Suzanna's Surrender

by Nora Roberts

  he cuddled against her a moment longer. When his mother tucked him into bed, he didn't complain when she stroked his hair. “Night,” he said, ready to sleep.

  “Good night.” She left him alone, weeping a little over the smashed mint. In her room, she opened the little case that had once held her diamonds, and tucked her son's gift inside.

  She undressed then slipped into a thin white night­gown. There was paperwork waiting on her desk in the corner, but she knew her mind and nerves were still too rattled. To soothe herself, she opened the ter­race doors and, taking her brush, walked outside to feel the night.

  There was an owl hooting, crickets singing, the quiet whoosh of the sea. Tonight the moon was gilded and its light clear as glass. Smiling to herself, she lifted her face to it and skimmed the brush lazily through her hair.

  Holt had never seen anything more beautiful than Suzanna brushing her hair in the moonlight. He knew he made a poor Romeo and was deathly afraid he'd make a fool of himself trying, but he had to give her something, to somehow show her what it meant to have her in his life.

  He came out of the garden and started up the stone steps. He moved quietly, and she was dreaming. She didn't know he was there until he said her name.

  “Suzanna.”

  She opened her eyes and saw him standing only a foot away, his hair ruffled by the breeze, his eyes dark in the shimmering light. “I was thinking about you. What are you doing here?”

  “I went home, but...I came back.” He wanted her to go on brushing her hair, but was certain the request would sound ridiculous. “Are you all right?”

  “I'm fine, really.”

  “The kids?”

  “They're fine, too. Sleeping. I didn't even thank you before. Maybe it's petty, but now that I've had a chance to settle, I can admit I really enjoyed seeing Bax's nose bleed.”

  “Anytime,” Holt said, and meant it.

  “I don't think it'll be necessary again, but I appre­ciate it.” She reached out to touch his hand, and pricked her finger on a thorn. “Ow.”

  “That's a hell of a start,” he mumbled, and thrust the rose at her. “I brought you this.”

  “You did?” Absurdly touched, she brushed the petals to her cheek.

  “I stole it out of your garden.” He stuck his hands into his pockets and wished for a cigarette. “I don't guess it counts.”

  “It certainly does.” She had had two gifts that night, she thought, from the two men she loved. “Thank you.”

  He shrugged and wondered what to do next. “You look nice.”

  She smiled and glanced down at the simple white gown. “Well, it's not lacy.”

  “I watched you brushing your hair.” His hand came out of his pocket of its own volition to touch. “I just stood there, down at the edge of the garden and watched you. I could hardly breathe. You're so beautiful, Suzanna.”

  Now it was she who couldn't breathe. He'd never looked at her just this way. His voice had never sounded so quiet. There was a reverence in it, as in the hand that stroked over her hair.

  “Don't look at me like that.” His fingers tightened in her hair and he had to force them to relax again. “I know I've been rough with you.”

  “No, you haven't.”

  “Damn it, I have.” He fought against a welling impatience as she only stared at him. “I've pushed you around and grabbed on. I ripped your blouse.”

  A smile touched her lips. “When I sewed the but­tons back on I remembered that night, and what it felt like to be needed that way.” More than a little baf­fled, she shook her head. “I'm not fragile, Holt.”

  Couldn't she see how wrong she was? Didn't she know how she looked right now, her hair smooth and shining in the moonlight, the thin white gown flowing down?

  “I want to be with you tonight.” He slid his hand down to touch her cheek. “Let me love you tonight.”

  She couldn't have denied him anything. When he lifted her to carry her in, she pressed her lips to his throat. But his mouth didn't turn hot and ready to hers. He laid her down carefully, took the brush and rose from her to set it on the nightstand. Then he turned the lights low.

  When his mouth came to hers at last, it was soft as a whisper. His hands didn't race to excite, but moved with exquisite patience to seduce.

  He felt her confusion, heard it in the unsteady mur­mur of his name, but he only rubbed his lips over hers, tracing the shape with his tongue. His strong hands moved with an artist's grace over the tensed slope of her shoulders.

  “Trust me.” He took his mouth on a slow, quiet journey over her face. “Let go and trust me, Suzanna. There's more than one way.” Over her jaw, down the line of her throat, back to her trembling lips his mouth whispered. “I should have showed you before.”

  “I can't...” Then his kiss had her sinking, deep, deeper still into some thick velvet haze. She couldn't right herself. Didn't want to. Surely this endless, ech­oing tunnel was paradise.

