Suzanna's Surrender Page 7

  “Kevin is my ex-husband's son,” she said coolly. “Now, if you'll excuse me.”

  He put a hand on her arm. Another secret, he thought, and decided he would dig up that answer, as well. Not now. Now he was going to do something he'd thought about doing since he'd seen her walk down the white satin runner in the floaty blue dress.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  Chapter Five

  She couldn't quite relax in his arms. She told herself it was foolish, that the dance was just a casual social gesture. But his body was so close, so firm, the hand at her back so possessive. It reminded her too clearly of the moment he had pulled her against him to send her soaring into a kiss.

  “It's quite a house,” he said, and gave himself the pleasure of feeling her hair against his cheek. “I al­ways wondered what it was like inside.”

  “I'll have to give you a tour sometime.”

  He could feel her heart thud against his. Experi­menting, he skimmed his hand up her spine. The rhythm quickened. “I'm surprised you haven't been back to nag me.”

  There was annoyance in her eyes as she drew her head back. “I have no intention of nagging you.”

  “Good.” He brushed his thumb over her knuckles and felt her tremble. “But you will come back.”

  “Only because I promised Aunt Coco.”

  “No.” He increased the pressure on her spine and brought her an inch closer. “Not only because of that. You wonder what it would be like, the same way I've wondered half my life.”

  A little line of panic followed his fingers up her spine. “This isn't the place.”

  “I choose my own ground.” His lips hovered bare inches from hers. He watched her eyes darken and cloud. “I want you, Suzanna.”

  Her heart had leaped up to throb in her throat so that her voice was husky and uneven. “Am I sup­posed to be flattered?”

  “No. You'd be smart to be scared. I won't make things easy on you.”

  “What I am,” she said with more control, “is un­interested.”

  His lips curved. “I could kiss you now and prove you wrong.”

  “I won't have a scene at my sister's wedding.”

  “Fine, then come to my place tomorrow morning.”

  “No.”

  “All right then.” He lowered his head. She turned hers away so that his lips brushed her temple, then nibbled on her ear.

  “Stop it. My children—”

  “Should hardly be shocked to see a man kiss their mother.” But he did stop, because his knees were going weak. “Tomorrow morning, Suzanna. There's something I need to show you. Something of my grandfather's.”

  She looked up again, struggling to steady her pulse. “If this is some sort of game, I don't want to play.”

  “No game. I want you, and this time I'll have you. But there is something of my grandfather's you have the right to see. Unless you're afraid to be alone with me.” Her spine stiffened. “I'll be there.”

  The next morning, Suzanna stood on the terrace with Megan. They watched their children race across the lawn with Fred.

  “I wish you could stay longer.”

  With a half laugh, Megan shook her head. 'Tm surprised to say I wish I could, too. I have to be back at work tomorrow.”

  “You and Kevin are welcome here anytime. I want you to know that.”

  “I do.” Megan shifted her gaze to meet Suzanna's. There was a sadness there she understood, though she rarely allowed herself to feel it. “If you and the kids decide to visit Oklahoma, you've got a home with us. I don't want to lose touch. Kevin needs to know this part of his family.”

  “Then we won't.” She stooped to pick up a rose petal that had drifted from a bouquet to float to the terrace. “It was a beautiful wedding. Sloan and Mandy are going to be happy—and we'll have nieces and nephews in common.”

  “God, the world's a strange place.” Megan took Suzanna's hand. “I'd like to think we can be friends, not only for our children's sakes or for Sloan and Amanda.”

  Suzanna smiled. “I think we already are.”

  “Suzanna!” Coco signaled from the kitchen door. “A phone call for you.” She was chewing her lip when Suzanna reached her. “It's Baxter.”

  “Oh.” Suzanna felt the simple pleasure of the morning drain. “I'll take it in the other room.”

  She braced herself as she walked down the hall­way. He couldn't hurt her any longer, she reminded herself. Not physically, not emotionally. She slipped into the library, took a long, steadying breath, then picked up the phone.

  “Hello, Bax.”

  “I suppose you considered it sly to keep me wait­ing on the phone.”

  And there it was again, she thought, that clipped, critical tone that had once made her shiver. Now she only sighed. “I'm sorry. I was outside.”

  “Digging in the garden, I suppose. Are you still pretending to make a living pruning rosebushes?”

