The Calhouns Collection Page 8
“Hold it!” Trent shouted before they could dive for each other. The unfamiliar masculine tone had them stopping in their tracks. “I’m the evil pirate,” he told them, “and you’re both about to walk the plank.”
He enjoyed it. Their children’s imagination might have been a bit bloody-minded, but they played fair when the rules were set. There would have been any number of people he knew socially who would have been stunned to see Trenton St. James III crawling around on the floor or firing a water pistol, but he could remember being closed in on rainy days himself.
The play went from pirates to space marauders to Indian rampage. At the end of a particularly gruesome battle, the three of them were sprawled on the floor. Alex, rubber tomahawk in hand, played dead so long he fell asleep.
“I won,” Jenny said, then with her feather headdress falling over her eyes, cuddled against Trent’s side. She, too, in the enviable way of children, was asleep in moments.
C.C. found them like that. The rain was patting gently at the windows. In the bath down the hall, a drip fell musically into a bucket. Otherwise there was only the sound of gentle, even breathing.
Alex was sprawled on his face, his fingers still clutched over his weapon. In addition to bodies, the floor was scattered with miniature cars, defeated action figures and a few plastic dinosaurs. Avoiding the casualties, she stepped inside.
She wasn’t exactly sure what her feelings were at finding Trent sleeping on the floor with her niece and nephew. What she was certain of was that if she hadn’t seen it for herself, she wouldn’t have believed it.
His tie and shoes were gone, his hair mussed, and there was a streak of damp down his linen shirt.
The tug on her heart was slow and tender and very real. Why, he looked . . . sweet, she thought, then immediately jammed her hands into her pockets. That was absurd. A man like Trent was never sweet.
Maybe the kids had knocked him unconscious, she mused, and leaned over him. He opened his eyes, stared up at her for a moment, then made some kind of sleepy noise deep in his throat.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“I’m not completely sure.” He lifted his head and looked around. Jenny was tucked into the curve of his arm, and Alex was down for the count on the other side. “But I think I’m the only survivor.”
“Where’s Aunt Coco?”
“Running a few errands. I’m keeping my eye on the kids.”
She lifted a brow. “Oh, I can see that.”
“I’m afraid there was a major battle, and many lives were lost.”
C.C.’s lips twitched as she went to Alex’s bed for a blanket.
“Who won?”
“Jenny claimed victory.” Gently he slipped his arm out from under her head. “Though Alex will disagree.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“What should we do with them?”
“Oh, we’ll keep them, I suppose.”
He grinned back at her. “No, I meant should they be put in bed or something?”
“No.” Expertly she flipped open the blanket and spread it over both of them where they lay. “They’ll be fine.” She had a ridiculous urge to slip an arm around his waist and lay her head on his shoulder. She squashed it ruthlessly. “It was nice of you to offer to look after them.”
“I didn’t offer precisely. I was dragooned.”
“It was still nice of you.”
He caught up with her at the door. “I could use a cup of coffee.”
C.C. hesitated only a moment. “All right. I’ll fix it. It looks like you’ve earned it.” She flicked a glance over her shoulder as she started down the stairs. “How’d your shirt get wet?”
“Oh.” He brushed a hand over it, faintly embarrassed. “A direct hit with a death ray disguised as a water pistol. So, how was your day?”
“Not nearly as adventurous as yours.” She turned into the kitchen and went directly to the stove. “I only rebuilt an engine.”
When the coffee was started, she moved over to light a fire in the kitchen hearth. She had rain in her hair, Trent noticed. He wasn’t a lyrical man, but he found himself thinking that the droplets of water looked like a shower of diamonds against the glossy cap.
He’d always preferred women with long hair, he reminded himself. Feminine, soft, wavy. And yet . . . the style suited C.C., showing off her slender neck, perfectly framing that glorious white skin.
“What are you staring at?”
He blinked, shook his head. “Nothing. Sorry, I was just thinking. It’s ah . . . there’s something comforting about a fire in the kitchen.”
“Hmm.” He looked weird, she thought. Maybe it was the lack of a tie. “Do you want milk in your coffee?”
“No, black.”
Her arm brushed his as she walked to the stove. This time it was he who stepped back. “Did Aunt Coco say where she was going?”
Maybe there was static electricity in the air, he thought. That would explain the jolt he’d felt when he’d touched her. “Not exactly. It doesn’t matter, the kids were entertaining.”
She studied his face as she handed him a mug. “I think you mean it.”
“I do. Maybe I haven’t been around children enough to become jaded. Those two are quite a pair.”
“Suzanna’s a terrific mother.” Comfortable, she leaned back against the counter as she sipped. “She used to practice on me. So, how’s the car running?”
“Better than it has in months.” He toasted her with the mug. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything was off until after you’d worked on it. I don’t really know anything about engines.”
“That’s all right. I don’t know how to plot a corporate takeover.”
“I was sorry you weren’t there when I came around to pick it up. Hank said you’d gone to dinner. I guess you had a good time—you didn’t get in until late.”
“I always have a good time with Finney.” She turned around to raid the cookie jar, then offered him one as he tried to ignore the little nip of jealousy.
