The Calhouns Collection Page 3

  An imposing and, yes, regal figure, she bustled from room to room, checking and rechecking every detail. Her girls might be just a tiny bit upset with her for inviting company without mentioning it. But she could always claim absentmindedness. Which she did whenever it suited her.

  Coco was the younger sister of Judson Calhoun, who had married Deliah Brady and sired four girls. Judson and Deliah, whom Coco had loved dearly, had been killed fifteen years before when their private plane had gone down over the Atlantic.

  Since then, she had done her best to be father and mother and friend to her beautiful little orphans. A widow for nearly twenty years, Coco was a striking woman with a devious mind and a heart the consistency of marshmallow cream. She wanted, was determined to have, the best for her girls. Whether they liked it or not. With Trenton St. James’s interest in The Towers, she saw an opportunity.

  She didn’t care a bit whether he bought the rambling fortress of a house. Though God knows how much longer they could hold on to it in any case, what with taxes and repairs and heating bills. As far as she was concerned, Trenton St. James III could take it or leave it. But she had a plan.

  Whether he took or left it, he was going to fall head over bank account with one of the girls. She didn’t know which one. She’d tried her crystal ball but hadn’t come up with a name.

  But she knew. She had known the moment the first letter had come. The boy was going to sweep one of her darlings away into a life of love and luxury.

  She’d be damned if any one of them would have one without the other.

  With a sigh, she adjusted the taper in its Lalique holder. She had been able to give them love, but the luxury . . . If Judson and Deliah had lived, things would have been different. Surely Judson would have pulled himself out of the financial difficulty he’d been suffering. With his cleverness, and Deliah’s drive, it would have been a very temporary thing.

  But they hadn’t lived, and money had become an increasing problem. How she hated to have to sell off the girls’ inheritance piece by piece just to keep the sagging roof they all loved over their heads.

  Trenton St. James III was going to change all that by falling madly in love with one of her darling babies.

  Maybe it would be Suzanna, she thought, plumping the pillows on the parlor sofa. Poor little dear with her heart broken by the worthless cur she had married. Coco’s lips tightened. To think he had fooled all of them. Even her! He had made her baby’s life a misery, then had divorced her to marry that busty bimbo.

  Coco let out a disgusted breath then cast a beady eye on the cracked plaster in the ceiling. She would have to make sure that Trenton would suit as a father to Suzanna’s two children. And if he didn’t . . .

  There was Lilah, her own lovely free spirit. Her Lilah needed someone who would appreciate her lively mind and eccentric ways. Someone who would nurture and settle. Just a bit. Coco wouldn’t tolerate anyone who would try to smother her darling girl’s mystical bent.

  Perhaps it would be Amanda. Coco twitched a drapery so that it covered a mouse hole. Hardheaded, practical-minded Amanda. Now that would be a match! The successful businessman and woman, wheeling and dealing. But he would have to have a softer side, one that recognized that Mandy needed to be cherished, as well as respected. Even if she didn’t recognize it herself.

  With a satisfied sigh, Coco moved from parlor to sitting room, from sitting room to library, library to study.

  Then there was C.C. Shaking her head, Coco adjusted a picture so that it hid—almost—the watermarks on the aging silk wallpaper. That child had inherited the Calhoun stubbornness in spades. Imagine, a lovely girl wasting her life diddling with engines and fuel pumps. A grease monkey. Lord save us.

  It was doubtful that a man like Trenton St. James III would be interested in a woman who spent all of her time under a car. Then again, C.C. was the baby of the family at twenty-three. Coco felt that she had more than enough time to find her little girl the perfect husband.

  The stage was set, she decided. And soon, Mr. St. James would be walking into Act One.

  The front door slammed. Coco winced, knowing that the vibration would have pictures jittering on the walls and crockery dancing on tables. She worked her way through the winding maze of rooms, tidying as she went.

  “Aunt Coco!”

  Coco’s hand lifted automatically to pat her breast. She recognized C.C.’s voice, and the fury in it. Now what could have happened to fire the girl up? she wondered, and put on her best sympathetic smile.

