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  The Calhouns Collection

  Courting Catherine

  A Man for Amanda

  For the Love of Lilah

  Suzanna's Surrender

  Megan's Mate

  Nora Roberts

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  The MacGregors

  Playing the Odds

  Tempting Fate

  All the Possibilities

  One Man’s Art

  For Now, Forever

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  The Perfect Neighbor

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  The Calhouns

  Courting Catherine

  A Man for Amanda

  For the Love of Lilah

  Suzanna’s Surrender

  Megan’s Mate

  Irish Legacy Trilogy

  Irish Thoroughbred

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  Nora Roberts & J. D. Robb

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  Naked in Death

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  Holiday in Death

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  Judgment in Death

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  Seduction in Death

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  Purity in Death

  Portrait in Death

  Imitation in Death

  Divided in Death

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  Survivor in Death

  Origin in Death

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  Innocent in Death

  Creation in Death

  Strangers in Death

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  New York to Dallas

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  Anthologies

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  A Little Magic

  A Little Fate

  Moon Shadows

  (with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

  The Once Upon Series

  (with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

  Once Upon a Castle

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  (with Susan Plunkett, Dee Holmes, and Claire Cross)

  Out of This World

  (with Laurell K. Hamilton, Susan Krinard, and Maggie Shayne)

  Bump in the Night

  (with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

  Dead of Night

  (with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

  Three in Death

  Suite 606

  (with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

  In Death

  The Lost

  (with Patricia Gaffney, Mary Blayney, and Ruth Ryan Langan)

  The Other Side

  (with Mary Blayney, Patricia Gaffney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

  The Unquiet

  (with Mary Blayney, Patricia Gaffney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

  Also available . . .

  The Official Nora Roberts Companion

  (edited by Denise Little and Laura Hayden)

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  COURTING CATHERINE

  An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Harlequin Books edition / May 1991

  InterMix eBook edition / July 2012

  Copyright © 1991 by Nora Roberts.

  Excerpt from A Man for Amanda copyright © 1991 by Nora Roberts.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-56950-4

  INTERMIX

  InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Dedication

  To Maxine

  For being my friend as well as my sister

  Contents

  Also by Nora Roberts

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Prologue

  Bar Harbor, Maine

  June 12, 1912—

  I saw him on the cliffs overlooking Frenchman Bay. He was tall and dark and young. Even from a distance, as I walked with little Ethan’s hand in mine, I could see the defiant set of his shoulders. He held the brush as though it were a saber, his palette like a shield. Indeed it seemed to me that he was dueling with his canvas rather than painting on it. So deep was his concentration, so fast and fierce the flicks of his wrist, one would have thought his life depended on what he created there.

  Perhaps it did.

  I thought it odd, even amusing. My image of artists had always been one of gentle souls who see things we mortals cannot, and suffer in their quest to create them for us.

  Yet I knew, before he turned and looked at me, that I would not see a gentle face.

  It seemed that he was the product of an artist himself. A rough sculptor who had shorn away at an oak slab, carving out a high brow, dark hooded eyes, a long straight nose and full sensual mouth. Even the sweep of his hair might have been hewn from some ebony wood.

  How he stared at me! Even now I can feel the heat rise to my face and the dampness spring to my palms. The wind was in his hair, sweet and moist from the sea, and it ruffled the loose shirt he wore that was splattered and streaked from his paint. With the rocks and sky at his back, he looked very proud, very angry, as if he owned this jut of land—or the entire island—and I was the intruder.

  He stood in silence for what seemed like forever, his eyes so intense, so fierce somehow that my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. Then little Ethan began to babble and tug at my hand. The angry glare in his eyes softened. He smiled. I know a heart does not stop at such moments. And yet . . .

  I found myself stammering, apologizing for the intrusion, lifting Ethan into my arms before my bright and curious little boy could rush forward toward the rocks.

  He said, “Wait.”

  And taking up pad and pencil, began to sketch as I stood immobile and trembling for reasons I cannot fathom. Ethan stilled and smiled, somehow as mesmerized by the man as I. I could feel the sun on my back and the wind on my face, could smell the water and the wild roses.

  “Your hair should be loose,” he said, and, putting the pencil aside, walked toward me. “I’ve painted sunsets that were less dramatic.” He reached out and touched Ethan’s bright red hair. “You share the color with your young brother.”

  “My son.” Why was my voice so breathless? “He is my son. I’m Mrs. Fergus Calhoun,” I said while his eyes seemed to devour my face.

  “Ah, The Towers.” He looked beyond me then to where the peaks and turrets of our summer home could be seen on the higher cliff above. “I’ve admired your house, Mrs. Calhoun.”

  Before I could reply, Ethan was reaching out, laughing, and the man scooped him up. I could only stare as he stood with his back to the wind, holding my child, jiggling him easily on his hip.