  He touched, hardly touching at all, and left her weak. His mouth, gliding like a cool breeze over her flesh was rapture. She could hear him murmur to her, incredible promises, soft, lovely words. There was passion in them, in the fingertips that seemed de­signed only to bring her pleasure, yet this was a pas­sion to give she had never expected.

  He stroked her through the thin cotton, delighting in the liquid movements of her body beneath his hands. He could watch her face in the lamplight, feed on that alone, knowing she was steeped in him, in what he offered her. There was no need to strap down greed, desire was no less, but it had taken a different hue.

  When she sighed, he brought his lips back to hers to swallow the flavor of his name.

  He undressed her slowly, bringing the gown down inch by inch, wallowing in the delight of wanning newly bared skin. Fascinated with each tremor he brought her, he lingered. Then took her gently over the first crest.

  Unbearably sweet. Each movement, each sigh. Ex­quisitely tender. Every touch, every murmur. He had imprisoned her in a world of silk, gently bringing doz­ens of pulses to a throbbing ache that was like music. Never had she been more aware of her body than now as he explored it so thoroughly, so patiently.

  At last she felt his flesh against hers, the warm, hard body she had come to crave. Opening heavy eyes, she looked. Lifting weighted limbs, she touched.

  He hadn't known a need could be so strong yet so quiet. She enfolded him. He slipped into her. For both, it was like coming home.

  I could not have foreseen that the day would be my last with her. Would I have looked more closely, held more tightly? The love could have been no greater, but could it have been treasured more completely?

  There is no answer.

  We found the little dog, cowering and half-starved in the rocks by our cliffs. Bianca found such pleasure in him. It was foolish, I suppose, but I think we both felt this was something we could share, since we had found him together.

  We called him Fred, and I must admit I was sad to see him go when it was time for her to return to The Towers. Of course it was right that she take the or­phaned pup to her children so that they could make him a family. I went home alone, to think of her, to try to work.

  When she came to me, I was stunned that she should have taken such a risk. Only once before had she been to the cottage, and we had not dared chance that again. She was frantic and overwrought. Under her cloak, she carried the puppy. Because she was pale as a ghost, I made her sit and poured her brandy.

  She told me, as I sat, hardly daring to speak, of the events that had taken place since we 'd parted.

  The children had fallen in love with the dog. There had been laughter and light hearts until Fergus had returned. He refused to have the dog, a stray mutt, in his home. Perhaps I could have forgiven him for that, thought of him only as a rigid fool. Bianca told me that he had ordered the dog destroyed, holding firm even on the tears and pleas of his children.

  On the girl, young Colleen, he had been the hard­est. Fearing a harsher, perhaps a p
hysical reprisal, Bianca had sent the children and the dog up to their nanny.

  The argument that had followed was bitter. She did not tell me all, but her tremors and the flash of fear in her eyes said enough. In his fury, he had threatened and abused her. It was then I saw in the light of my lamp, the marks on her throat where his hands had squeezed.

  I would have gone then. I would have killed him. But her terror stopped me. Never before and never again in my life have I felt a rage such as that. To love as I loved, to know that she had been hurt and frightened. There are times I wish to God I had gone, and had killed Perhaps things would have been dif­ferent. But I'll never be sure.

  I didn't leave her, but stayed while she wept and told me that he had gone to Boston, and that when he returned he intended to bring a new governess of his choosing. He had accused her of being a poor mother, and would take the care and control of the children from her.

  If he had threatened to cut out her heart, he could not have done more damage. She would not see her children raised by a paid servant, overseen by a cold, ambitious father. She feared most for her daughter, knowing if nothing was done, Colleen would one day be bartered off into marriage—even as her mother had been.

  It was this great fear that forced her decision to leave him.

  She knew the risks, the scandal, the position she would be giving up. Nothing could sway her. She would take her children away where she knew they would be safe. Her wish was for me to go with them, but she did not beg or call upon my love.

  She did not need to.

  I would make the arrangements the next day, and she would prepare the children. Then she asked me to make her mine.

  For so long I had wanted her. Yet I had promised myself I would not take her. That night I broke one promise, and I made another. I would love her eter­nally.

  I still remember how she looked, her hair unbound, her eyes so dark. Before I touched her I knew how she would feel. Before I laid her in my bed, I knew how she would look there. Now it is only a dream, the sweetest memory of my life. The sound of the wa­ter and the crickets, the smell of wildflowers.

  In that timeless hour, I had everything a man could want. She was beauty and love and promise. Seduc­tive and innocent, shy and wanton. Even now, I can taste her mouth, smell her skin. And ache for her.

  Then she was gone. What I had thought was a be­ginning was an end.

