Suzanna's Surrender

by Nora Roberts

  He liked the thought of it. “And you still won't be able to keep your hands off me.”

  “And I'll remind you of the night you asked me to marry you, when you gave me flowers and candle­light, then shouted at me and raged up and down the room, making me love you even more.”

  “If that's all it takes, you'll be delirious about me by the time I'm sixty.”

  “I already am.” She lowered her mouth to his.

  “Suzanna.” He drew her closer, started to roll her under him, then swore. “It's your own fault,” he said as he nudged her aside.

  “What?”

  “You were supposed to be sitting over there, dazed by my romantic abilities.” He fought to untangle his jeans and pull the jeweler's box from the pocket. “Then I was going to get down on one knee.”

  Eyes wide, she stared at the box, then at him. “You were not.”

  “Yes, I was. I was going to feel like an idiot, but I was going to do it You've got no one to blame but yourself that we're lying naked on the floor. Here.”

  “You bought me a ring,” she whispered.

  “There could be a frog in there for all you know.” Impatient with her, he flipped up the top himself. “I didn't want to give you diamonds.” He shrugged when she said nothing, only stared into the box. “I figured you'd already had those. I thought about em­eralds, but those are something you will have. And this is more like your eyes.”

  When the tears blurred her vision, the light re­fracted. There were diamonds, tiny, lovely stones in a heart shape about the deep and brilliant sapphire. They weren't cold, as the ones she had sold, but warmed by the rich blue fire they encircled.

  Holt watched the first tear fall with a great deal of discomfort. “If you don't like it, we can take it back. You can pick out what you want.”

  “It's beautiful.” She dashed a tear away with the back of her hand. “I'm sorry. I hate to cry. It's just so beautiful, and you bought it for me because you love me. And when I put it on—” she lifted drenched eyes to his “—I'm yours.”

  He dropped his brow to hers. Those were the words he'd wanted. The ones he'd needed. Taking the ring from the box, he slipped it onto her finger. “You're mine.” He kissed her fingers, then her lips. “I'm yours.” Bringing her close again, he remembered his grandfather's words. “Eternally.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Suzanna took the children to the shop with her in the morning. She couldn't tell the rest of her family the news until she'd gauged Alex's and Jenny's feel­ings. The day was bright and hot. Knowing it would be a busy one, she arrived a full hour before opening. Because they wanted to check the herbs they had planted, she took them into the greenhouse to look at the tender shoots.

  She let them argue for a while over whose plants would be the biggest or the best, supervising as they gave the shoots their morning drink.

  “Do you guys like Holt?” she asked casually, nerves drumming.

  “He's neat.” Alex was tempted to turn the sprayer on his sister, but he'd gotten in trouble the last time he'd indulged himself.

  “He plays with us sometimes.” Jenny danced from foot to foot, waiting her turn. “I like when he throws me up in the air.”

  “I like him, too.” Suzanna relaxed a little.

  “Does he throw you up in the air?” Jenny wanted to know.

  “No.” With a laugh, Suzanna ruffled her hair.

  “He could. He's got big muscles.” Reluctantly Alex passed the sprayer to his sister. “He let me feel them.” Screwing up his face, Alex flexed his own. Obliging, Suzanna pinched the tiny biceps.

  “Wow. You're pretty tough.”

  “That's what he said.”

  “I was wondering...” Suzanna wiped nervous hands on her jeans. “How would you feel if he lived with us, all the time?”

  “That'd be good,” Jenny decided. “He plays with us even when we don't ask.”

  One down, Suzanna thought and turned to her son. “Alex?”

  He shuffled his feet, frowning a little. “Are you going to get married like C.C. and Amanda?”

  Sharp little devil, she thought, and crouched down. “I was thinking about it. What do you think?”

  “Do I have to wear a dumb tuxedo again?”

  She smiled and stroked his cheek. “Probably.”

  “Is he going to be our uncle, like Trent and Sloan and Max?” Jenny asked.

  Suzanna got up to turn off the spray before an­swering her daughter. “No. He'd be your stepfather.”

  Brother and sister exchanged looks. “Would he still like us?”

  “Of course he would, Jenny.”

  “Would we have to go away and live someplace else?”

  She sighed and combed a hand through Alex's hair. “No. He would come to live with us at The Towers, or maybe we'd go and live with him at his cottage. We'd be a family.”

  Alex thought it over. “Would he be Kevin's step­father, too?”