  “I'm sure you didn't call to see how my business is going.”

  “Your business, as you call it, is nothing to me but a slight embarrassment. Having my ex-wife selling flowers on the street corner—”

  “Clouds your image, I know.” She passed a hand over her hair. “We're not going to go through that again, are we?”

  “Quite the little shrew these days.” She heard him murmur something to someone else, then laugh. “No, I didn't call to remind you you're making a fool of yourself. I want the children.”

  Her blood turned to ice. “What?”

  The shaky whisper pleased him enormously. “I be­lieve it states quite clearly in the custody agreement that I'm entitled to two weeks during the summer. I'll pick them up on Friday.”

  “You...but you haven't—”

  “Don't stammer, Suzanna. It's one of your more annoying traits. If you didn't comprehend, I'll repeat.

  I'm exercising my parental rights. I'll pick the chil­dren up on Friday, at noon.”

  “You haven't seen them in nearly a year. You can't just pick them up and—”

  “I most certainly can. If you don't choose to honor the agreement, I'll simply take you back to court. It isn't legal or wise for you to try to keep the children from me.”

  “I've never tried to keep them from you. You haven't bothered with them.”

  “I have no intention of rearranging my schedule to suit you. Yvette and I are going to Martha's Vineyard for two weeks, and have decided to take the children. It's time they saw something of the world besides the little corner you hide in.”

  Her hands were shaking. She gripped the receiver more tightly. “You didn't even send Alex a card on his birthday.”

  “I don't believe there's anything in the agreement about birthday cards,” he said shortly. “But it is very specific on visitation rights. Feel free to check with your lawyer, Suzanna.”

  “And if they don't want to go?”

  “The choice isn't theirs—or yours.” But his, he thought, which was exactly as he preferred it. “I wouldn't try to poison them against me.”

  “I don't have to,” she murmured.

  “See that they're packed and ready. Oh, and Su­zanna, I've been reading quite a bit about your family lately. Isn't it odd that there wasn't any mention of an emerald necklace in our settlement agreement?”

  “I didn't know it existed.”

  “I wonder if the courts would believe that.”

  She felt tears of frustration and rage fill her eyes. “For God's sake, didn't you take enough?”

  “It's never enough, Suzanna, when you consider how very much you disappointed me. Friday,” he said. “Noon.” And hung up.

  She was trembling. Even when she lowered care­fully into a chair, she couldn't stop. She felt as though she'd been jerked back five years, into that terrible helplessness. She couldn't stop him. She'd read the custody agreement word for word before signing it, and he was within his rights. Oh, technically she could have demanded more notice, but that would only postpone the inevitable. If Bax had made up his
mind, she couldn't change it The more she fought, the more she argued, the harder he would twist the knife.

  And the more difficult he would make it on the children.

  Her babies. Rocking, she covered her face with her hands. It was only for a short time—she could survive it But how would they feel when she shipped them off, giving them no choice?

  She would have to make it sound like an adventure. With the right tone, the right words, she could con­vince them this was something they wanted to do. Pressing her lips together, she rose. But not now. She would never be able to convince them of anything but her own turmoil if she spoke with them now.

  “Damn place is like Grand Central Station.” The familiar thump of a cane nearly had Suzanna sinking back into the chair again. “People coming and going, phone ringing. You'd think nobody ever got married before.” Suzanna's Great-Aunt Colleen, her magnif­icent white hair swept back and diamonds glittering at her ears, stopped in the doorway. “I'll have you know those little monsters of yours tracked dirt up the stairs.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  Colleen only huffed. She enjoyed complaining about the children, because she had grown so fond of them. “Hooligans. The one blessed day of the week there's not hammering and sawing every minute, and there's packs of children shrieking through the house. Why the hell aren't they in school?”

  “Because it's July, Aunt Colleen.”

  “Don't see what difference that makes.” Her frown deepened as she studied Suzanna. “What's the matter with you, girl?”

  “Nothing. I'm just a little tired.”

  “Tired my foot.” She recognized the look. She'd seen it before—the weary desperation and helpless­ness—-in her own mother's eyes. “Who was that on the phone?”

  Suzanna's chin came up. “That, Aunt Colleen, is none of your business.”

  “Well, you've climbed on your high horse.” And it pleased her. She preferred that her grandniece bite back rather than take a slap. Besides, she'd just badger Coco until she learned what was going on.

