Suzanna's Surrender

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 still 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 number 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 the kids this morning.”

“Aunt Coco's going to go through the roof.” C.C. gave Suzanna another squeeze. “All four of us in a matter of months. She'll be in matchmaker heaven.”

“All we need now is to get that creep behind bars and find the emeralds.” Amanda dashed a tear away. “Oh, no! Do you realize what this means?”

“It means you have to organize another wedding,” Suzanna answered.

“Not just that. It means we're going to be stuck with Aunt Colleen at least until the last handful of rice gets tossed.”

Holt returned to The Towers in a foul mood. They'd found the house. Empty. They had no doubt that Livingston was living there. Bending the law more than a little, he had broken in and given the place as meticulous a search as Livingston had given his cottage. They'd found the stolen Calhoun papers, the lists the thief had made and a copy of the original blueprints of The Towers.

They'd also found a typed copy of each woman's weekly schedule, along with handwritten comments that left no doubt as to the fact that Livingston had followed and observed each one of them. There was a well – ordered inventory of the rooms he had searched and the items he'd felt valuable enough to steal.

They had waited an hour for his return, then uneasy about leaving the women alone, had phoned in the information to Koogar. While the police staked out the rented house on Bar Island, Holt and his companions returned to The Towers.

It was only a matter of waiting now. That was something he had learned to do well in his years on the force. But now it wasn't a job, and every moment grated.

“Oh, my dear, dear boy.” Coco flew at him the moment he stepped into the house. He caught her by her sturdy hips as she covered his face with kisses.

“Hey,” was all he could manage as she wept against his shoulder. Her hair, he noted, was no longer gleaming black but fire – engine red. “What'd you do to your hair?”

“Oh, it was time for a change.” She drew back to blow her nose into her hankie, then fell into his arms again. Helpless, he patted her back and looked at the grinning men around him for assistance.

“It looks okay,” he assured her, wondering if that was what she was weeping about. “Really.”

“You like it?” She pulled back again, fluffing at it. “I thought I needed a bit of dash, and red's so cheerful.” She buried her face in the soggy hankie. “I'm so happy,” she sobbed. “So very happy. I had hoped, you see. And the tea leaves indicated that it would all work out, but I couldn't help but worry. She's had such a dreadful time, and her sweet little babies, too. Now everything's going to be all right. I'd thought it might be Trent, but he and C.C. were so perfect. Then Sloan and Amanda. Then almost before I could blink, our dear Max and Lilah. Is it any wonder I'm overwhelmed?”

“I guess not.”

“To think, all those years ago when you'd bring lobsters to the back door. And that time you changed a tire for me and were too proud to even let me thank you. And now, now, you're going to marry my baby.”

“Congratulations.” Trent grinned and slapped Holt on the back while Max dug out a fresh handkerchief for Coco.

“Welcome to the family.” Sloan offered a hand. “I guess you know what you're getting into.”

Holt studied the weeping Coco. “I'm getting the picture.”

“Stop all that caterwauling.” Colleen clumped down the stairs. “I could hear you wailing all the way up in my room. For heaven's sake, take that mess into the kitchen.” She gestured with her cane. “Pour some tea into her until she pulls herself together. Out, all of you,” she added. “I want to talk to this boy here.”

Like rats deserting a sinking ship, Holt thought as they left him alone. Gesturing for him to follow, Colleen strode into the parlor.

“So, you think you're going to marry my grand – niece.” “No. I am going to marry her.”

She sniffed. Damned if she didn't like the boy. “I'll tell you this, if you don't do better by her than that scum she had before, you'll answer to me.” She settled into a chair. “What are your prospects?”

“My what?”

“Your prospects,” she said impatiently. “Don't think you're going to latch on to my money when you latch on to her.”

His eyes narrowed, pleasing her. “You can take your money and –”

“Very good,” she said with an approving nod. “How do you intend to keep her?”

“She doesn't need to be kept.” He whirled around the room. “And she doesn't need you or anyone else poking into her business. She's managed just fine on her own, better than tine. She came out of hell and managed to put her life together, take care of the kids and start a business. The only thing that's going to change is that she's going to stop working herself into the ground, and the kids'll have someone who wants to be their father. Maybe I won't be able to give her diamonds and take her to fancy dinner parties, but I'll make her happy.”

