Suzanna's Surrender tcw-4

by Nora Roberts

  He only tightened his grip when she tried to draw away. “We'll get to it. You know, I've thought about kissing you for fifteen years.” He watched the faint smile fade away from her face and the alarm shoot into her eyes. He didn't mind it. It might be best for both of them if she was afraid of him. “That's a long time to think about anything.”

  He released one hand, but before she could let out a sigh of relief, he had cupped the back of her neck. His fingers were firm, his grip determined. “I'm just going to get it out of my system.”

  She didn't have time to refuse. He was quick. Before she could deny or protest, his mouth was on hers, covering and conquering. There was nothing soft about him. His mouth, his hands, his body when he pulled her against him, were hard and demanding. The swift frisson of fear had her lifting a hand to push against his shoulder. She might as well have tried to move a boulder.

  Then the fear turned to an ache. She fisted her hand against him, forced to fight herself now rather than him.

  She was taut as a wire. He could feel her nerves sizzle and snap as he clamped her against him. He knew it was wrong, unfair, even despicable, but damn it, he needed to wipe out this fever that continued to burn in him. He needed to convince himself that she was just another woman, that his fantasies of her were only remnants of a boy's foolish dreams.

  Then she shuddered. A soft, yielding sound followed. And her lips parted beneath his in irresistible and avid invitation. Swearing, he plunged, dragging her head back by the hair so that he could take more of what she so mindlessly offered.

  Her mouth was a banquet, and he too racked with hunger to stem the greed. He could smell her hair, fresh as rainwater, her skin, seductively musky with heat and labor, and the rich and primitive fragrance of earth newly turned. Each separate scent slammed into his system, pumping through his blood, roaring through his head to churn a need he'd hoped to dispel.

  She couldn't breathe, or think. All of the weighty and worrisome cares she carried in her vanished. In their place, rioting sensations sprinted. The tensed ripple of muscle under her fingers, the hot and desperate taste of his mouth, the thunder of her heartbeat that raced with dizzying speed. She was wrapped around him now, her fingers digging in, her body straining, her mouth as urgent and impatient as his.

  It had been so long since she had been touched. So long since she had tasted a man's desire on her lips. So long since she had wanted any man. But she wanted now – to feel his hands on her, rough and demanding, to have his body cover hers on the soft, sunny grass. To be wild and willful and wanton until this clawing ache was soothed.

  The sheer power of that want ripped through her, tearing through her lips in a sobbing moan.

  His fingers were curled into her shirt, had nearly ripped it aside before he caught himself, cursed himself. And released her. Her shallow ragged breaths were both condemnation and seduction as he forced himself to pull away. Her eyes had gone to cobalt and were wide with shock.

  Small wonder, he thought in livid self-disgust. The woman had nearly been shoved to the ground and ravished in broad daylight.

  Her lashes lowered before he could see the shame. “I hope you feel better now.”

  “No.” His hands were far from steady, so he curled them into fists. “I don't”

  She didn't look at him, couldn't. Nor could she afford to think, just at this moment, of what she had done. To comfort herself she began to spread mulch around the newly planted bush. “If it stays dry, you'll have to water this regularly until it's established.”

  For a second time, he gripped her hands. This time she jolted. “Aren't you going to belt me?”

  Using well – honed control, she relaxed and looked up. There was something in her eyes, something dark and passionate, but her voice was very calm. “There doesn't seem to be much point in that. I'm sure you're of the opinion that a woman like me would be... needy.”

  “I wasn't thinking about your needs when I kissed you. It was a purely selfish act, Suzanna. I'm good at being selfish.”

  Because his grip was light, she slipped her hands from under his. “I'm sure you are.” She brushed her palms on her thighs before she rose. The only thought in her head was of getting away, but she made herself load the wheelbarrow calmly. Until he gripped her arm and whirled her around.

  “What the hell is this?” His eyes were stormy, his voice as rough as his hands. He wanted her to rage at him – needed it to soothe his conscience. “I all but took you on the ground, without giving a hell of a lot of consideration to whether you'd have liked it or not, and now you're going to load up your cart and go away?”

  She was very much afraid she would have liked it. That was why it was imperative that she stay very calm and very controlled. “If you want to pick a fight or a casual lover. Holt, you've come to the wrong person. My children are expecting me home, and I'm very tired of being grabbed.”

  Yes, her voice was calm, he thought, even firm, but her arm was trembling lightly under his hold. There was something here, he realized, some secrets she held behind those sad and beautiful eyes. The same stubbornness that had had him pursuing his gold shield made it essential that he discover them.

  “Grabbed in general, or just by me?”

  “You're the one doing the grabbing.” Her patience was wearing thin. The Calhoun temper was always difficult to control. “I don't like it.”

  “That's too bad, because I have a feeling I'm going to be doing a lot more of it before we're through.”

  “Maybe I haven't made myself clear. We are through.” She shook loose and grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow.