  “I have an appointment,” Suzanna said as steadily as possible. “Would you mind telling Aunt Coco that I've gone out?”

  “So now I'm a messenger boy. I'll tell her, I'll tell her,” Colleen muttered, waving her cane. “It's high time she fixed me some tea.”

  “Thank you. I won't be long.”

  “Go out and clear your head,” Colleen said as Suzanna started by. “There's nothing a Calhoun can't handle.”

  Suzanna sighed and kissed Colleen's thin cheek. “I hope you're right.”

  She didn't allow herself to think. She left the house and climbed into her pickup, telling herself she would handle whatever needed to be handled—but she would calm herself first.

  She had become very skilled at pulling in her emo­tions. A woman couldn't sit in a courtroom with her children's futures hanging in the balance and not learn control.

  It was possible to feel panic or rage or misery and function normally. When she was certain she could, she would speak with the children.

  There was an appointment to be kept. Whatever Holt had to show her might distract her enough to help her keep control of her emotions until they lev­eled.

  She thought she was calm when she pulled up at his house. As she got out of the truck, she combed a hand through her windblown hair. When she realized she was gripping her keys too hard she deliberately relaxed her fingers. She slid the keys into her pocket and knocked.

  The dog sent up a din. Holt had one hand on Sa­die's collar as he opened the door. “You made it. I thought I might have to come after you.”

  “I told you I'd be here.” She stepped inside. “What do you have to show me?”

  When he was sure Sadie would do no more than sniff and whine for attention, he released her. “Your aunt showed a lot more interest in the cottage.”

  “I'm a little pressed for time.” After giving the dog an absent pat, she stuck her hands into the pock­ets of her baggy cotton slacks. “It's very nice.” She glanced around, took in nothing. “You must be com­fortable here.”

  “I get by,” he said slowly, his eyes keen on her face. There wasn't a trace of color in her cheeks. Her eyes were too dark. He'd wanted to make her aware of him, maybe uncomfortably aware, but he hadn't wanted to make her sick with fear at the thought of seeing him again.

  “You can relax, Suzanna.” His voice was curt and dismissive. “I'm not going to jump you.”

  Her nerves stretched taut on the thin wire of con­trol. “Can we just get on with this?”

  “Yeah, we can get on with it, as soon as you stop standing there as if you're about to be chained and beaten. I haven't done anything—yet—to make you look at me that way.”

  “I'm not looking at you in any way.”

  “The hell you're not. Damn it, your hands are shaking.” Furious, he grabbed them. “Stop it,” he demanded. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

  “It has nothing to do with you.” She yanked her hands away, hating the fact that she couldn't stop them from trembling. “Why should you think that anything I feel, any way I look depends on you? I have my own life, my own feelings. I'm not some weak, terrified woman who falls apart because a man raises his voice. Do you really think I'm afraid of you? Do you really think you could hurt me after—”

  She broke off, appalled. She'd been shouting, and the furious tears were still burning her eyes. Her stomach was clenched so tight she could hardly breathe. Sadie had retreated to a corner and sat quivering. Holt stood a foot away, staring at her, eyes narrowed in speculation.

  “I have to go,” she managed, and bolted for the door. His hand slapped the wood and held it shut. “Let me go.” When her voice broke, she bit down on her lip. She struggled with the door then whirled on him, eyes blazing. “I said let me go.”

  “Go ahead,” he said with surprising calm, “take a punch at me. But you're not going anywhere while you're churned up like this.”

  “If I'm churned up, it's my own business. I told you, this has nothing to do with you.”

  “Okay, so you're not going to hit me. Let's try another release valve.” He put his hands firmly on either side of her face and covered her mouth with his.

  It wasn't a kiss meant to soothe or comfort. It did neither. This was raw and turbulent emotion and matched her own feelings completely.

  Her arms were caught between them, her hands still fisted. Her body trembled; her skin heated. At the first flicker of response, he dived into the rough, desperate kiss until he was certain the only thing she was think­ing about was him.

  Then he took a moment longer, to please himself. She was a volcano waiting to erupt, a storm ready to blow. Her pent-up passion packed a punch more stun­ning than her fist could have. He intended to be around for the explosion, but he could wait.