Colleen tapped her fingers on the head of her cane. “You'll do. If your grandfather was anything like you, it's no wonder my mother loved him. So...” She started to rise, then saw the portrait over the mantel. Where her father's stern face had been was her mother's lovely one. “What's that doing there?”

Holt dipped his hands into his pockets. “It seemed to me that was where it belonged. That's where my grandfather would have wanted it.”

Colleen eased herself back into the chair. “Thank you.” Her voice was strained, but her eyes remained fierce. “Now go away. I want to be alone.”

He left her, amazed that he was growing fond of her. Though he didn't look forward to another scene, he started toward the kitchen to ask Coco where he could find Suzanna.

But he found her himself, following the music that drifted down the hall. She was sitting at a piano, playing some rich, haunting melody he didn't recognize. Though the music was sad, there was a smile on her lips and one in her eyes. When she looked up, her fingers stilled, but the smile remained.

“I didn't know you played.”

“We all had lessons. I was the only one they stuck with.” She reached out a hand for his. “I was hoping we'd have a minute alone, so I could tell you how wonderful you were with the kids this morning.”

With his fingers meshed with hers, he studied the ring he'd given her. “I was nervous.” He laughed a little. “I didn't know how they'd take it. When Jenny asked if she could call me Daddy...it's funny how fast you can fall in love. Suzanna.” He kept toying with her hands, studying the ring. “I think I understand now what a parent would feel, what he'd go through to make sure his kids were safe. I'd like to have more. I know you'd need to think about it, and I don't want you to feel that I would care less about Alex and Jenny.”

“I don't have to think about it.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I've always wanted a big family.”

He drew her close so her head rested on his shoulder. “Suzanna, do you know where the nursery was when Bianca lived here?”

“On the third floor of the east wing. It's been used as a storeroom as long as I can remember.” She straightened. “You think she hid the necklace there?”

“I think she hid them somewhere Fergus wouldn't look, and I can't see him spending a lot of time in the nursery.”

“No, but you'd think someone would have come across them. I don't know why I say that,” she corrected. “The place is filled with boxes and old furniture. The Tower's version of a garage sale.”

“Show me.”

It was worse than he'd imagined. Even overlooking the cobwebs and dust, it was a mess. Boxes, crates, rolled – up rugs, broken tables, shadeless lamps stood, sat or reclined over every inch of space. Speechless, he turned to Suzanna who offered a sheepish grin.

“A lot of stuff collects in eighty – odd years,” she told him. “Most of what's valuable's been culled out, and a lot of that was sold when we were – well, when things were difficult. This floor's been closed off for a long time, since we couldn't afford to heat it. We had to concentrate on keeping up the living space. Once we got everything under some kind of control, we were going to kind of attack the other sections a room at a time.”

“You need a bulldozer.”

“No, just time and elbow grease. We had plenty of the latter, but not nearly enough of the former. Over the last couple of months, we've gone through a lot of the old rooms, inch by inch, but it's a slow process.”

“Then we might as well get started.”

They worked for two grueling and dirty hours. They found a tattered parasol, an amazing collection of nineteenth – century erotica, a trunk full of musty clothes from the twenties and a box of warped phonograph records. There was also a crate filled with toys, a miniature locomotive, a sad, faded rag doll, assorted yo-yos and tops. Among them were a set of lovely old fairy – tale prints that Suzanna set aside.

“For our nursery,” she told him. “Look.” She held up a yellow christening gown. “It might have been my grandfather's.”

“You'd have thought this stuff would have been packed up with more care.”

“I don't think Fergus ran a very tidy household after Bianca died. If any of this stuff belonged to his children, I'd wager the nanny bundled it away. He wouldn't have cared enough.”

“No.” He pulled a cobweb out of her hair. “Listen, why don't you take a break?”

“I'm fine.”

It was useless to remind her that she'd been working all day, so he used another tactic. “I could use a drink. You think Coco's got anything cold in the refrigerator – maybe a sandwich to go with it?”

“Sure. I'll go check.”