  I took what money I had, sold paints and canvases for more and bought four tickets on the evening train. She did not come. There was a storm brewing. Hot lightning, vicious thunder, heavy wind. I told myself it was the weather that turned my blood so cold. But God help me, I think I knew. There was such a sharp, terrifying pain, such unreasonable fear. It consumed me.

  For the first time, and the last, I went to The Tow­ers. The rain began to slash as I beat on the door. The woman who answered was hysterical. I would have pushed past her, run through the house calling for Bianca, but at that moment, the police arrived.

  She had jumped from the tower, thrown herself through the window onto the rocks. This is unclear now, as it was even then. I remember running, shout­ing for her over the howling wind. The lights of the house were blinding, slashing through the gloom. Men were already scrambling on the ridge and below with lanterns. I stood, looking down at her. My love.

  Taken from me. Not by her own hand. I could never accept that. But gone. Lost.

  I would have leaped off that ridge myself. But she stopped me. I will swear it was her voice that stopped me. Instead, I sat on the ground, the rain pouring over me.

  I could not join her then. Somehow I would have to live out my life without her. I have done so, and perhaps some good has come from the time I have spent here. The boy, my grandson. How Bianca would have loved him. There are times I take him to our cliffs and I'm sure she's there with us.

  There are still Calhouns in The Towers. Bianca would have wanted that. Her children's children, and theirs. Perhaps one day another lonely young woman will walk those cliffs. I hope her fate is a kinder one.

  I know, in my heart, that it is not ended yet. She waits for me. When my time comes at last, I will talk with Bianca again. I will love her as I once promised. Eternally.

  Chapter Ten

  Holt waited for Trent in the pergola along the sea-wail. Lighting a cigarette, he looked over the wide lawn to The Towers. One of the gargoyles along the center peak had lost its head while the other sat grin­ning down, more charming than ferocious. There were clematis—he recognized it now—and roses climbing up to the first terrace. The old stone glow­ered in the hazy sunlight. There was really no other word for it, but the flowers gave it a kind of magical, Sleeping Beauty aura. Towers and turrets speared up, arrogant of form, dignified with age.

  Scaffolding bracketed the west end, and the high whine of a power saw cut the air. A lift truck was parked under the balcony, its mechanism groaning as it hefted its load of equipment to a trio of bare-backed men. A radio jolted out tough rock.

  Maybe it was right and just that the house held so tenaciously to the past even while it accepted the present, Holt mused. If it was possible for stone and mortar to absorb emotion and memory, The Towers had done so. Already he felt as though it harbored some of his.

  The windows of the room where he had spent most of the night with Suzanna winked back at him. He remembered every second of those hours, every sigh, every movement. He also remembered that he had confused her. No, tenderness wasn't his style, he thought, but it had been easy with her.

  She hadn't asked him for softness. She hadn't asked him for anything. Was that why he felt com­pelled to give? Without trying, she had tapped into something inside him he hadn't known was there-— and was still more than a little uncomfortable with. Finding it, feeling it left him as vulnerable as she. He'd yet to work out the right way to tell her.

  She deserved the music, the candlelight, the flow­ers. She deserved the soft poetic words. He was going to try to give them to her, no matter how big a fool it made him feel.

  In the meantime, he had a job to do. He was going to find those damn emeralds for her. And he was go­ing to put Livingston behind bars.

  Holt tossed the cigarette away as he saw Trent come out of the house. In the pergola, they would have relative privacy. The clatter of construction ech­oed in countertime to the beat and drum of waves. Whatever they said wouldn't carry above ten feet. Anyone looking out of the house would see two men sharing a late-afternoon beer, away from the women.

  Trent stepped inside and offered a bottle.

  “Thanks.” Holt leaned negligently against a post and lifted the beer. “Did you get the list?”

  “Yeah.” Trent took a seat on one of the stone benches so that he could watch the house as he drank. “We've only signed on four new men in the last month.”

  “References?”

  “Of course.” The faint annoyance in his tone was instinctive. “Sloan and I are well aware of security.”

  Holt merely shrugged. “A man liked Livingston wouldn't have any problem getting references. They'd cost him.” Holt drank deeply. “But he'd get them.”

  “You'd know more about that sort of thing than I.” Trent's eyes narrowed as he watched two of the men replacing shingles on the roof of the west wing. “But I have a hard time buying that he could be here, working right under our noses.”

  “Oh, he's here.” Holt took out another cigarette, lighted it, then took a thoughtful drag. “Whoever tossed my place knew about the connection almost as soon as you did. Since none of you go around talking about the situation at cocktail parties, he'd have heard something here, in the house. He didn't sign on at the start of the job, because he was busy elsewhere. But the last few weeks...” He paused as the children ran out, dogs in tow, to race to their fort. “He wouldn't just sit and wait, not as long as there's a possibility you could knock out a wall and have the emeralds fall into your hand. And where better to keep an eye on things than inside?”