  “No.” She had to kiss him. “Megan's Kevin's mom, and maybe one day she'll fall in love and get married. Then Kevin will have a father.”

  “Did you fall in love with Holt?” Jenny asked.

  “Yes, I did.” She felt Alex shift uncomfortably and smiled. “I'd like to marry him so we could all live together. But Holt and I both wanted to see how you felt about it.”

  “I like him,” Jenny announced. “He lets me ride on his shoulders.”

  Alex shrugged, a bit more cautious. “Maybe it's okay.”

  Concerned, Suzanna rose. “We can talk about it some more. Let's go set up.”

  They stepped out of the greenhouse just as Holt pulled up in the graveled lot. He knew he'd told her he'd wait until lunchtime, but he hadn't been able to. He'd awakened realizing he'd rather face another alley than those two kids who could so easily reject him. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and tried to look casual.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Suzanna wanted to reach out to him, but her children held her hands.

  “I thought I'd drop by and...how's it going?”

  Jenny gave him a shy smile and huddled closer to her mother. “Mom says you're going to get married and be our stepfather and live with us.”

  Holt had to knock back an urge to shuffle his feet. “That's the plan.”

  Alex tightened his fingers around Suzanna's as he stared up at Holt. “Are you going to yell at us?”

  After a quick glance at Suzanna, Holt stooped down until he was eye to eye with the boy. “Maybe. If you need it.”

  Alex trusted that answer more than he would have an unqualified no. “Do you hit?” He remembered the swats he'd received during his vacation. They'd in­sulted more than hurt, but he still resented it.

  Holt put a hand under the boy's chin and held it firm. “No,” he said, and the look in his eyes made Alex believe. “But I might hang you up by your thumbs, or boil you in oil. If I get really mad, I'll stake you to an anthill.”

  Alex's lips twitched, but he wasn't finished with the interrogation. “Are you going to make Mom cry like he did?”

  “Alex,” Suzanna began, but Holt cut her off.

  “I might sometimes, if I'm stupid. But not on pur­pose. I love her a lot, so I want to make her happy. Sometimes I might screw up.”

  Alex frowned and considered. “Are you going to do all that kissing stuff? Since Trent and Sloan and Max came, there's always kissing.”

  “Yeah.” Holt's face relaxed into a smile. “I'm going to do all that kissing stuff.”

  “But you won't like it,” Alex said, hopeful. “You'll just do it 'cause Mom likes it.”

  “Sorry, I like it, too.”

  “Jeez,” Alex muttered, deflated.

  “Do it now.” Jenny danced and giggled. “Do it now so I can see.”

  Willing to oblige, Holt straightened and pulled Su­zanna close. When he took his lips from Suzanna's, Alex was red faced and Jenny was clapping. “I hate to tell you,” Holt said soberly, “but one day you'll like it, too.”

  �
�Uh-uh. I'd rather eat dirt.”

  With a laugh, Holt hoisted him up, relieved and delighted when Alex slung a friendly arm around his neck. “Tell me that in ten years.”

  “I like it,” Jenny insisted, and tugged on his leg. “I like it now. Kiss me.” He hauled her in his other arm and kissed her tiny, waiting lips. She smiled, big blue eyes beaming. “You kissed Mom different.”

  “That's 'cause she's the mom and you're the kid.”

  She liked the way he smelted, the way his arm supported her. When she rubbed a hand over his cheek, she was a little disappointed that it was smooth today. “Can I call you Daddy?” she asked, and Holt felt his heart lurch in his chest.

  “I—ah—sure. If you want.”

  “Daddy's for babies,” Alex said in disgust. “But you can be Dad.”

  “Okay.” He looked over at Suzanna. “Okay.”

  Holt wished he could have spent the day with them, but there were things that had to be done. He had a family now—it stili dazed him—and he meant to pro­tect them. He'd already put in calls to his contacts in Portland and was awaiting the rundowns on the four names from Trent's list. While he waited, he put in calls to the Department of Motor Vehicles, the credit bureau and the Internal Revenue, stretching it a bit by giving his old badge number and rank.

  Between information and instinct, he whittled the four names down to two. While he waited for another call back, he read over his grandfather's diary.

  He understood the feelings beneath the words, the longing, the devption. He understood the rage his grandfather had felt when he'd learned the woman he loved had suffered abuse by the hands of the man she'd married. Was it coincidence or fate that his re­lationship with Suzanna had so many similarities to that of their ancestors? At least this time, the tale would have a happy ending.

