Suzanna's Surrender

Chapter Four

Coco Calhoun McPike didn't believe in leaving things up to chance particularly when her horoscope that day had advised her to take a more active part in a family matter and to visit an old acquaintance. She felt she could do both by paying an informal call on Holt Bradford.

She remembered him as a dark, hot-eyed boy who had delivered lobster and loitered around the village, waiting for trouble to happen. She also remembered that he had once stopped to change a flat for her while she'd been struggling on the side of the road trying to figure out which end of the jack to put under the bumper. He'd refused – stiffly, she recalled – her offer of payment and had hopped back on his motorcycle and ridden off before she'd properly thanked him.

Proud, defiant, rebellious, she mused as she maneuvered her car into his driveway. Yet, in a grudging sort of way, chivalrous. Perhaps if she was clever and Coco thought that she was – she could play on all of those traits to get what she wanted.

So this had been Christian Bradford's cottage, she mused. She'd seen it before, of course, but not since she'd known of the connection between the families. She paused for a moment. With her eyes closed she tried to feel something. Surely there was some remnant of energy here, something that time and wind hadn't washed away.

Coco liked to consider herself a mystic. Whether it was a true evaluation, or her imagination was ripe, she was certain she did feel some snap of passion in the air. Pleased with it, and herself, she trooped to the house.

She'd dressed very carefully. She wanted to look attractive, of course. Her vanity wouldn't permit otherwise. But she'd also wanted to look distinguished and just the tiniest bit matronly. She felt the old and classic Chanel suit in powder blue worked very well.

She knocked, putting what she hoped was a wise and comforting smile on her face. The wild barking , and the steady stream of curses from within had her placing a hand on her breast.

Five minutes out of the shower, his hair dripping and his temper curdled, Holt yanked open the door. Sadie bounded out. Coco squeaked. Good reflexes had Holt snatching the amorous dog by the collar before she could send Coco over the porch railing.

“Oh my.” Coco looked from dog to man, juggling the plate of double – fudge brownies. “Oh, goodness. What a very large dog. She certainly does look like our Fred, and I'd so hoped he'd stop growing soon. Why you could practically ride her if you liked, couldn't you?” She beamed a smile at Holt. “I'm so sorry, have I interrupted you?”

He continued to struggle with the dog, who'd gotten a good whiff of the brownies and wanted her share. Now. “Excuse me?”

“I've interrupted,” Coco repeated. “I know it's early, but on days like this I just can't stay in bed. All this sun and twittering birds. Not to mention the sawing and hammering. Do you suppose she'd like one of these?” Without waiting for an answer, Coco took one of the brownies off the plate. “Now you sit and behave.”

With what was certainly a grin, Sadie stopped straining, sat and eyed Coco adoringly.

“Good dog.” Sadie took the treat politely then padded back into the house to enjoy it. “Well, now.” Pleased with the situation, Coco smiled at Holt. “You probably don't remember me. Goodness, it's been years.”

“Mrs. McPike.” He remembered her, all right, though the last time he'd seen her, her hair had been a dusky blond. It had been ten years, he thought, but she looked younger. She'd either had a first – class face – lift or had discovered the fountain of youth.

“Why, yes. It's so flattering to be remembered by an attractive man. But you were hardly more than a boy the last time. Welcome home.” She offered the plate of brownies.

And left him no choice but to accept it and ask her in.

“Thanks.” He studied the plate as she breezed inside. Between plants and brownies, the Calhouns were making a habit of bearing gifts. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“To tell you the truth, I've just been dying to see the place. To think this is where Christian Bradford lived, and worked.” She sighed. “And dreamed of Bianca.”

“Well, he lived and worked here anyway.”

“Suzanna tells me you're not quite convinced they loved each other. I can appreciate your reluctance to fall right in with the story, but you see, it's a part of my family history. And yours. Oh, what a glorious painting!”

She crossed the room to a misty seascape hung above the stone fireplace. Even through the haze of fog, the colors were ripe and vivid, as though the vitality and passion were fighting to free themselves from the thin graying curtain. Turbulent whitecaps, the black and toothy edge of rock, the gloomcrowned shadows of islands marooned in a cold, dark sea.

“It's powerful,” she murmured. “And, oh, lonely. It's his, isn't it?” “Yes.”