  When he released her, she leaned back against the door, her eyes closed, breath hitching. Watching her, he realized he'd never seen anyone fight so hard for control.

  “Sit down.” She shook her head. “All right, stand.” With a dismissive shrug, he moved away to light a cigarette. “Either way you're going to tell me what set you off.”

  “I don't want to talk to you.”

  He sat on the arm of a chair and blew out a stream of smoke. “Lots of people haven't wanted to talk to me. But I usually find out what I want to know.”

  She opened her eyes. They were dry now, which relieved him considerably. “Is this an interrogation?”

  With another shrug, he brought the cigarette to his lips again. It wouldn't do her any good if he caved in and offered,soft words. He wasn't even sure he had them. “It can be.”

  She thought about pulling the door open and leav­ing. But he would only stop her. She'd learned the hard way that there were some battles a woman couldn't win.

  “It isn't worth it,” she said wearily. “I shouldn't have come while I was upset, but I thought I got myself under control.”

  “Upset about what?”

  “It isn't
important.”

  “Then it shouldn't be a problem to tell me.”

  “Bax called. My ex-husband.” To comfort herself she began to roam the room.

  Holt studied the tip of his cigarette, reminding him­self that jealousy was out of place. “Looks like he can still stir you up.”

  “One phone call. One, and I'm back under his thumb.” There was a bitterness in her voice he hadn't expected from her. He said nothing. “There's nothing I can do. Nothing. He's going to take the children for two weeks. I can't stop him.”

  Holt let out an impatient breath. “For God's sake.

  is that what all this hysteria's about? So the kids go off with Daddy for a couple of wieeks.” Disgusted, he crushed out his cigarette. And to think he'd been worried about her. “Save the vindictive-wife routine, babe. He's got a right.”

  “Oh yes, he's got the right.” Her voice shook with an emotion so deep that Holt's head snapped up again. “Because it says so on a piece of paper. And he was there when they were conceived, so that makes him their father. Of course, that doesn't mean he has to love them, or worry about them or struggle to raise them without malice. It doesn't mean he has to remember Christmas or birthdays. It's just as Bax told me on the phone. There's nothing in the custody agreement that obligates him to send birthday cards. But it does obligate me to turn the children over to him when he has the whim.”

  There were tears threatening again, but she refused them. Tears in front of a man never brought anything but humiliation. “Do you think this is about me? He can't hurt me anymore. But my children don't deserve to be used so that he can try to pay me back for being so much less than he wanted.”

  Holt felt something hot and lethal spread in his gut. “He did a good job on you, didn't he?”

  “That isn't the point. Alex and Jenny are the point. Somehow I have to convince them that the father who hasn't bothered to contact them in months, who could barely tolerate them when they lived under the same roof, is going to take them on a wonderful two-week vacation.” Suddenly tired, she pushed her hands through her hair. “I didn't come here to talk about this.”

  “Yes, you did.” Calmer, Holt lit another cigarette.

  If he didn't do something with his hands, he was go­ing to touch her again, and he wasn't sure either of them could handle it “I'm not family, so I'm safe. You can dump on me and figure I won't lose any sleep over it.”

  She smiled a little. “Maybe you're right Sorry.”

  “I didn't ask for an apology. How do the kids feel about him?”

  “He's a stranger.”

  “Then they probably don't have any preset expec­tations. Seems to me they might think of the whole thing as an adventure—and that you're letting him push your buttons. If he is using them to get to you, he hit bull's-eye.”

  “I'd already come to those same conclusions my­self. I needed to vent some excess frustration.” She tried a smile again. “Usually I just pull some weeds.”

  “I think kissing me worked better.”

  “It was different anyway.”

  He tapped out his cigarette and rose. The hell with what they could handle. “Is that the best description you can come up with?”

  “Off the top of my head. Holt,” she began when he slid his arms around her.

  “Yeah?” He nipped at her chin, then her mouth.

  “I don't want to be held.” But she did, too much.

  “That's too bad.” His arms tightened, bringing her closer.

  “You asked me to come here so you could...” She made a little sound of distress when he closed his teeth over her earlobe. “You could show me some­thing of your grandfather's.”

  “That's right” Her skin smelled like the air high on the cliffs—laced with the sea and wildflowers and hot summer sunlight. “I also asked you here so I could get my hands on you again. We'll just take one thing at a time.”