The Calhouns Collection Read online

  “Here you go, little creep.” C.C. rolled her vegetables onto his plate. “There’s a whole passel of missionaries.”

  “I want some, too,” Jenny complained, then beamed at Trent when he passed her the bowl.

  Coco put a hand to her breast. Who would have guessed it? she thought. Her Catherine. The baby of her babies. While the dinner conversation bounced around her, she sat back with a quiet sigh. She couldn’t be mistaken. Why, when Trent had looked at her little girl—and she at him—there hadn’t just been a spark. There had been a sizzle.

  C.C. was scowling, it was true, but it was such a passionate scowl. And Trent had smirked, but it was such a personal smirk. Positively intimate, Coco decided.

  Sitting there, watching them, as Alex devoured his little decapitated heads, and Lilah and Amanda argued over the possibility of life on other planets, Coco could almost hear the loving thoughts C.C. and Trent sent out to each other.

  Arrogant, self-important jerk.

  Rude, bad-tempered brat.

  Who the hell does he think he is, sitting at the table as if he already owned it?

  A pity she doesn’t have a personality to match her looks.

  Coco smiled fondly at them while the “Wedding March” hummed through her head. Like a general plotting strategy, she waited until after coffee and dessert to spring her next offensive.

  “C.C., why don’t you show Trenton the gardens?”

  “What?” She looked up from her friendly fight with Alex over the last bite of her Black Forest cake.

  “The gardens,” Coco repeated. “There’s nothing like a little fresh air after a meal. And the flowers are exquisite in the moonlight.”

  “Let Suzanna take him.”

  “Sorry.” Suzanna was already gathering a heavy-eyed Jenny into her arms. “I’ve got to get these two washed up and ready for bed.”

  “I don’t see why—” C.C. broke off at the arched look from her aunt. “Oh, all right.” She rose. “Come on then,” she said to Trent and started out without him.

  “It was a lovely meal, Coco. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” She beamed, imagining whispered words and soft, secret kisses. “Enjoy the gardens.”

  Trent walked out of the terrace doors to find C.C. standing, tapping a booted foot on the stone. It was time, he thought, that someone taught the green-eyed witch a lesson in manners.

  “I don’t know anything about flowers,” she told him.

  “Or about simple courtesy.”

  Her chin angled. “Now listen, buddy.”

  “No, you listen, buddy.” His hand snaked out and snagged her arm. “Let’s walk. The children might still be within earshot, and I don’t think they’re ready to hear any of this.”

  He was stronger than she’d imagined. He pulled her along, ignoring the curses she tossed out under her breath. They were off the terrace and onto one of the meandering paths that wound around the side of the house. Daffodils and hyacinths nodded along the verge.

  He stopped beneath an arbor where wisteria would bloom in another month. C.C. wasn’t certain if the roar in her head was the sound of the sea or her own ragged temper.

  “Don’t you ever do that again.” She lifted a hand to rub where his fingers had dug. “You may be able to push people around in Boston, but not here. Not with me or any of my family.”

  He paused, hoping and failing to get a grip on his own temper. “If you knew me, or what I do, you’d know I don’t make a habit of pushing anyone around.”

  “I know exactly what you do.”

  “Foreclose on widows and orphans? Grow up, C.C.”

  She set her teeth. “You can see the gardens on your own. I’m going in.”

  He merely shifted to block her path. In the moonlight, her eyes glowed like a cat’s. When she lifted her hands to shove him aside, he clamped his fingers onto her wrists. In the brief tug-of-war that followed, he noted—irrelevantly, he assured himself—that her skin was the color of fresh cream and almost as soft.

  “We’re not finished.” His voice had an edge that was no longer coated with a polite veneer. “You’ll have to learn that when you’re deliberately rude, and deliberately insulting, there’s a price.”

  “You want an apology?” she all but spat at him. “Okay. I’m sorry I don’t have anything to say to you that isn’t rude or insulting.”