He knew that her aunt would insist on putting the quick meal together, and Suzanna would get that much time to sit and do nothing. “Two sandwiches,” he added, and kissed her.

“Right.” She rose, stretching her back. “It's sad to think about those three children, lying in here at night knowing their mother wasn't going to come and tuck them in again. Speaking of which, I'd better tuck in my own before I come back.”

“Take your time.” He was already headfirst in another crate.

She started out, thinking wistfully of Bianca's babies. Little Sean, who'd barely have been toddling, Ethan, who would grow up to father her father, Colleen, who was even now downstairs surely rinding fault with something Coco had done. How the woman had ever been a sweet little girl...

A little girl, Suzanna thought, stopping on the second – floor landing. The oldest girl who would have been five or six when her mother died. Suzanna detoured and knocked on her great – aunt's door.

“Come in, damn it. I'm not getting up.”

“Aunt Colleen.” She stepped, amused to see the old woman was engrossed in a romance novel. “I'm sorry to disturb you.”

“Why? No one else is.”

Suzanna bit the tip of her tongue. “I was just wondering, the summer...that last summer, were you still in the nursery with your brothers?”

“I wasn't a baby, no need for a nursery.”

“So you had your own room,” Suzanna prompted, struggling to contain the excitement. “Near the nursery?”

“At the other end of the east wing. There was the nursery, then Nanny's room, the children's bath, and the three rooms kept for children of guests. I had the corner room at the top of the stairs.” She frowned down at her book. “The next summer, I moved into one of the guest rooms. I didn't want to sleep in the room my mother had decorated for me, knowing she wouldn't come back to it.”

“I'm sorry. When Bianca told you that you were going away, did she come to your room?”

“Yes. She let me pick out a few of my favorite dresses, then she packed them herself.”

“Then after – I suppose they were unpacked again.”

“I never wore those dresses again. I never wanted to. Shoved the trunk under my bed.”

“I see.” So there was hope. “Thank you.”

“Moth – eaten by now,” Colleen grumbled as Suzanna went out again. She thought of her favorite white muslin with its blue satin sash and with a sigh got up to walk to the terrace.

Dusk was coming early, she thought. Storm brewing. She could smell it in the wind, see it in the bad – tempered clouds already blocking the sun.

Suzanna raced up the stairs again. The sandwiches would have to wait. She pushed open the door of Colleen's old room. It too had been consigned to storage, but being smaller than the nursery wasn't as cramped. The wallpaper, perhaps the same that Bianca had picked for her daughter, was faded and spotted, but Suzanna could still see the delicate pattern of rosebuds and violets.

She didn't bother with the cases or boxes, but dragged or pushed them aside. She was looking for a traveling trunk, suitable for a young girl. What better place? she thought as she pushed aside a crate marked Winter Draperies. Fergus hadn't cared for his daughter. He would hardly have bothered to look through a trunk of dresses, particularly when that trunk had been shoved out of sight by a traumatized young girl.

It had no doubt been opened in later years. Perhaps someone – Suzanna's own mother? – had shaken out a dress or two, then finding them quaint but useless, had designated them to storage.

It could be anywhere, of course, she mused. But what better place to start than the source?

Her heart pounded dully as she stumbled across an old leather – strapped truck. Pulling it open, she found bolts of material carefully folded in tissue. But no little girl's dresses. And no emeralds.

Because the light was growing dim, she rose and started toward the door. She would get Holt, and a flashlight, before continuing. In the gloom, she rapped her shin sharply. Swearing, she looked down and saw the small trunk.

It had once been a glistening white, but now it was dull with age and dust. It had been shoved to the side, piled with other boxes and nearly hidden by them and a faded tapestry. Kneeling in the half – light, Suzanna uncovered it. She flexed her unsteady fingers then opened the lid.

There was a smell of lavender, sealed inside perhaps for decades. She lifted the first dress, a frilly white muslin, going ivory with time and banded by a faded blue satin sash. Suzanna set it carefully aside and drew out another. There were leggings and ribbons, pretty bows and a lacy nightie. And there, at the bottom, beside a small stuffed bear, a box and a book.

Suzanna put a trembling hand to her lips, then slowly reached down to lift the book.

