Suzanna's Surrender

by Nora Roberts

  “I don't want to get involved.” But even as she said it, her mouth was moving to meet his.

  “Me, either.” He changed the angle and sucked on her bottom lip.

  “This is just—oh—chemistry.” Her fingers tan­gled in his hair.

  “You bet.” His rough-palmed hands slipped under her shirt to explore.

  “It can't go anywhere.”

  “It already is.”

  He was right about that, as well. For one brief mo­ment she let herself fall into the kiss, into the heat. She needed something, someone. If she couldn't have comfort or compassion, she would take desire. But the more she took, the more her body strained for something just out of reach. Something she couldn't afford to want or need again.

  “This is too fast,” she said breathlessly, and strug­gled away. “I'm sorry, I realize it must seem as though I'm sending you mixed signals.”

  He was watching her eyes, just her eyes, as his body pulsed. “I think I can sort them out.”

  “I don't want to start something I won't be able to finish.” She moistened her lips still warm from his.

  “And I have too many responsibilities, too much to worry about right now to even think about having...”

  “An affair?” he finished. “You're going to have to think about it.” With his eyes still on hers, he gathered her hair in his hand. “Go ahead, take a few days. I can afford to be patient as long as I get what I want. And I want you.”

  Nerves skittered along her spine. “Just because I find you attractive, physically, doesn't mean I'm go­ing to jump into bed with you.”

  “I don't much care whether you jump, crawl or have to be dragged. We can decide on the method later.” Before she could think of a name to call him, he grinned, kissed her then stepped back. “Now that that's settled, I'll take you up and show you the por­trait.”

  “If you think it's settled because you—what por­trait?”

  “You take a look, then tell me.”

  He led the way up into the loft. Torn between cu­riosity and fury, Suzanna followed him. The only thing she was certain of at the moment was that since she'd met Holt Bradford again, her emotions had been on a roller coaster. All she wanted out of life was a nice smooth, uneventful ride.

  “He worked up here.”

  The simple statement captured her attention and her interest. “Did you know him well?”

  “I don't think anyone did.” Holt moved over to open a tilt-out window. “He came and went pretty much as he pleased. He'd come back here for a few days, or a few months. I'd sit up here sometimes and watch him work. If he got tired of me hanging around, he'd send me out with the dog, or into the village for ice cream.”

  “There's still paint on the floor.” Unable to resist, Suzanna bent down to touch. She glanced up, met Holt's eyes and understood.

  He'd loved his grandfather. These splotches of paint, more than the cabin itself, were memories. She reached a hand out for his, rising when their fingers linked. Then she saw the portrait.

  The canvas was tilted against the wall, its frame old and ornate. The woman looked back at her, with eyes full of secrets and sadness and love.

  “Bianca,” Suzanna said, and let her own tears come. “I knew he must have painted her. He'd have had to.”

  “I wasn't certain until I saw Lilah yesterday.”

  “He never sold it,” Suzanna murmured. “He kept it, because it was all he had left of her.”

  “Maybe.” He wasn't entirely comfortable that the exact thought had occurred to him. “I've got to figure there was something between them. I don't see how that helps you get any closer to the emeralds.”

  “But you'll help.”

  “I said I would.”

  “Thank you.” She turned to face him. Yes, he would help, she thought. He wouldn't break his word no matter how much it annoyed him to keep it.

  “The first thing I have to ask you, is if you'll bring the portrait to The Towers so my family can see it. It would mean a great deal to them.”

  At Suzanna's insistence, they took Sadie as well. She rode in the back of the pickup, grinning into the wind. When they arrived at The Towers, they saw Lilah and Max sitting out on the lawn. Fred, spotting the truck, tore across the yard, then came to a stum­bling halt when Sadie leaped nimbly out of the back.

  Body aquiver, he approached her. The dogs gave each other a thorough sniffing over. With a flick of her tail, Sadie pranced across the yard. She sent Fred one come-hither look over her shoulder that had him scrambling after her.