“An old friend?”
“I guess you could say so.” C.C. took a deep breath and prepared to launch into the speech she had practiced all day. “I’d like to straighten out the business you brought up yesterday.”
“It isn’t necessary. I got the picture.”
“I could have explained things without being so hard on you.”
He tilted his head, studying her thoughtfully. “You could have?”
“I like to think so.” Determined to wipe the slate clean, she set the coffee aside. “I was embarrassed, and being embarrassed makes me angry. This whole situation is difficult.”
He could still hear, very clearly, the unhappiness in her voice as she had spoken with Suzanna the night before. “I think I’m beginning to understand that.”
Her eyes came back to his, and she sighed. “Well, in any case, I can’t help but resent the fact that you want to buy The Towers, or that we might have to let you—but that’s a separate thing from Aunt Coco’s maneuvers. I think I realized, after I stopped being mad, that you were just as embarrassed as I was. You were just so damned polite.”
“It’s a bad habit of mine.”
“You’re telling me.” She waved half a cookie at him. “If you hadn’t brought up the kiss—”
“I understand that was an error in judgment, but since I’d already apologized for it, I thought we could deal with it reasonably.”
“I didn’t want an apology,” C.C. muttered. “Then or now.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t. You certainly don’t. What I meant was that an apology was unnecessary. I may be inexperienced by your standards, and I may not be sophisticated like the women you’re used to dealing with, but I’m not foolish enough to start weaving daydreams out of one stupid kiss.” She was getting angry again and was determined not to. After one deep, cleansing breath, she tried again. “I’d simply like to put that, and our conver
sation yesterday behind us, completely and totally. If it turns out that we will have business dealings, it would be wiser all around if we can be civilized.”
“I like you this way.”
“What way?”
“When you’re not taking potshots at me.”
She finished off her cookie and grinned. “Don’t get used to it. All Calhouns have hideous tempers.”
“So I’ve been warned. Truce?”
“I suppose. Want another cookie?”
He was staring again, she noted, and her own eyes widened when he reached out to brush his fingertips down her hair. “What are you doing?”
“Your hair’s wet.” He stroked it again, fascinated. “It smells like wet flowers.”
“Trent—”
He smiled. “Yes?”
“I don’t think this is the best way to handle things.”
“Probably not.” But his fingers trailed down through her hair to the nape of her neck. He felt her quick shudder. “I can’t quite get you out of my mind. And I keep having these uncontrollable urges to get my hands on you. I wonder why.”
“Because—” she wet her lips “—I irritate you.”
“Oh, you do that, without question.” He pressed those fingers at the back of her neck and had her moving forward an inch. “But not simply in the way you mean. It’s not simple at all. Though it should be.” His other hand skimmed over the collar of her denim work shirt, then cupped her chin. “Otherwise, why would I feel this irresistible need to touch you every time I get near you?”
“I don’t know.” His fingers, light as a feather, trailed down to where her pulse thudded at the base of her throat. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Touch me.”
He slid his hand down her sleeve to her bandaged hand, then lifted it to his lips. “Why?”
“Because you make me nervous.”
Something lit in his eyes, turning them almost black. “You don’t even mean to be provocative, do you?”
“I wouldn’t know how.” Her eyes fluttered closed on a strangled moan when he brushed his lips over her jawline.
“Honeysuckle,” he murmured, drawing her closer. He’d once thought it such a common flower. “I can all but taste it on you. Wild and sweet.”
Her muscles turned to water as his mouth cruised over hers. So much lighter, so much gentler than the first time. It wasn’t right that he could do this to her. The part of her mind that was still rational all but shouted it. But even that was drowned out by the flood of longing.
“Catherine.” He had her face framed between his hands now as he nipped seductively at her lips. “Kiss me back.”
She wanted to shake her head, to pull away and walk casually, even callously out of the room. Instead she flowed into his arms, her mouth lifting to his, meeting his.
His fingers tightened before he could prevent it, then slipped down to pull her more truly against him. He could think of nothing, wanted to think of nothing—no consequences, no rules, no code of behavior. For the first time in his memory, he wanted only to feel. Those sharp and sweet sensations she had racing through him were more than enough for any man.
She was strong—had always been strong—but not enough to prevent time from standing still. It was this one moment, she realized, that she had been waiting for all of her life. As her hands slid up his back, she held the moment to her as completely as she held him.
The fire crackled in the grate. The rain pattered. There was the light, spicy scent of the potpourri Lilah set everywhere about the house. His arms were so strong and sure, yet with a gentleness she hadn’t expected from him.
She would remember it all, every small detail, along with the dark excitement of his mouth and the sound of her name as he whispered it against hers.
He drew her away, slowly this time, more shaken than he cared to admit. As he watched, she ran her tongue over her lips as if to savor a last taste. That small, unconscious gesture nearly brought him to his knees.
“No apology this time,” he told her, and his voice wasn’t steady.
“No.”
He touched his lips to hers again. “I want you. I want to make love with you.”
“Yes.” It was a glorious kind of release. Her lips curved against his. “Yes.”
“When?” He buried his face in her hair. “Where?”