  He smiled, surprising both of them. “You’re quite a piece of work, Catherine Colleen Calhoun. For the life of me I can’t figure out why I’m trying to be reasonable with you.”

  “Reasonable?” She didn’t spit the word this time, but growled it. “You call it reasonable to drag me around, manhandle me—”

  “If you call this manhandling, you’ve led a very sheltered life.”

  Her complexion went from creamy white to bright pink. “My life is none of your concern.”

  “Thank God.”

  Her fingers flexed then balled into fists. She hated the fact, loathed it, that her pulse was hammering double time under his grip. “Will you let me go?”

  “Only if you promise not to take off running.” He could see himself chasing her, and the image was both embarrassing and appealing.

  “I don’t run from anyone.”

  “Spoken like a true Amazon,” he murmured, and released her. Only quick reflexes had him dodging the fist she aimed at his nose. “I should have taken that into account, I suppose. Have you ever considered intelligent conversation?”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.” She was ashamed to have struck out at him and furious that she’d missed. “If you want to talk, go suck up to Aunt Coco some more.” In a huff, she plopped down on the small stone bench under the arbor. “Better yet, go back to Boston and flog one of your underlings.”

  “I can do that anytime.” He shook his head and, certain he was taking his life in his hands, sat beside her.

  There were azaleas and geraniums threatening to burst into bloom around them. It should, he thought, have been a peaceful place. But as he sat, smelling the tender fragrance of the earliest spring blooms mixed with the scent of the sea, listening to some night bird call its mate, he thought that no boardroom had ever been so tense or hostile.

  “I wonder where you developed such a high opinion of me.” And why, he added to himself, it seemed to matter.

  “You come here—”

  “By invitation.”

  “Not mine.” She tossed back her head. “You come in your big car and your dignified suit, ready to sweep my home out from under me.”

  “I came,” he corrected, “to get a firsthand look at a piece of property. No one, least of all me, can force you to sell.”

  But he was wrong, she thought miserably. There were people who could force them to sell. The people who collected the taxes, the utility bills, the mortgage they’d been forced to take out. All of her frustration, and her fear, over every collection agency centered on the man beside her.

  “I know your type,” she muttered. “Born rich and above the common man. Your only goal in life is to make more money, regardless of who is affected or trampled over. You have big parties and summer houses and mistresses named Fawn.”

  Wisely he swallowed the chuckle. “I’ve never even known a woman named Fawn.”

  “Oh, what does it matter?” She rose to pace the path. “Kiki, Vanessa, Ava, it’s all the same.”

  “If you say so.” She looked, he was forced to admit, magnificent, striding up and down the path with the moonlight shooting around her like white fire. The tug of attraction annoyed him more than a little, but he continued to sit. There was a deal to be done, he reminded himself. And C.C. Calhoun was the foremost stumbling block.

  So he would be patient, Trent told himself, and wily and find the hook. “Just how is it you know so much about my type?”

  “Because my sister was married to one of you.”

  “Baxter Dumont.”

  “You know him?” Then she shook her head and jammed her hands into her p
ockets. “Stupid question. You probably play golf with him every Wednesday.”

  “No, actually our acquaintance is only slight. I do know of him, and his family. I’m also aware that he and your sister have been divorced for a year or so.”

  “He made her life hell, scraped away her self-esteem, then dumped her and his children for some little French pastry. And because he’s a big-shot lawyer from a big-shot family, she’s left with nothing but a miserly child-support check that comes late every month.”

  “I’m sorry for what happened to your sister.” He rose as well. His voice was no longer sharp but fatalistic. “Marriage is often the least pleasant of all business transactions. But Baxter Dumont’s behavior doesn’t mean that every member of every prominent Boston family is unethical or immoral.”

  “They all look the same from where I’m standing.”

  “Then maybe you should change positions. But you won’t, because you’re too hardheaded and opinionated.”

  “Just because I’m smart enough to see through you.”

  “You know nothing about me, and we both know that you took an uncanny dislike to me before you even knew my name.”