  He simply put his weight on it to stop her. He wasn't sure if she realized she'd just issued an irresistible challenge. His grin came slowly. “Now you're getting mad.”

  “Yes. Does that make you feel better?”

  “Quite a bit. I'd rather have you claw at me than crawl off like a wounded bird.”

  “I'm not crawling anywhere,” she said between her teeth. “I'm going home.”

  “You forgot your shovel,” he told her, still grinning.

  She snatched it up and tossed it into the wheelbarrow with a clatter. “Thanks.”

  “You're welcome.”

  He waited until she'd gone about ten feet. “Suzanna.”

  She slowed but didn't stop, and tossed a look over her shoulder. “What?” “I'm sorry.”

  Her temper eased a bit as she shrugged. “Forget it.”

  “No.” He dipped his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I'm sorry I didn't kiss you like that fifteen years ago.”

  Swearing under her breath, she quickened her pace. When she was out of sight, he glanced back at the bush. Yeah, he thought, he was sorry as hell, but planned to make up for lost time.

  She needed some time to herself. That wasn't a commodity Suzanna found very often in a house as filled with people as The Towers. But just now, with the moon on the rise and the children in bed, she took a few precious moments alone.

  It was a clear night, and the heat of the day had been replaced by a soft breeze that was scented with the sea and roses. From her terrace she could see the dark shadow of the cliffs that always drew her. The distant murmur of water was a lullaby, as sweet as the call of a night bird from the garden.

  Tonight it wouldn't ease her into sleep. No matter how tired her body was, her mind was too restless. It didn't seem to matter how often she told herself she had nothing to worry about. Her children were safely tucked into bed, dreaming about the day's adventures. Her sisters were happy. Each one of them had found her place in the world, just as each one of them had found a mate who loved her for who and what she was. Aunt Coco was happy and healthy and looking forward to the day when she would become head chef of The Towers Retreat.

  Her family, always Suzanna's chief concern, was content and settled. The Towers, the only real home she'd ever known, was no longer in danger of being sold, but would remain the Calhoun home. It was pointless to worry about the e
meralds. The family was doing all that could be done to find the necklace.

  If they hadn't been exploring every avenue, she would never have gone to Holt Bradford. Her ringers curled on the stone wall. That, she thought, had been a useless exercise. He was Christian Bradford's grandson, but he didn't feel the connection. It was obvious that the past held no interest for him. He thought only about the moment, about himself, about his own comfort and pleasures.

  Catching herself, Suzanna sighed and forced herself to relax her hands. If only he hadn't made her so angry. She despised losing her temper, and it had come dangerously close to breaking loose that day. It was her own fault, and her own problem that something else had broken loose.

  Needs. She didn't want to need anyone but her family – the family she could love and depend on and worry about. She'd already learned a painful lesson about needing a man, one man. She didn't intend to repeat it.

  He'd kissed her on impulse, she reminded herself. It had been a kind of dare to himself. There had certainly been no affection in it, no softness, no romance. The fact that it had stirred her was strictly chemical. She'd cut herself off from men for more than two years. And the last year or so of her marriage – well, there had been no affection, softness or romance there, either. She'd learned to do without those things when it came to men. She could continue to do without them.

  If only she hadn't responded to him so...blatantly. He might as well have knocked her over the head with a club and dragged her into a cave by the hair for all the finesse he'd shown. Yet she had thrown herself into the moment, clinging to him, answering those hard and demanding lips with a fervor she'd never been able to show her own husband.

  By doing so, she'd humiliated herself and amused Holt. Oh, the way he had grinned at her at the end had had her steaming for hours afterward. That was her problem, too, she thought now. Just as it was her problem that she could still taste him…

  Perhaps she shouldn't be so hard on herself. As embarrassing as the moment had been, it had proved something. She was still alive. She wasn't the cold shell of a woman that Bax had tossed so carelessly aside. She could feel, and want.

  Glosing her eyes, she pressed a hand to her stomach. Want too much, it seemed. It was like a hunger, and the kiss, like a crust of bread after a long fast, had stirred the juices. She could be glad of that – to feel something again besides remorse and disillusionment. And feeling it, she could control it. Pride would prevent her from avoiding Holt. Just as pride would save her from any new humiliation.

  She was a Calhoun, she reminded herself. Calhoun women went down fighting. If she had to deal with Holt again in order to widen the trail to the emeralds, then she would deal with him. She would never, never let herself be dismissed and destroyed by a man again. He hadn't seen the last of her.

  “Suzanna, there you are.”

  Her thoughts scattered as she turned to see her aunt striding through the terrace doors. “Aunt Coco.”

  “I'm sorry, dear, but I knocked and knocked. Your light was on so I just peeked in.”

  “That's all right.” Suzanna slipped an arm around Coco's sturdy waist. This was a woman she'd loved for most of her life. A woman who had been mother and father to her for more than fifteen years. “I was lost in the night, I guess. It's so beautiful.”

  Coco murmured an agreement and said nothing for a moment. Of all of her 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 conversations 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.