“I don’t know.” She shut her eyes on the wonder of it. “I can’t think.”
“Don’t.” He kissed her temple, her cheekbone, her mouth. “This isn’t the time for thinking.”
“It has to be perfect.”
“It will be.” He framed her face again. “Let me show you.”
She believed him—the words and what she saw in his eyes. “I can’t believe it’s going to be you.” Laughing, she threw her arms around him, holding him close. “That I’ve waited all my life to be with someone. And it’s you.”
His hand paused on its way to her hair. “All of your life?”
Dreamily in love, she hugged him tighter. “I thought I’d be afraid the first time, but I’m not. Not with you.”
“The first time.” He shut his eyes. Her first time. How could he have been so stupid? He’d recognized the inexperience, but he hadn’t thought, hadn’t believed she was completely innocent. And he’d all but seduced her in her own kitchen. “C.C.”
“I’m thirsty,” Alex complained from the doorway, and had them springing apart like guilty children. He eyed them suspiciously. “What are you doing that stuff for? It’s disgusting.” He sent Trent a pained look, man-to-man. “I don’t get why anybody wants to go around kissing girls.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” Trent told him. “Why don’t we get you a drink, then I need to talk to your aunt a minute. Privately.”
“More mush stuff.”
“What mush stuff?” Amanda wanted to know as she breezed in.
“Nothing.” C.C. reached for the coffeepot.
“Lord, did I have a day,” Amanda began, and grabbed a cookie.
Suzanna walked in two seconds later, followed by Lilah. As the kitchen filled with feminine laughter and scent, Trent knew his moment was lost.
When C.C. smiled at him across the room, he was afraid his head would be lost with it.
Chapter Six
It was Trent’s first séance. He sincerely hoped it would be his last. There was simply no gracious way to decline attending. When he suggested that perhaps this was a family evening, Coco merely laughed and patted his cheek.
“My dear, we wouldn’t think of excluding you. Who knows, it may be you the restless spirits choose to speak through.”
The possibility did very little to cheer him up.
Once the children were tucked into bed for the evening, the rest of the family, along with the reluctant Trent, gathered around the dining room table. The stage had been set.
A dozen candles flickered atop the buffet. Dime store holders cheek by jowl with Meissen and Baccarat. Another trio of white tapers glowed in the center of the table. Even nature seemed to have gotten into the spirit of things—so to speak.
Outside, the rain had turned into a wet fitful snow, blown about by a rising wind. As warm and cold air collided, thunder boomed and lightning flickered.
It was a dark and stormy night, Trent thought fatalistically as he took his seat.
Coco had not, as he’d secretly feared, worn a turban and a fringed shawl. As always, she was meticulously groomed. Around her neck, she did wear a large amethyst crystal, which she toyed with constantly.
“Now, children,” she instructed. “Take hands and form the circle.”
The wind knocked at the windows as C.C. slipped her hand into Trent’s. Coco took his other. Directly across from him Amanda grinned, the amusement and sympathy obvious as she linked with her aunt and Suzanna.
“Don’t worry, Trent,” she told him. “The Calhoun ghosts are always well behaved around company.”
“Concentration is
essential,” Lilah explained as she closed the gap between her eldest and youngest sister. “And very basic, really. All you have to do is clear your mind, particularly of any cynicism.” She winked at Trent. “Astrologically, it’s an excellent night for a séance.”
C.C. gave his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze as Coco took over.
“We must all clear our minds and open our hearts.” She spoke in a soothing monotone. “For some time I’ve felt that my grandmother, the unhappy Bianca, has wanted to contact me. This was her summer home for the last years of her young life. The place where she spent her most joyous and most tragic moments. The place where she met the man she loved, and lost.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “We are here, Grandmama, waiting for you. We know your spirit is troubled.”
“Does a spirit have a spirit?” Amanda wanted to know and earned a glare from her aunt. “It’s a reasonable question.”
“Behave,” Suzanna murmured, and smothered a smile. “Go ahead, Aunt Coco.”
They sat in silence, with only Coco’s voice murmuring over the crackle of the fire and the moan of the wind. Trent’s mind wasn’t clear. It was filled with the way C.C. had fit in his arms, with the sweet and generous way her mouth had opened to his. The way she had looked at him, her eyes clouded and warm with emotions. Emotions he had recklessly stirred in her.
Guilt almost smothered him.
She wasn’t like Marla or any of the women he had coolly romanced over the years. She was innocent and open and, despite a strong will and a sharp tongue, achingly vulnerable. He had taken advantage of that, inexcusably.
Not that it was entirely his fault, he reminded himself. She was, after all, a beautiful, desirable woman. And he was human. The fact that he wanted her—strictly on a physical plane—was only natural.
He glanced over just as she turned her head and smiled at him. Trent had to fight down a foolish urge to lift her hand to his lips and taste her skin.
She touched something in him, damn it. Something he was determined would remain untouched. When she smiled at him—even when she scowled at him—she made him feel more, want more, wish more, than any woman he’d ever known.
It was ridiculous. They were miles apart in every way. And yet, with her hand warm in his as it was now, he felt closer to her, more in tune with her, than he’d ever felt with anyone.