  “I didn’t like your shoes.”

  That stopped him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.” She folded her arms and realized she was starting to enjoy herself. “I didn’t like your shoes.” She flicked a glance down at them. “I still don’t.”

  “That explains everything.”

  “I didn’t like your tie, either.” She poked a finger on it, missing the quick flare in his eyes. “Or your fancy gold pen.” She tapped a fist lightly at his breast pocket.

  He studied her jeans, worn through at the knees, her T-shirt and scuffed boots. “This from an obvious fashion expert.”

  “You’re the one out of place here, Mr. St. James III.”

  He took a step closer. C.C.’s lips curved in a challenging smile. “And I suppose you dress like a man because you haven’t figured out how to act like a woman.”

  It was a bull’s-eye, but the dart point only pricked her temper. “Just because I know how to stand up for myself instead of swooning at your feet doesn’t make me less of a woman.”

  “Is that what you call this?” He wrapped his fingers around her forearms. “Standing up for yourself?”

  “That’s right. I—” She broke off when he tugged her closer. Their bodies bumped. Trent watched the temper in her eyes deepen to confusion.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Testing the theory.” He looked down at her mouth. Her lips were full, just parted. Very tempting. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? he wondered vaguely. That big, insulting mouth of hers was incredibly tempting.

  “Don’t you dare.” She meant it to come out as an order, but her voice shook.

  His eyes came back to hers and held. “Afraid?”

  The question was just the one to stiffen her spine. “Of course not. It’s just that I’d rather be kissed by a rabid skunk.”

  She started to pull back, then found herself tight against him, eyes and mouth lined up, warm breath mingling. He hadn’t intended to kiss her—certainly not—until she’d thrown that last insult in his face.

  “You never know when to quit, Catherine. It’s a flaw that’s going to get you in trouble, starting now.”

  She hadn’t expected his mouth to be so hot, so hard, so hungry. She had thought the kiss would be sophisticated and bland. Easily resisted, easily forgotten. But she had been wrong. Dangerously wrong. Kissing him was like sliding into molten silver. Even as she gasped for air, he heightened the kiss, plunging his tongue deep, taunting, tormenting, teasing hers. She tried to shake her head but succeeded only in changing the angle. The hands that had reached for his shoulders in protest slid possessively around his neck.

  He’d thought to teach her a lesson—about what he’d forgotten. But he learned. He learned that some women—this woman—could be strong and soft, frustrating and delightful, all at once. As the waves crashed far below, he felt himself battered by the unexpected. And the unwanted.

  He thought, foolishly, that he could feel the starlight on her skin, taste the moondust on her lips. The groan he heard, vibrating low, was his own.

  He lifted his head, shaking it, as if to clear the fog that had settled over his brain. He could see her eyes, staring up at his—dark, dazed.

  “I beg your pardon.” Stunned by his action, he released her so quickly that she stumbled back even as her hands slid away from him. “That was completely inexcusable.”

  She said nothing, could say nothing. Feelings, too many of them, clogged in her throat. Instead she made a helpless gesture with her hands that made him feel like a lower form of life.

  “Catherine . . . believe me, I don’t make a habit of—” He had to stop and clear his dry throat. Lord, he wanted to do it again, he realized. He wanted to kiss the breath from her as she stood there, looking lost and helpless. And beautiful. “I’m terribly sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “I’d like you to leave me alone.” Never in her life had she been more moved. Or more devastated. He had just opened up a door to some secret world, then slammed it again in her face.

  “All right.” He had to stop himself from reaching out to touch her hair. He started back down the path toward the house. When he looked back, she was still standing as he had left her, staring into the shadows, with moonlight showering her.

  His name is Christian. I have found myself walking along the cliffs again and again, hoping for a few words with him. I tell myself it’s because of my fascination with art, not the artist. It could be true. It must be true.