  “Looks like love at first sight for old Fred,” Lilah commented as she walked with Max to the truck. “We wondered where you'd gone.” She ran a hand down Suzanna's arm, letting her know without words that she knew about the call from Bax.

  “Are the kids around?”

  “No, they went into the village with Megan and her parents to help Kevin pick out some souvenirs before they leave.”

  With a nod, Suzanna took her hand. “There's something you have to see.” Stepping back, she ges­tured. Through the open door of the truck, Lila saw the painting. Her fingers tightened on her sister's.

  “Oh, Suze.”

  “I know.”

  “Max, can you see?”

  “Yes.” Gently he kissed the top of her head and looked at the portrait of a woman who was the double for the one he loved. “She was beautiful. This is a Bradford.” He glanced at Holt with a shrug. “I've been studying your grandfather's work for the past couple of weeks.”

  “You've had this all along,” Lilah began.

  Holt let the accusation in the tone roll off him. “I didn't know it was Bianca until I saw you yesterday.”

  She subsided, studying his face. “You're not as nasty as you'd like people to think. Your aura's much too clear.”

  “Leave Holt's aura alone, Lilah,” Suzanna said with a laugh. “I want Aunt Coco to see this. Oh, I wish Sloan and Mandy hadn't left on their honey­moon.”

  “They'll only be gone two weeks,” Lilah re­minded her.

  Two weeks. Suzanna struggled to keep the smile in place as Holt carried the portrait inside.

  The moment she saw it, Coco wept. But that was only to be expected. Holt had propped the painting on the love seat in the parlor, and Coco sat in the wing chair, drenching her handkerchief.

  “After all this time. To have part of her back in this house.”

  Lilah touched her aunt's shoulder. “Part of her has always been in the house.”

  “Oh, I know, but to be able to look at her.” She sniffled. “And see you.”

  “He must have loved her so much.” Damp eyed, C.C. rested her head on Trent's shoulder. “She looks just as I imagined her, just as I knew she looked that night when I felt her.”

  Holt kept his hands in his pocket “Look, sentiment and séances aside, it's the emeralds you need. If you want my help, then I need to know everything.”

  “Seance.” Coco dried her eyes. “We should hold another one. We'll hang the portrait in the dining room. With that to focus on we're bound to be suc­cessful. I've got to check the astrological charts.” She got up and hurried out of the room.

  “And she's off and running,” Suzanna murmured.

  Trent nodded. “Not to discredit Coco, but it might be best if I filled in Holt in a more conventional way.”

  “I'll make some coffee.” Suzanna sent one last glance at the portrait before heading for the kitchen.

  There wasn't so very much Trent could tell him, she thought as she ground beans. Holt already knew about the legend, the research they'd done, the danger her sisters had faced. It was possible that he might make more of it, with his training, than they had. But would he care, even a fraction of the amount her fam­ily did?

  She understood that emotional motivation could change lives. And that without it, nothing worthwhile could be accomplished.

  He had passion. But could his passions run deeper than a physical need? Not for her, she assured herself, measuring the cof
fee carefully. She'd meant what she'd said about not wanting to become involved. She couldn't afford to love again.

  She was afraid he was right about an affair. If she couldn't be strong enough to resist him, she hoped she could be strong enough to hold her heart and her body separate. It couldn't be wrong to need to be touched and wanted. Perhaps by giving herself to him, in a physical way, she could prove to herself that she wasn't a failure as a woman.

  God, she wanted to feel like a woman again, to experience that rush of pleasure and release. She was nearly thirty, she thought, and the only man with whom she'd been intimate had found her wanting. How much longer could she go on wondering if he was right?

  She jolted when hands came down on her shoul­ders.

  Slowly, aware of how easily she paled, Holt turned her to face him. “Where were you?”

  “Oh. Up to my ears weeding pachysandra.”

  “That's a pretty good lie if you'd put more flare into it.” But he let it go. “I'm going to run down and talk with Lieutenant Koogar. Rain check the coffee.”

  “All right, I'll drive you down.”

  “I'm hitching a ride with Max and Trent.”