Her journal, she thought as tears misted her eyes. Bianca's journal. Hardly daring to breathe, she turned the first page.

Suzanna let out an unsteady breath and laid the book in her lap. This was not for her to read alone. It would wait for her family. Heart pounding, she reached down to take the box from the trunk. She knew before she opened it. She could feel the change in the room, the trembling of the air. As the first tear slid down her cheek, she opened the lid and uncovered Bianca's emeralds.

They pulsed like green suns, throbbing with life and passion. She lifted the necklace, the glorious three tiers, and felt the heat on her hands. Hidden eighty years before, in hope and desperation, they were now free. The gloom that filled the room was no match for them.

As she knelt, the necklace dripping from her fingers, she reached into the box and took out the matching earrings. Strange, she thought. She'd all but forgotten them. They were lovely, exquisite, but the necklace dominated. It was made to dominate.

Stunned, she stared down at the power in her hands. They weren't just gems, she realized. They were far from being simply beautiful stones. They were Bianca's passions and hopes and dreams. From the time she had placed them in the box until now, when they had been lifted out by her descendant, they had waited to see the light again.

“Oh, Bianca.”

“A charming sight.”

Her head jerked up at the voice. He stood in the doorway, hardly more than a shadow. When he stepped into the room, she saw the glint of the gun in his hand.

“Patience pays off,” Livingston said. “I watched you and the cop go into the room down the hall. I've been losing quite a bit of sleep wandering these rooms at night.”

As he came closer, she stared at him. He didn't look like the man she remembered. His coloring was wrong, even the shape of his face. She rose very slowly, clutching the book and earrings in one hand, the necklace in the other.

“You don't recognize me. But I know you. I know all of you. You're Suzanna, just one of the Calhouns who owes me quite a bit.” “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Three months of my time, and not a little trouble. Then there was the loss of Hawkins, of course. He wasn't much of a partner, but he was mine. Just as those are mine.” He looked down at the necklace and his mouth watered. They dazzled him. More than he had dreamed, more than he had imagined. Everything he wanted. His fingers trembled lightly on the gun as he reached out. Suzanna jerked away. He lifted a brow. “Do you really think you can keep them from me? They're meant to be mine. And when they are, everything they are will be mine.”

He stepped closer, and as she looked around for the best route of escape, his hand closed over her hair. “Some stones have power,” he told her softly. “Tragedy seeps into them, making them stronger. Death and grief. It hones them. Hawkins didn't understand that, but he was a simple man.”

And the one she was facing was a mad one. “The necklace belongs to the Calhouns. It always has. It always will.”

He jerked her hair hard and fast She would have yelped, but the gun was now pressed against the racing pulse in her throat. “It belongs to me. Because I've been clever enough, I've been determined enough to wait for it. The moment I read about it, I knew. Now tonight, it's done.”

She wasn't certain what she would have done – given it to him, tried to reason. But at the moment, her little girl moved into the doorway. “Mom.” Her voice trembled as she rubbed her eyes. “It's thundering. You're supposed to come get me when it thunders.”

It happened fast. He turned, swinging the gun. With all her strength, Suzanna hurled herself at him, blocking his aim. “Run!” she screamed to Jenny. “Run down the hall to Holt.” She shoved, and raced after her daughter. The decision had to be made the minute she hit the doorway. As she watched Jenny streak toward the right and – she hoped – safety, Suzanna plunged in the opposite direction.

He would follow her, not the child, she told herself.

Because she still had the necklace. The next decision had to be made at the steps. To go down to her family and risk them. Or to go up, alone.

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard him pounding behind her. She jerked in shock as a bullet plowed into the plaster an inch from her shoulder.

Breathless, she streaked up, only now hearing the boom of thunder that had frightened Jenny and made her look for her mother. Her single thought was to put as much distance between the madman behind her and her child. Her feet clattered on the winding metal staircase that led to Bianca's tower.

His fingers darted through the open treads and snatched at her ankle. With a sound of terror and fury, she kicked out, dislodging them, then stumbled up the rest of the way. The door was shut. She nearly wept as she threw her weight against the thick wood. It gave, with painful slowness, then allowed her to fall inside. But before she could slam it closed, he was hurtling in.