  I am a married woman and mother of three. And though Fergus is not the romantic husband of my girlish dreams, he is a good provider, and sometimes kind. Perhaps there is some part of me, some small defiant part that wishes I had not bent to my parents’ insistence that I make a good and proper marriage. But this is foolishness, for the deed has been done for more than four years.

  It’s disloyal to compare Fergus with a man I hardly know. Yet here, in my private journal, I must be allowed this indulgence. While Fergus thinks only of business, the next deal or dollar, Christian speaks of dreams and images and poetry.

  How my heart has yearned for just a little poetry.

  While Fergus, with his cool and careless generosity, gave me the emeralds on the day of Ethan’s birth, Christian once offered me a wildflower. I have kept it, pressing it here between these pages. How much lovelier I would feel wearing it than those cold and heavy gems.

  We have spoken of nothing intimate, nothing that could be considered improper. Yet I know it is. The way he looks at me, smiles, speaks, is gloriously improper. The way I look for him on these bright summer afternoons while my babies nap is not the action of a proper wife. The way my heart drums in my breast when I see him is disloyalty in itself.

  Today I sat upon a rock and watched him wield his brush, bringing those pink and gray rocks, that blue, blue water to life on canvas. There was a boat gliding along, so free, so solitary. For a moment I pictured the two of us there, faces to the wind. I don’t understand why I have these thoughts, but while they remained with me, clear as crystal, I asked his name.

  “Christian,” he said. “Christian Bradford. And you are Bianca.”

  The way he said my name—as if it had never been said before. I will never forget it. I toyed with the wild grass that pushed itself through the cracks in the rocks. With my eyes cast down, I asked him why his wife never came to watch him work.

  “I have no wife,” he told me. “And art is my only mistress.”

  It was wrong for my heart to swell so at his words. Wrong of me to smile, yet I smiled. And he in return. If fate had dealt differently with me, if time and place could have been altered in some way, I could have loved him.

  I think I would have had no choice but to love him.

  As if we both knew this, we began to talk of inconsequenti
al matters. But when I rose, knowing my time here was at an end for the day, he bent over and plucked up a tiny spike of golden heather and slipped it into my hair. For a moment, his fingers hovered over my cheek and his eyes were on mine. Then he stepped away and bid me good day.

  Now I sit with the lamp low as I write, listening to Fergus’s voice rumble as he instructs his valet next door. He will not come to me tonight, and I find myself grateful. I have given him three children, two sons and a daughter. By providing him with an heir, I have done my duty, and he does not often find the need to come to my bed. I am, like the children, to exist to be well dressed and well mannered, and to be presented at the proper occasions—like a good claret—for his guests.

  It is not much to ask, I suppose. It is a good life, one I should be content with. Perhaps I was content, until that day I first walked along the cliffs.

  So tonight, I will sleep alone in my bed, and dream of a man who is not my husband.

  Chapter Four

  When you couldn’t sleep, the best thing to do was get up. That’s what C.C. told herself as she sat at the kitchen table, watching the sunrise and drinking her second cup of coffee.

  She had a lot on her mind, that was all. Bills, the dyspeptic Oldsmobile that was first on her schedule that morning, bills, an upcoming dentist appointment. More bills. Trenton St. James was far down on her list of concerns. Somewhere below a potential cavity and just ahead of a faulty exhaust system.

  She certainly wasn’t losing any sleep over him. And a kiss, that ridiculous—accident was the best term she could use to describe it—wasn’t even worth a moment’s thought.

  Yet she had thought of little else throughout the long, sleepless night.

  She was acting as though she’d never been kissed before, C.C. berated herself. And, of course, she had, starting with Denny Dinsmore, who had planted the first sloppy mouth-to-mouth on her after their eighth-grade Valentine’s dance.

  Naturally there had been no comparison between Denny’s fumbling yet sincere attempt and the stunning expertise of Trent’s. Which only proved, C.C. decided as she scowled into her coffee, that Trent had spent a large part of his life with his lips slapped up against some woman’s. Lots of women’s.