  Her brow lifted. “Men only, I take it”

  “Sometimes it works better that way.” He rubbed a thumb over the line between her brows in a gentle gesture that surprised them both. Catching himself, he dropped his hand again. “You worry too much. I'll be in touch.”

  “Thank you. I won't forget what you're doing for us.”

  “Forget it.” He hauled her against him and kissed her until she went limp. “I'd rather you remember that” He strode out, and she sank weakly into a chair.

  She wouldn't have any choice but to remember it.

  Chapter Six

  He wasn't playing good Samaritan, Holt assured himself. After getting a clearer handle on the situa­tion, he was doing what he felt was best. Somebody had to keep an eye on her until Livingston was under wraps. The best way to keep an eye on her was to stick close.

  Swinging into the graveled lot, he pulled up next to her pickup. He saw that she was outside the shop with customers, so amused himself by roaming around.

  He'd driven by Island Gardens before but had never stopped in. There hadn't been any reason to. There were a lot of thriving blossoms crowded on wooden tables or sitting in ornamental pots. Though he couldn't tell one from the other, he could appre­ciate their appeal. Or maybe it was the fact that the air smelled like Suzanna.

  It was obvious she knew what she was doing here, he reflected. There was a tidiness to the place, enhanced by a breezy informality that invited browsers to browse even as it tempted them to buy.

  Colorful pictures were set up here and there, de­scribing certain flowers, their planting instructions and maintenance. Along the side of the main building were stacks of fifty-and hundred-pound bags of plant­ing medium and mulch.

  He was looking over a tray of snapdragons when he heard a rustle in the bush behind him. He tensed automatically, and his fingers jerked once toward the weapon he no longer wore. Letting out a quiet breath, he cursed himself. He had to get over this reaction. He wasn't a cop anymore, and no one was likely to spring at his back with an eight-inch buck knife.

  He turned his head slightly and spotted the young boy crouched behind a display of peonies. Alex grinned and popped up. “I got you!” He danced glee­fully around the peonies. “I was a pygmy and I zapped you with my poison blow dart.”

  “Lucky for me I'm immune to pygmy poison. If it'd been Ubangi poison, I would' ve been a goner. Where's your sister?”

  “In the greenhouse. Mom gave us seeds and stuff, but I got bored. It's okay for me to come out here,” he said quickly, knowing how fast adults could make things tough for you. “As long as I don't go near the street or knock over anything.”

  He wasn't about to give the kid a hard time. “Have you killed many customers today?”

  “It's pretty slow. 'Cause it's Monday, Mom says. That's why we can come to work with her and Carol-anne can have the day off.”

  “You like coming here?”

  Holt wasn't sure how it had happened, but he and the boy were walking among the flats of flowers, and Alex's hand was in his.

  “Sure, it's neat. We get to plant things. Like, see those?” He pointed at an edging of multicolored flowers that sprang up beside the gravel. “Those are zinnias, and I planted them myself, so I get to water them and stuff. Sometimes we get to carry things to the car for people, and they give you quarters.”

  “Sounds like a good deal.”

  “And Mom closes up at lunchtime and we walk down the street and get pizza and play the video games. We get to come almost every Monday. Ex­cept—” He broke off and kicked at the gravel.

  “Except what?”

  “Next week we'll have to be on vacation, and Mom won't come.”

  Holt looked down at the boy's bent head and won­dered what the hell to do. “I, ah, guess she's pretty busy here.”

  “Carolanne or somebody could work, and she could come. But she won't.”

  “Don't you figure she'd go with you if she could?”

  “I guess.” Alex kicked at the gravel again and, when Holt didn't scold, kicked a third time. “We have to go to somebody named Martha's yard, with my father and his new wife. Mom says it'll be fun, and we'll go to the beach and have ice cream.”

  “Sounds pretty good.”

  “I don't want to go. I don't see how come I have to. I want to go to Disney World with Mom.”

  When the little voice broke, Holt let out a deep breath and crouched down. “It's tough having to do things you don't want to. I guess you'll have to look after Jenny while you're gone.”

  Alex shrugged and sniffled. “I guess. She's scared to go. But she's only five.”