  Suzanna's diamonds, he thought, drumming his fin­gers on the pages. Bianca's emeralds. Suzanna had hidden her jewels, the one material thing she felt be­longed to her from the marriage, as security for her children. He had to believe Bianca had done the same.

  So, where was the equivalent of Jenny's diaper bag? he wondered.

  When the phone rang, he snatched it up on the first ring. Before he hung up again. Holt had little doubt he had his man. Going into the bedroom, he checked his weapon, balancing the familiar weight in his hand. He strapped it to his calf.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was walking through the chaos of construction in the west wing. He found Sloan in what was a nearly completed two-level suite. There was a smell of new lumber and male sweat Sloan, in a tool belt and jeans, was supervising the construction of a new staircase.

  “I didn't know architects swung hammers,” Holt commented.

  Sloan grinned. “I got a personal interest in this job.”

  Nodding, Holt scanned the crew. “Which one's Marshall?”

  Alerted, Sloan unbuckled the tool belt. “He's up on the next level.”

  “I'd like to have a little talk with him.”

  Sloan's eyes flashed, but he merely nodded again. “I'll go with you.” He waited until they were out of range of the crew. “You think he's the one?”

  “Robert Marshall didn't apply for a Maine driver's license until six weeks ago. He's never paid taxes under the name and social security number he's using. Employers don't usually check with the DMV or IRS when they hire a laborer.”

  Sloan swore and flexed his fingers. He could still see Amanda racing along the terrace pursued by a man holding a gun. “I get first crack at him.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but you'll have to strap it in.”

  The hell he would, Sloan thought, and signaled the foreman. “Marshall,” he said briefly.

  “Bob?” The foreman pulled out a bandanna to wipe his neck. “You just missed him. I had him drive Rick into Emergency. Rick took a pretty good slice out of his thumb, figured he needed stitches.”

  “How long ago?” Holt demanded.

  “'Bout twenty minutes, I guess. Told them to take the rest of the day, since we're knocking off at four.” He stuffed the bandanna back into his pocket. “Prob­lem?”

  “No.” Sloan bit down on temper. “Let me know if Rick's okay.”

  “Sure thing.” He shouted at one of the carpenters, then lumbered off.

  “I need an address,” Holt said.

  “Trent's got the paperwork.” They started out. “Are you going to turn it over to Lieutenant Koogar?”

  “No,” Holt said simply.

  “Good.”

  They found Trent in the office he'd thrown together on the first floor, a stack of files at his fingertips, a phone at his ear. He took one look at the two men. “I'll get back to you,” he said into the phone and hung up. “Who is it?”

  “He's using the name Robert Marshall.” Holt pulled out a cigarette. “Foreman let him go early. I want an address.”

  Saying nothing, Trent crossed to a file cabinet to pull out a folder. “Max is upstairs. He has a stake in this, too.”

  Holt skimmed the information in Marshall's file. “Then get him. We'll do this together.”

  The apartment Marshall had listed was on the edge of the village. The woman who opened the door after Holt's third booming knock was bent and withered and out of sorts.

  “What? What?” she demanded. “I'm not buying any encyclopedias or vacuum cleaners.”

  “We're looking for Robert Marshall,” Holt told her.

  “Who? Who?” She peered through the thick lenses of her glasses.

  “Robert Marshall,” he repeated.

  “I don't know any Marshalls,” she grumbled. “There's a McNeilly next door and a Mitchell down below, but no Marshalls. I don't want to buy any insurance, either.”

  “We're not selling anything,” Trent said in his most patient voice. “We're looking for a man named Robert Marshall who lives at this address.”

  “I told you there's no Marshalls here. I live here. Lived here for fifteen years, since that worthless clot I married passed on and left me with nothing but bills. I know you,” she said abruptly, pointing a gnarled finger at Sloan. “Saw your picture in the paper.” Reaching to the table beside the door, she hefted an iron bookend. “You robbed a bank.”

  “No, ma'am.” Later, Sloan thought, much later, he might find the whole business amusing. “I married Amanda Calhoun.”

  The woman held on to the bookend while she con­sidered. “One of the Calhoun girls. That's right. The youngest one—no, not the youngest one, the next one.” Satisfied, she set the bookend down again. “Well, what do you want?”

