's been a change in the plans.” He plucked some change out of the can on the bench. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No. Say what you have to say, then get out.”

  With a shrug, he strolled over to the soft drink ma­chine and plugged in the change. It was then that C.C. noticed he was wearing scuffed high-tops.

  “What are those?” she asked, staring at them.

  “These?” Trent grinned as he popped the top on the can. “New shoes. What do you think?” When she simply gaped, he took a long drink. “I know, not quite the usual image, but things change. A number of things have changed. Would you mind putting down that hammer?”

  “What? Oh. All right.” She set it aside. “You said plans had changed. Does that mean you've decided not to buy The Towers?”

  “Yes and no. Would you rather go into the office to discuss this?”

  “Damn it, Trent, just tell me what's going on.”

  “All right. Here's the deal. We take one wing, the west, I think, so it doesn't involve Bianca's tower. We have it extensively remodeled. My preference is to salvage as much of the original material as possible and reconstruct, whenever possible, according with the original blueprints. It should maintain its turn-of-the-century feel. That will be part of the draw.”

  “The draw?” she repeated, lost.

  “We can easily have ten suites without compro­mising the architecture. If memory serves, the billiard room would be excellent for dining, with the west tower remodeled for more intimate meals and private parties.”

  “Ten suites?”

  “In the west wing,” he agreed. “With an accent on aesthetics and intimacy. We'll have to put all the fireplaces back in working order. I think, with what we'll offer, we'll have year-round clientele rather than just seasonal.”

  “What are you going to do with the rest of the house?”

  “That would be up to you, and your family.” He set the drink aside and came toward her. “The way I see it, you could live very easily on the first two floors and the east wing. God knows there's plenty of room.”

  Confused, she pressed her fingers to her temple. “We'd be, what—renting it from you?”

  “That's not exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking more of a partnership.” He took her hand, examining it closely. “Your knuckles have healed.”

  “What kind of partnership?''

  “The St. James Corporation fronts the money for the renovations, advertising and so forth. Once the retreat—I like retreat better than hotel in this case— once it's in operation, we split the profits, fifty-fifty.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “It's really very simple, C.C.” He lifted her hand, kissed one finger. “We compromise. We have our hotel, you have your home. Nobody loses.”

  Afraid to feel it, she banked down the little flicker of hope. “I don't see how it could work. Why would anyone want to pay to stay in someone else's home?”

  “A landmark,” he reminded her, and kissed an­other finger. “With a legend, a ghost and a mystery. They'll pay very well to stay here. And when they get a taste of Coco's bouillabaisse—”

  “Aunt Coco?”

  “I've already offered her the position of chef. She's delighted. There's still the matter of a manager, but I think Amanda will fit the slot, don't you?” His eyes smiled as he brushed a kiss over her third finger.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I'm a businessman. It makes good business sense. I've already begun the market research.” He turned her hand over and pressed his lips to the palm. “That's what I've told my board of directors. I think you know differently.”

  “I don't know anything.” She pulled her hand away to walk to the open garage doors. “All I know is that you come back here with some sort of wild scheme—”

  “It's a very solid plan,” he corrected. “I'm not a wild-scheme sort of person. At least I never have been.” He went to her again, taking her shoulders. “I want you to keep your home, C.C.”

  With her lips pressed tight, she closed her eyes.

  “So, you're doing it for me.”

  “For you, your sisters, Coco, even Bianca.” Hands firm, he turned her to face him. “And I'm doing it for me. You wanted to keep me up at night, and you did.”

  She managed a weak smile. “Guilt works miracles.”

  “It has nothing to do with guilt. It never did. It has to do with love. With being in love. Don't pull away,” he said quietly when she jerked against his hold. “Business is closed for the day. Now it's just you and me. This is as personal as it gets.”

  At her sides, her hands clenched into fists. “It's all personal with me, don't you understand? You came here and changed everything in my life, then waltzed away again. Now you come back and tell me you've altered the plans.”