  “Just coming, dear. I didn’t expect you home for hours yet. It’s such a pleasant . . .” She trailed off as she saw her niece, stripped down to fighting weight in torn jeans and a T-shirt, traces of grease still on her face and the hands she had fisted and jammed at her hips. And the man behind her—the man Coco recognized as her prospective nephew-in-law. “Surprise,” she finished, and pasted the smile back into place. “Why, Mr. St. James, how lovely.” She stepped forward, hand extended. “I’m Mrs. McPike.”

  “How do you do?”

  “It’s so nice to meet you at last. I hope you had a pleasant trip.”

  “An . . . interesting one, all in all.”

  “Even better than pleasant.” She patted his hand before releasing it, approving his level gaze and well-pitched voice. “Please, come in. I believe a person should begin as they mean to go on, so I want you to begin to make yourself at home right now. I’ll just fix us all some tea.”

  “Aunt Coco,” C.C. said in a low voice.

  “Yes, dear, would you like something other than tea?”

  “I want an explanation, and I want it now.”

  Coco’s heart hammered a bit, but she gave her niece an open, slightly curious smile. “Explanation? For what?”

  “I want to know what the hell he’s doing here.”

  “Catherine, really!” Coco tsk-tsked. “Your manners, one of my very few failures. Come, Mr. St. James—or may I call you Trenton?—you must be a bit frazzled after the drive. You did say you were driving? Why don’t we just go in and sit in the parlor?” She was easing him along as she spoke. “Marvelous weather for a drive, isn’t it?”

  “Hold it.” C.C. moved quickly and planted herself in their path. “Hold it. Hold it. You’re not tucking him up in the parlor with tea and small talk. I want to know why you invited him here.”

  “C.C.” Coco gave a long-suffering sigh. “Business is more pleasant and more successful on all sides when it’s conducted in person, and in a relaxed atmosphere. Wouldn’t you agree, Trenton?”

  “Yes.” He was surprised that he had to hold back a grin. “Yes, I would.”

  “There.”

  “Not another step.” C.C. flung out both hands. “We haven’t agreed to sell.”

  “Of course not,” Coco said patiently. “That’s why Trenton is here. So we can discuss all the options and possibilities. You really should go up and wash before tea, C.C. You’ve engine grease or whatever on your face.”

  With the heel of her hand, C.C. rubbed at it. “Why wasn’t I told he was coming?”

  Coco blinked and tried to leave her eyes slightly unfocused. “Told? Why, of course you were told. I would hardly have invited company without telling all of you.”

  Face mutinous, C.C. held her ground. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “Now, C.C., I . . .” Coco pursed her lips, knowing—since she’d practiced in the mirror—that it made her look befuddled. “I didn’t? Are you certain? I would have sworn I told you and the girls the minute I got Mr. St. James’s acceptance.”

  “No,” C.C. said flatly.

  “Oh, my.” Coco lifted her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, how awful, really. I must apologize. What a dreadful mix-up. And all my fault. C.C., I do beg your pardon. After all, this is your house, yours and your sisters’. I would never presume on your good nature and your hospitality by . . .”

  Before Coco had trailed off again, the guilt was working away. “It’s your house as much as ours, Aunt Coco.
You know that. It’s not as if you have to ask permission to invite anyone you like. It’s simply that I think we should have—”

  “No, no, it’s inexcusable.” Coco had blinked enough to have her eyes glistening nicely. “Really it was. I just don’t know what to say. I feel terrible about the whole thing. I was only trying to help, you see, but—”

  “It’s nothing to worry about.” C.C. reached out for her aunt’s hand. “Nothing at all. It was just a little confusing at first. Look, why don’t I make the tea, and you can sit with—him.”

  “That’s so sweet of you, dear.”

  C.C. muttered something unintelligible as she walked down the hall.

  “Congratulations,” Trent murmured, sending Coco an amused glance. “That was one of the smoothest shuffles I’ve ever witnessed.”

