retired.”
“I didn't come to you for professional help. It's personal.” She took another breath, wanting to be clear and concise. “Lilah's fiance used to be a history professor at Cornell. A couple of months ago, Livingston, going under the name of Ellis Caufield, hired him to go through the family's papers he'd stolen from us.”
Holt continued to polish the brightwork. “Doesn't sound like Lilah developed any taste.”
“Max didn't know the papers were stolen,” Suzan – na said between her teeth. “When he found out, Caufield nearly killed him. In any case, Max came to The Towers and continued his research for us. We've documented the emeralds' existence, and we've even interviewed a servant who worked at The Towers the year Bianca died.”
Holt shifted and continued to work. “You've been busy.”
“Yes. She corroborates the story that the necklace was hidden, and that Bianca was in love, and planning to leave her husband. The man she was in love with was an artist” She waited a beat. “His name was Christian Bradford.”
Something flickered in his eyes then was gone. Very deliberately he set down his rag. He pulled a cigarette from a pack, flicked on a lighter then slowly blew out a haze of smoke.
“Do you really expect me to believe that little fantasy?”
She'd hoped for surprise, even amazement. She'd gotten boredom. “It's true. She used to meet him on the cliffs near The Towers.”
He gave her a thin smile that was very close to a sneer. “Saw them, did you? Oh, I've heard about the ghost, too.” He drew in more smoke, lazily released it. “The melancholy spirit of Bianca Calhoun, drifting through her summer home. You Calhouns are just full of – stories.”
Her eyes darkened, but her voice remained very controlled. “Bianca Calhoun and Christian Bradford were in love. The summer she died, they met often on the cliffs just below The Towers.”
That touched a chord, but he only shrugged. “So what?”
“So there's a connection. My family can't afford to overlook any connection, particularly one so vital as this one. It's very possible she told him where she put the emeralds.”
“I don't see what a flirtation – an unsubstantiated flirtation – between two people some eighty years ago has to do with emeralds.”
“If you could get past this prejudice you seem to have toward my family, we might be able to figure it out.”
“Not interested in either part.” He flipped open the top of a small cooler. “Want a beer?”
“No.”
“Well, I'm fresh out of champagne.” Watching her, he twisted off the top, tossed it toward a plastic bucket, then drank deeply. “You know, if you think about it, you'd see it's a little tough to swallow. The lady of the manor, well – bred, well – off, and the struggling artist. Doesn't play, babe. You'd be better off dropping the whole thing and concentrating on planting your flowers. Isn't that what you're doing these days?”
He could make her angry, she thought, but he wasn't going to shake her from her purpose. “My sisters' lives were threatened, my home has been broken into. Idiots are sneaking in my garden and digging up my rosebushes.” She stood, tall and slim and furious. “I have no intention of dropping the whole thing.”
“Your business.” He flicked the cigarette away before jumping effortlessly onto the pier. It shook and swayed beneath them. He was taller than she remembered, and she had to angle her chin to keep her eyes level. “Just don't expect to suck me into it.”
“All right then. I'll just stop wasting my time and yours.”
He waited until she'd stepped off the pier. “Suzanna.” He liked the way it sounded when he said it. Soft and feminine and old – fashioned. “You ever learn to drive?”
Eyes stormy, she took a step back toward him. “Is that what this is all about?” she demanded. “You're still steaming because you fell off that stupid motorcycle and bruised your inflated male ego?”
“That wasn't the only thing that got bruised – or scraped, or lacerated.” He remembered the way she'd looked. God, she couldn't have been more than sixteen. Rushing out of her car, her hair windblown, her face pale, her eyes dark and drenched with concern and fear.
And he'd been sprawled on the side of the road, his twenty – year – old pride as raw as the skin the asphalt had abraded.
“I don't believe it,” she was saying. “You're still mad, after what, twelve years, for something that was clearly your own fault.”
“My fault?” He tipped the bottle toward her. “You're the one who ran into me.”
“I never ran into you or anyone. You fell.”
“If I hadn't ditched the bike, you would have run into me. You weren't looking where you were going.”
“I had the right of way. And you were going entirely too fast.”
“Bull.” He was starting to enjoy himself. “You were checking that pretty face of yours in the rear – view mirror.”
“I certainly was not. I never took my eyes off the road.”
“If you'd had your eyes on the road, you wouldn't have run into me.”
“I didn't –” She broke off, swore under her breath. “I'm not going to stand here and argue with you about something that happened twelve years ago.”
“You came here to try to drag me into something that happened eighty years ago.”
“That was an obvious mistake.” She would have left it at that, but a very big, very wet dog came bounding across the lawn. With two happy barks, the animal leaped, planting both muddy feet on Suzanna's shirt and sending her staggering back.
“Sadie, down!” As Holt issued the terse command, he caught Suzanna before she hit the ground. “Stupid bitch.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not you, the dog.” Sadie was already sitting, thumping her dripping tail. “Are you all right?” He still had his arms around her, bracing her against his chest.
“Yes, fine.” He had muscles like rock. It was impossible not to notice. Just, as it was impossible not to notice that his breath fluttered along her temple, that he smelled very male. It had been a very long time since she had been held by a man.
Slowly he turned her around. For a moment, a moment too long, she was face – to – face with him, caught in the circle of his arms. His gaze flicked down to her mouth, lingered. A gull wheeled overhead, banked, then soared out over the water. He felt her heart thud against his. Once, twice, three times.
“Sorry,” he said as he released her. “Sadie still sees herself as a cute little puppy. She got your shirt dirty.”
“Dirt's my business.” Needing time to recover, she crouched down to rub the dog's head. “Hi, there, Sadie.”
Holt pushed his hands into his pockets as Suzanna acquainted herself with his dog. The bottle lay where he'd tossed it, spilling its contents onto the lawn. He wished to God she didn't look so beautiful, that her laugh as the dog lapped at her face didn't play so perfectly on his nerves.
In that one moment he'd held her, she'd fit into his arms as he'd once imagined she would. His hands fisted inside his pockets because he wanted to touch her. No, that wasn't even close. He wanted to pull her inside the cottage, toss her onto the bed and do incredible things to her.
“Maybe a man who owns such a nice dog isn't all bad.” She tossed a glance over her shoulder and the cautious smile died on her lips. The way he was looking at her, his eyes so dark and fierce, his bony face so set had the breath backing up in her lungs. There was violence trembling around him. She'd had a taste of violence from a man, and the memory of it made her limbs weak.
Slowly he relaxed his shoulders, his arms, his hands. “Maybe he isn't,” he said easily. “But it's more a matter of her owning me at this point.”
Suzanne found it more comfortable to look at the dog than the master. “We have a puppy. Well, he's growing by leaps and bounds so he'll be as big as Sadie soon. In fact, he looks a great deal like her. Did she have a litter a few months ago?”
“No.”