  “It fits,�
� Trent admitted. “But I don't like the idea of my wife, or any of the others, being that close.” He thought of C.C., the baby she carried, and his eyes darkened. “If there's a chance you're right, I want to move on it.”

  “Give me the list, and I'll check it out. I've still got connections.” Holt's gaze remained on the chil­dren. “He's not going to hurt any of them. That's a fact.”

  Trent nodded. He was a businessman and had never done anything more violent than a little boxing in college. But he would do whatever it took to protect his wife and unborn child. “I filled Max in, and Sloan and Amanda decided to break off their honeymoon. They should be here in a couple of hours.”

  That was good, Holt thought. It was best having the family all in one place. “What did Sloan tell her?”

  “That there was some problem with the job.” More comfortable now that wheels were in motion, Trent grinned a little. “If she finds out he's stringing her along, there'll be hell to pay.”

  “The less the women know, the better.”

  This time Trent laughed. “If any of them heard you say that, you'd lose three layers of skin. They're a tough bunch.”

  Holt thought of Suzanna. “They think they are.”

  “No, they are. It took me quite a while to accept it. Individually they're strong—velvet-coated steel. Not to mention stubborn, impulsive and feverishly loyal. Together...” Trent smiled again. “Well, I'll admit I'd rather face a pair of sumo wrestlers than the Calhoun women on a roll.”

  “When it's 'over, they can be as mad as they want.”

  “As long as they're safe,” Trent finished, and noted that Holt was watching the children. “Great kids,” he commented.

  “Yeah. They're okay.”

  “They've got a hell of a mother.” Trent drank contemplatively. “Too bad they don't have a real fa­ther.”

  Even the thought of Baxter Dumont made Holt's blood boil. “How much do you know about him?”

  “More than I like. I know he put Suzanna through hell. He nearly broke her with the custody suit”

  “Custody suit?” Stunned, Holt looked back. “He went after the kids?”

  “He went after her,” Trent corrected. “What better way? She doesn't talk about it. I got the story from C.C. Apparently he was annoyed that she filed for the divorce. Not good for his image, particularly since he's got his eye on a senate seat. He dragged her through a long, ugly court battle, trying to prove she was unstable and unfit.”

  “Bastard.” Choking on rage, Holt turned away to flick the cigarette onto the rocks.

  “He didn't want them. The idea was to ship them off to a boarding school. Or that was the threat. He backed off when Suzanna made the settlement.”

  His hands were on the stone rail now, fingers dig­ging in. “What settlement?”

  “She gave him damn near everything. He dropped the case so the arrangements could be made privately. He got the house, ail the property, along with a chunk of her inheritance. She could have fought it, but she and the kids were already an emotional mess. She didn't want to take any chances with them, or put them through any more stress.”

  “No, she wouldn't.” Holt drank in a futile attempt to wash the bitterness from his throat. “He's not go­ing to hurt her or the kids anymore. I'll see to it.”

  “I thought you would.” Trent rose, satisfied. He pulled a list out of his pocket and exchanged it for Holt's empty bottle. “Let me know what you find out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The séance tonight.” Trent saw Holt grimace and laughed again. “It may surprise you.”

  “The only thing that surprises me is that Coco talked me into it.”

  “If you plan on sticking around, you'll have to get used to being talked into all manner of things.”

  He was going to stick around, all right. Holt thought as Trent walked away. He just needed to find the right way to tell Suzanna. After glancing at the names on the list. Holt tucked it away. He'd make a couple of calls and see what he could dig up.

  As he started across the lawn, the dogs galloped up to him, Fred devotedly pressing to Sadie's side. When they stopped jumping long enough to be petted, Fred lapped frantically at her face. Sadie tolerated it, then turned away and ignored him.

  “They've got a name for women like you,” Holt told her.

  “Remember the Alamo!” Alex shouted. He stood spread legged on the roof of his fort, a plastic sword in his hand. Because he counted on his challenge be­ing answered, his eyes gleamed as they met Holt's. “You'll never take us alive.”

  “Oh yeah?” Unable to resist, Holt moved closer. “What makes you think I want you, monkey brain?”

  “'Cause we're the patriots and you're the evil in­vaders.”

  Jenny popped her head through an opening that served as a window. Before Holt could evade it, he was hit dead center of the chest with a splat of water from her pistol. Alex let out a triumphant hoot as Holt scowled down at his shirt.