  Coco beamed and tucked her arm through his. “Thank you. Now, why don’t we go in and have that chat?” She steered him to a wing chair by the fireplace, knowing that the springs in the sofa were only a memory. “I must apologize for C.C. She has a very quick temper but a wonderful heart.”

  Trent inclined his head. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “Well, you’re here and that’s what matters.” Pleased with herself, Coco sat across from him. “I know you’ll find The Towers, and its history, fascinating.”

  He smiled, thinking he’d already found its occupants a fascination.

  “My grandfather,” she said, gesturing to a portrait of a dour-faced thin-lipped man above the ornate cherrywood mantel. “He built this house in 1904.”

  Trent glanced up at the disapproving eyes and lowered brows. “He looks . . . formidable,” he said politely.

  Coco gave a gay laugh. “Oh, indeed. And ruthless in his prime, so I’m told. I only remember Fergus Calhoun as a doddering old man who argued with shadows. They finally put him away in 1945 after he tried to shoot the butler for serving bad port. He was quite insane—Grandfather,” she explained. “Not the butler.”

  “I . . . see.”

  “He lived another twelve years in the asylum, which put him well into his eighties. The Calhouns either have long lives or die tragically young.” She crossed her long, sturdy legs. “I knew your father.”

  “My father?”

  “Yes, indeed. Not well. We attended some of the same parties in our youth. I remember dancing with him once at a cotillion in Newport. He was dashingly handsome, fatally charming. I was quite smitten.” She smiled. “You resemble him closely.”

  “He must have fumbled to let you slip through his fingers.”

  Pure feminine delight glowed in her eyes. “You’re quite right,” she said with a laugh. “How is Trenton?”

  “He’s well. I think if he had realized the connection, he wouldn’t have passed this business on to me.”

  She lifted a brow. As a woman who followed the society and gossip pages religiously, she was well aware of the senior St. James’s current messy divorce. “The last marriage didn’t take?”

  It was hardly a secret, but it made Trent uncomfortable just the same. “No. Should I give him your regards when I speak with him?”

  “Please do.” A sore point, she noted, and skimmed lightly over it. “How is it you ran into C.C.?”

  Fate, he thought, and nearly said so. “I found myself in need of her services—or I should say my car needed them. I didn’t immediately make the connection between C.C.’s Automovations and Catherine Calhoun.”

  “Who could blame you?” Coco said with a fluttering hand. “I hope she wasn’t too, ah, intense.”

  “I’m still alive to talk about it. Obviously, your niece isn’t convinced to sell.”

  “That’s right.” C.C. wheeled in a tea cart, steering it across the floor like a go-cart and stopping it with a rattle between the two chairs. “And it’s going to take more than some slick operator from Boston to convince me.”

  “Catherine, there is no excuse for rudeness.”

  “That’s all right.” Trent merely settled back. “I’m becoming used to it. Are all your nieces so . . . aggressive, Mrs. McPike?”

  “Coco, please,” she murmured. “They’re all lovely women.” As she lifted the teapot, she sent C.C. a warning glance. “Don’t you have work, dear?”

  “It can wait.”

  “But you only brought out service for two.”

  “I don’t want anything.” She plopped down on the arm of the sofa and folded her arms over her chest.

  “Well then. Cream or lemon, Trenton?”

  “Lemon, please.”

  Swinging one long, booted leg, C.C. watched them sip tea and exchange small talk. Useless talk, she thought nastily. He was the kind of man who had been trained from diapers on the proper way to sit in a parlor and discuss nothing.

  Squash, polo, perhaps a round of golf. He probably had hands like a baby’s. Beneath that tailored suit, his body would be soft and slow. Men like him didn’t work, didn’t sweat, didn’t feel. He sat behind his desk all day, buying and selling, never once thinking of the lives he affected. Of the dreams and hopes he created or destroyed.

  He wasn’t going to mess with hers. He wasn’t going to cover the much-loved and much-cracked plaster walls with drywall and a coat of slick paint. He wasn’t going to turn the drafty old ballroom into a nightclub. He wasn’t going to touch one board foot of her wormy rafters.