  “A fine boy.”

  “And an energetic one. I thought to take him for a walk to give his nanny a bit of a rest. She has less trouble with my two other children combined than with young Ethan.”

  “You have other children?”

  “Yes, a girl, a year older than Ethan, and a baby, not quite one. We only arrived for the season yesterday. Do you live on the island?”

  “For now. Will you pose for me, Mrs. Calhoun?”

  I blushed. But beneath the embarrassment was a deep and dreamy pleasure. Still, I knew the impropriety and Fergus’s temper. So I refused, politely, I hoped. He did not persist, and I am ashamed to say that I felt a keen disappointment. When he gave Ethan back to me, his eyes were on mine—a deep slate gray that seemed to see more than my face. Perhaps more than anyone had seen before. He bid me good day, so I turned to walk with my child back to The Towers, my home, and my duties.

  I knew as surely as if I had turned to look, that he watched me until I was hidden by the cliff. My heart thundered.

  Chapter One

  Bar Harbor

  1991—

  Trenton St. James III was in a foul mood. He was the kind of man who expected doors to open when he knocked, phones to be answered when he dialed. What he did not expect, and hated to tolerate, was having his car break down on a narrow two-lane road ten miles from his destination. At least the car phone had allowed him to track down the closest mechanic. He hadn’t been overly thrilled about riding into Bar Harbor in the cab of the tow truck while strident rock had bellowed from the speakers and his rescuer had sung along, off-key, in between bites of an enormous ham sandwich.

  “Hank, you just call me Hank, ayah,” the driver had told him then took a long pull from a bottle of soda. “C.C.’ll fix you up all right and tight. Best damn mechanic in Maine, you ask anybody.”

  Trent decided, under the circumstances, he’d have to take just-call-me-Hank’s word for it. To save time and trouble, he’d had the driver drop him off in the village with directions to the garage and a grimy business card Trent studied while holding it gingerly at the corners.

  But as with any situation Trent found himself in, he decided to make it work for him. While his car was being dealt with, he made half a dozen calls to his office back in Boston—putting the fear of God into a flurry of secretaries, assistants and junior vice-presidents. It put him in a slightly better frame of mind.

  He lunched on the terrace of a small restaurant, paying more attention to the paperwork he took from his briefcase than the excellent lobster salad or balmy spring breeze. He checked his watch often, drank too much coffee and, with impatient brown eyes, studied the traffic that streamed up and down the street.

  Two of the waitresses on lunch shift discussed him at some length. It was early April, several weeks before the height
of the season, so the restaurant wasn’t exactly hopping with customers.

  They agreed that this one was a beaut, from the top of his dark blond head to the tips of his highly polished Italian shoes. They agreed that he was a businessman, and an important one, because of the leather briefcase and spiffy gray suit and tie. Plus, he wore cufflinks. Gold ones.

  They decided, as they rolled flatware into napkins for the next shift, that he was young for it, no more than thirty. Outrageously handsome was their unanimous vote while they took turns refilling his coffee cup and getting closer looks. Nice clean features, they agreed, with a kind of polished air that would have been just a tad slick if it hadn’t been for the eyes.

  They were dark and broody and impatient, making the waitresses speculate as to whether he’d been stood up by a woman. Though they couldn’t imagine any female in her right mind doing so.

  Trent paid no more attention to them than he would have to anyone who performed a paid service. That disappointed them. The whopping tip he left made up for it nicely. It would have surprised him that the tip would have meant more to the waitresses if he had offered a smile with it.

  He relocked his briefcase and prepared to take the brisk walk to the mechanic at the end of town. He wasn’t a cold man and wouldn’t have considered himself aloof. As a St. James, he had grown up with servants who had quietly and efficiently gone about the business of making his life simpler. He paid well, even generously. If he didn’t show any overt appreciation or personal interest, it was simply because it never occurred to him.

  At the moment, his mind was on the deal he hoped to close by the end of the week. Hotels were his business, with the emphasis on luxury and resorts. The summer before, Trent’s father had located a particular property while he and his fourth wife had been yachting in Frenchman Bay. While Trenton St. James II’s instincts as to women were notoriously skewed, his business instincts were always on target.

  He’d begun negotiations almost immediately for the buy of the enormous stone house overlooking Frenchman Bay. His appetite had been whetted by the reluctance of the owners to sell what had to be a white elephant as a private home. As expected, the senior Trenton had been turning things his way, and the deal was on the way to being set.

  Then Trent had found the whole business dumped into his lap as his father was once again tangled in a complicated divorce.

  Wife number four had lasted almost eighteen months, Trent mused. Which was two months longer than wife number three. Trent accepted, fatalistically, that there was bound to be a number five around the corner. The old man was as addicted to marriage as he was to real estate.