  “She'll be okay with you. Tell you what, I'll look after your mom while you're gone.”

  “Okay.” Feeling better, Alex wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Can I see on your leg where they shot you?”

  “Sure.” Holt pointed to a scar about six inches above his kneecap on his left leg.

  “Wow.” Since Holt didn't seem to mind, Alex ran a fingertip over it. “I guess since you were a police­man and all, you'll take good care of Mom.”

  “Sure I will.”

  Suzanna wasn't sure what she felt when she saw Holt and her son, dark heads bent close. But she knew something warm stirred when Holt lifted a hand and brushed it through Alex's hair.

  “Well, what's all this?”

  Both males looked over then back at each other to exchange a quick and private look before Holt rose. “Man talk,” he said, and gave Alex's hand a squeeze.

  “Yeah.” Alex pushed out his chest. “Man talk.”

  “I see. Well, I hate to interrupt, but if you want pizza, you'd better go wash your hands.”

  “Can he come?” Alex asked.

  “His name,” Suzanna said, “is Mr. Bradford.”

  “His name is Holt.” Holt sent Alex a wink and got a grin in return.

  “Can he?”

  “We'll see.”

  “She says that a lot,” Alex confided, then raced' off to find his sister.

  “I suppose I do.” Suzanna sighed then turned back to Holt. “What can I do for you?”

  She was wearing her hair loose, with a little blue cap over it that made her look about sixteen. Holt suddenly felt as foolish and awkward as a boy asking for his first date.

  “Do you still need part-time help?”

  “Yes, without any luck.” She began to pinch off begonias. “All the high school and college kids are set for the summer.”

  “I can give you about four hours a day.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe five,” he continued as she stared at him. “I've got a couple of repair jobs, but I call my own hours.”

  “You want to work for me?”

  “As long as I only have to haul and plant the things. I ain't selling flowers.”

  �
�You can't be serious.”

  “I mean it. I won't sell them.”

  “No, I mean about working for me at all. You've already started up your own business, and I can't af­ford to pay more than minimum wage.”

  His eyes went very dark, very fast “I don't want your money.”

  Suzanna blew the hair out of her eyes. “Now, I am confused.”

  “Look, I figured we could trade off. I'll do some Of the heavy work for you, and you can fix up my yard some.”

  Her smite bloomed slowly. “You'd like me to fix up your yard?”

  Women always made things complicated, he thought and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I don't want you to go crazy or anything. A couple more bushes maybe. Now do you want to make a deal or don't you?”

  Her smile turned to a laugh. “One of the Ander­sons' neighbors admired our team effort. I'm sched­uled to start tomorrow.” She held out a hand. “Be here at six.”

  He winced. “A.m.?”

  “Exactly. Now, how about lunch?”

  He put his hand in hers. “Fine. You're buying.”

  Good God, the woman worked like an elephant. She worked like two elephants, Holt corrected as the sweat poured down his back. He had a pick or shovel in his hand so often, he might as well be on a chain gang.

  It should've been cooler up here on the cliffs. But the lawn they were landscaping—attacking, he thought as he brought the pick down again—was nothing but rock.

  In the three days he'd worked with her, he'd given up trying to stop her from doing any of the heavy work. She only ignored him and did as she pleased. When he went home in the midarternoon, every mus­cle twinging, he wondered how in holy hell she kept it up.

  He couldn't put in more than four or five hours and juggle his own jobs. But he knew she worked eight to ten every day. It wasn't difficult to see that she was throwing herself into her work to keep from thinking about the fact that the kids were leaving the next day.

  He brought the pick down again, hit rock. The shock sang up his arms. At the low, steady swearing, Suzanna glanced up from her own work. “Why don't you take a break. I can finish that.”

  “Did you bring the dynamite?”

  The smile touched her lips for only a moment “No, really. Go get a drink out of the cooler. We're nearly ready to plant.”

  “Fine.” He hated to admit that the whole business was wearing him out. There were blisters on top of his blisters, his muscles felt as though he'd gone ten rounds with the champ—and lost. Wiping his face and neck dry, he walked over to