  She would see to it. She would see to him.

  It was quite a situation, Trent decided. He parried Coco’s tea talk while the Amazon Queen, as he’d begun to think of C.C., sat on a sagging sofa, swinging a scarred boot and glaring daggers at him. Normally he would have politely excused himself, headed back to Boston to turn the whole business over to agents. But he hadn’t faced a true challenge in a long time. This one, he mused, might be just what he needed to put him on track.

  The place itself was an amazement—a crumbling one. From the outside it looked like a combination of English manor house and Dracula’s castle. Towers and turrets of dour gray stone jutted into the sky. Gargoyles—one of which had been decapitated—grinned wickedly as they clung to parapets. All of this seemed to sit atop a proper two-story house of granite with neat porches and terraces. There was a pergola built along the seawall. The quick glimpse Trent had had of it had brought a Roman bathhouse to mind for reasons he couldn’t fathom. As the lawns were uneven and multileveled, granite walls had been thrown up wherever they were terraced.

  It should have been ugly. In fact, Trent thought it should have been hideous. Yet it wasn’t. It was, in a baffling way, charming.

  The way the window glass sparkled like lake water in the sun. Banks of spring flowers spread and nodded. Ivy rustled as it inched its patient way up those granite walls. It hadn’t been difficult, even for a man with a pragmatic mind, to imagine the tea and garden parties. Women floating over the lawns in picture hats and organdy dresses, harp and violin music playing.

  Then there was the view, which even on the short walk from his car to the front door had struck him breathless.

  He could see why his father wanted it, and was willing to invest the hundreds of thousands of dollars it would take to renovate.

  “More tea, Trenton?” Coco asked.

  “No, thank you.” He sent her a charming smile. “I wonder if I might have a tour of the house. What I’ve seen so far is fascinating.”

  C.C. gave a snort Coco pretended not to hear. “Of course, I’d be delighted to show you through.” She rose and with her back to Trent wiggled her eyebrows at her niece. “C.C., shouldn’t you be getting back?”

  “No.” She rose and, with an abrupt change of tactics, smiled. “I’ll show Mr. St. James through, Aunt Coco. It’s nearly time for the children to be home from school.”

  Coco glanced at the mantel clock, which had stopped weeks before at ten thirty-five. “Oh, well . . .”

  “Don’t worry about a thing.” C.C. walked to the doorway and with an imperious gesture of her hand waved Trent along. “Mr. St. James?”
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  She started down the hall in front of him then up a floating staircase. “We’ll start at the top, shall we?” Without glancing back, she continued on and up, certain Trent would start wheezing and panting by the third flight.

  She was disappointed.

  They climbed the final circular set that led to the highest tower. C.C. put her hand on the knob and her shoulder to the thick oak door. With a grunt and a hard shove, it creaked open.

  “The haunted tower,” she said grandly, and stepped inside amid the dust and echoes. The circular room was empty but for a few sturdy and fortunately empty mouse traps.

  “Haunted?” Trent repeated, willing to play.

  “My great-grandmother had her hideaway up here.” As she spoke, C.C. moved over to the curved window. “It’s said she would sit here, on this window seat, looking out to sea as she pined for her lover.”

  “Quite a view,” Trent murmured. It was a dizzying drop down to the cliffs and the water that slapped and retreated. “Very dramatic.”

  “Oh, we’re full of drama here. Great-Grandmama apparently couldn’t bear the deceit any longer and threw herself out this very window.” C.C. smiled smugly. “Now, on quiet nights you can hear her pacing this floor and weeping for her lost lover.”

  “That should add something to the brochure.”

  C.C. jammed her hands into her pockets. “I wouldn’t think ghosts would be good for business.”

  “On the contrary.” His lips curved. “Shall we move on?”

  Tight-lipped, C.C. strode out of the room. Using both hands, she tugged on the knob, then dug in a bit and prepared to put her back into it. When Trent’s hand closed over hers, she jolted as though she’d been scalded.