She braced, certain it would be only seconds before she felt the bullet. He was panting, sweating, his eyes glazed. At the corner of his mouth, a muscle ticked and jerked. “Give it to me.” The gun shook as he advanced on her. A flash of lightning had him looking wildly around the shadowy room. “Give it to me now.”

He's afraid, she realized. Of this room. “You've been in here before.”

He had, only once, and had run out again, terrified. There was something here, something that hated him.

It crawled cold as ice along his skin. “Give me the necklace, or I'll just kill you and take it.”

“This was her room,” Suzanna murmured, keeping her eyes on his. “Bianca's room. She died when her husband threw her from that window.”

Unable to resist, he looked at the glass, dark with gloom, then away again.

“She still comes here, to wait, and to watch the cliffs.” She heard, as she had known she would, the sound of Holt racing up the steps. “She's here now. Take them.” She held the emeralds out. “But she won't let you leave with them.”

His face was bone white and sheened with sweat as he reached for the necklace. He gripped it, but rather than the heat Suzanna had felt, he felt only cold. And a terror.

“They're mine now.” He shivered and stumbled.

“Suzanna,” Holt said quietly from the doorway. “Move away from him.” His weapon was drawn, gripped in both hands. “Move away,” he repeated. “Slow.”

She took one step back, then two, but Livingston paid no attention to her. He was wiping his gun hand over his dry lips.

“It's over,” Holt told him. “Drop the gun, kick it aside.” But Livingston continued to stare at the necklace, breathing raggedly. “Drop it.” Braced, Holt moved closer. “Get out, Suzanna.”

“No, I'm not leaving you.”

He didn't have time to swear at her. Though he was prepared to kill, he could see that the man was no longer concerned with his weapon, or with escape.

Instead, Livingston merely stared down at the emeralds and trembled.

With his eyes trained on Livingston, Holt reached up to grasp the wrist of his gun hand. “It's over,” he said again.

“It's mine.” Wild with rage and fear, Livingston lunged. He fired once into the ceiling before Holt disarmed him. Even then he struggled, but the struggle was brief. With the next crash of thunder, he howled, striking out wildly even as the others raced into the room. Disoriented or terrified, stunned by Holt's blow to his jaw or no longer sane, he whirled.

There, was the crash of breaking glass. Then a sound Suzanna would never forget. A man's horrified scream. Even as Holt leaped forward to try to save him, Livingston pinwheeled through the broken window and tumbled to the rain swept rock below.

“My God.” Suzanna pressed back against the wall, her hands over her mouth to stop her own screams. There were arms around her, a babble of voices.

Her family poured into the tower room. She bent to her children, pressing kisses on their cheeks. “It's all right,” she soothed. “It's all right now. There's nothing to be afraid of.” She looked up at Holt. He stood facing her, the black space at his back, the glitter of emeralds at his feet. “Everything's all right now. I'm going to take you downstairs.”

Holt pushed the gun back in its holster. “We'll take them down.”

An hour later, when the children were soothed and sleeping, he took her by the arm and pulled her out on the terrace. All the fear and rage he'd felt since Jenny had run crying down the hallway came pouring out.

“What the hell do you think you were doing?”

“I had to keep him away from Jenny.” She thought she was calm, but her hands began to shake. “I suddenly had an idea about the emeralds. It was so simple, really. And I found them. Then he was there – and Jenny. He had a gun, and God, oh God, I thought he would kill her.”

“All right, all right,” Holt said. Suzanna didn't choke back the tears this time, but clung to him as they shuddered out of her. “The kids are fine, Suzanna. Nobody's going to hurt them. Or you.”

“I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't trying to be brave or stupid.”

“You were both. I love you.” He framed her face in his hands and kissed her. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” She sniffled a little and wiped her eyes. “He chased me up there, and then...he snapped. You saw how he was when you came in.”

“Yeah.” Two feet away from her, with a gun in his hand. Holt's fingers tightened on her shoulders. “Don't you ever scare me like that again.”

“It's a deal.” She rubbed her cheek against his, for comfort and for love. “It's really over now, isn't it?”

He kissed the top of her head. “It's just beginning.”