  “You weren't the only one things changed for. Nothing's been the same for me since I met you.” Panic snaked through him. She wasn't going to give him another chance. “I didn't ask for this. I didn't want it.”

  “Oh, you made it abundantly clear what you didn't want.” She shoved against him and got nowhere. “You have no right to start this up again.”

  “The hell with rights.” He gave her a hard shake. “I'm trying to tell you that I love you. That's a first for me, and you're not going to turn it into an argu­ment.”

  “I'll turn it into whatever I want,” she tossed back, furious when her voice broke. “I'm not going to let you hurt me again. I'm not going to—” Then she went still, eyes widening. “Did you say you were in love with me?”

  “Just shut up and listen. I've spent three and a half weeks feeling empty and miserable without you. I went away because I thought I could. Because I thought that was right and fair and best for both of us. Logically, it was. It still is. We're nothing alike. I couldn't see any percentage in risking both our fu­tures when you'd certainly be better off with someone else. Someone like Finney.”

  “Finney?” A shout of laughter escaped. “Oh, that's rich.” While her emotions whirled, she knocked a fist against his chest. “Tell you what, why don't you take your percentages back to Boston and draw a graph? Now leave me alone. I've got work to do.”

  “I'm not finished.” When she opened her mouth to swear at him, he let instinct rule and kissed her until she quieted. As breathless as she, he rested his brow against hers. “That has nothing to do with logic or percentages.” Still holding on, he took a step back so that he could see her. “Catherine, every time I reminded myself that I didn't believe in love or mar­riage or lifetimes, I remembered the way I felt with you.”

  “How? How did you feel with me?”

  “Alive. Happy. And I knew I was never going to feel that way again unless I came back.” He let his hands slide away. “C.C., you told me once that what we had could be the best part of my life. You were right. I don't know if I can make it work, but I need to try. I need you.”

  He was afraid, she realized. Even more afraid than she was. With her eyes on his, she lifted a hand to his cheek. “I can give you a guarantee on a muffler, Trent. Not on this.”

  “I'd settle for you telling me you still love me, that you'll give me another chance.”

  “I still love you. But I can't give you another chance.”

  “Catherine—”

  “Because you haven't taken the first one yet.” She touched her lips to his once, then twice. “Why don't we take it t
ogether?” she asked, then laughed when he dragged her close. “Now you've done it. You'll have grease all over you.”

  “I'll have to get used to it.” After one last spin, he drew away to study her face. Everything he needed was right there, in her eyes. “I love you, Catherine. Very much.”

  She brought his hand to her cheek. “I'll have to get used to it. Maybe if you said it a few hundred times.”

  He told her as he held her, as he traced kisses over her face, as he lingered over the taste of her mouth. “I think it's working,” she murmured. “Maybe we should close the garage doors.”

  “Leave them up.” He stepped back again, strug­gling to clear his head. “I'm still St. James enough to want to do things in their proper order, but I'm running low on control.”

  “What order is that?” Smiling, she ran a finger up his shirt to toy with the top button.

  “Wait.” Churning, he put a hand over hers. “I thought about this all the way up from Boston. It played a lot of different ways—I'd take you out again. A little wine, a lot of candlelight. Or we'd walk in the garden again at dusk.”

  He glanced around the garage. Honeysuckle and motor oil, he thought. Perfect.

  “But this seems like the right time, the right place.” He reached in his pocket for a small box, then opening it, handed it to her. “You once said if I of­fered you a diamond, you'd laugh in my face. I thought I might have more luck with an emerald.”

  Tears backed up in her throat as she stared down at the deep green stone in its simple gold setting. It gleamed up at her, full of hope and promise. “If this is a proposal, you don't need any luck at all.” Wet and brilliant, her eyes came back to his. “The answer was always yes.”

  He slid the ring onto her finger. “Let's go home.”

  “Yes.” Her hand linked with his. “Let's go home.”