  “Robert Marshall,” Holt said again. “He gave this building and this apartment as his address.”

  “Then he's a liar or a fool, because I've lived here for fifteen years ever since that no-account husband of mine caught pneumonia and died. Here one day, gone the next.” She snapped her bent fingers. “And good riddance.”

  Thinking it was a dead end, Holt glanced at Sloan. “Give her a description.”

  “He's about thirty, six feet tall, trim, black hair, shoulder length, big droopy moustache.”

  “Don't know him. The boy downstairs, the Pierson boy's got hair past his shoulders. A disgrace if you ask me. Bleaches it, too, just like a girl. He's no more'n sixteen. You'd think his mother would make him cut that hair, but no. Plays the music so loud I have to bang on the floor.”

  “Excuse me,” Max put in and described the man he had known as Ellis Caufield.

  “Sounds like my nephew. Lives in Rochester with his second wife. Sells used cars.”

  “Thanks.” Holt wasn't surprised the thief had given a phony address, but he was annoyed. As they came out of the building, he dug a quarter from his pocket.

  “I guess we wait until morning,” Max was saying. “He doesn't know we're onto him, so he'll show up for work.”

  “I'm finished waiting.” Holt headed for a phone booth. After dropping in the coin, he punched in num­bers. “This is Detective Sergeant Bradford, Portland P.D., badge numbe
r 7375.1 need a cross-check.” He reeled off the phone number from Marshall's file. Then he held on with a cop's patience while the op­erator set her computer to work. “Thanks.” He hung up and turned to the three men. “Bar Island,” he said. “We'll take my boat.”

  While their men prepared to sail across the bay, the Calhoun women met in Bianca's tower. “So,” Amanda began, pad and pencil at the ready. “What do we know?”

  “Trent's been cross-checking the personnel files,” C.C. supplied. “He claimed there was some hitch in withholding taxes, but that's bull.”

  “Interesting,” Lilah mused. “Max stopped me from going over to the west wing this morning. I'd wanted to see how things were going, and he made all kinds of lame excuses why I shouldn't distract the men while they were working.”

  “And Sloan shoved a couple of files into a drawer, and locked it when I came into the room last night.” Amanda tapped her pencil on the pad. “Why wouldn't they want us to know if they're checking up on the crews?”

  “I think I have an idea,” Suzanna said slowly. She'd been chewing it over most of the day. “Last night I found out that Holt's cottage had been broken into and searched.”

  Her three sisters pounced on that, hammering her with questions.

  “Just wait.” She lifted a hand. “He was irritated with me, which is why it came out. He was even more irritated that it had. But he did tell me, because he wanted to scare me into backing off, that he was cer­tain it was Livingston.”

  “Which means,” Amanda concluded, “that our old friend knows Holt's connected. Who else knows besides us?” In her organized way, she began to list names.

  “Oh, stop fussing,” Lilah said with a negligent wave of her hand. “No one knows except the family. None of us have mentioned it outside of this house.”

  “Maybe he found out the same way Max did,” C.C. suggested. “From the library.”

  “Max checked out the books.” Lilah shook her head. “Maybe he found the information in the papers he stole from us.”

  “It's possible.” Amanda noted it down. “But he's had the papers for weeks. When did he break into the cottage?”

  “A couple weeks ago, but I don't think he made the connection that way. I think he got it from us.”

  There was an instant argument. Suzanna stood, throwing up both hands to cut it off. “Listen, we're agreed that none of us have discussed this outside of the house. And we're agreed that the men are trying to keep us from finding out they're checking out the crews. Which means—”

  “Which means,” Amanda interrupted and shut her eyes. “The bastard's working for us. Like a fly on the wall, so he can pick up little pieces of information, poke around the house. We're so used to seeing guys hauling lumber, we wouldn't give him a second look.”

  “I think Holt already came to that conclusion.” Suzanna lifted her hands again. “The question is, what do we do about it?”

  “We give the construction boys a thrill tomorrow, and visit the west wing.” Lilah straightened from the window seat. “I don't care what he's made himself look like this time, I'll know him if I get close enough.” With that settled, she sat back. “Now, Su­zanna, why don't you tell us when bad boy Bradford asked you to marry him?”

  Suzanna grinned. “How did you know?”

  “For an ex-cop, he's got great taste in jewelry.” She took Suzanna's hand to show off the ring to her other sisters.

  “Last night,” she said as she was hugged and kissed and wept over. “We told