Suzanna's Surrender

He barely recognized C.C. as the stunning goddess in the long rose – colored dress. Yeah, the Calhoun girls had always been lookers, he thought, and skimmed his gaze over the woman who walked behind her. Her dress was the color of sea foam, but he hardly noticed. It was the face – the face in the portrait in his grandfather's loft. Holt let out the breath between his teeth. Lilah Calhoun was a dead ringer for her great-grandmother. And Holt wasn't going to be able to deny the connection any longer.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, wishing he hadn't come after all. Then he saw Suzanna.

This was the princess of his youthful imagination. Her pale gold hair fell in soft curls to her shoulders under a fingertip veil of misty blue. The dress of the same color flowed around her, skirts billowing in the breeze as she walked. She carried flowers in her hands; more were scattered in her hair. When she passed him, her eyes as soft and dreamy as the dress, he felt a longing so deep, so intense, he could barely keep from speaking her name.

He remembered nothing about the brief and lovely ceremony except how her face had looked when the first tear slipped down her cheek.

As it had been so many years ago, the ballroom was filled with light and music and flowers. As for the food, Coco had outdone herself. The guests were treated to lobster croquettes, steamship round, salmon mousse and champagne by the bucket. Dozens of chairs had been set up in corners and along the mirrored walls, and the terrace doors had been thrown open to allow the guests to spill outside.

Holt held himself apart, sipping the cold, frothy – wine and using the time to observe. As his first visit to The Towers, it was quite a show, he decided. Mirrors tossed back the reflection of women in pastel dresses as they stood or sat or were lured out to dance. Music and the scent of gardenias filled the air.

The bride was stunning, tall and regal in white lace, her face luminous as she danced with the big, bronzed man who was now her husband. They looked good together, Holt thought idly. The way people were meant to, he supposed, when they were in love. He saw Coco dancing with a tall, fair man who looked as if he'd been born in a tuxedo.

Then he looked back, as he already had several times, at Suzanna. She was leaning over now, saying something to a dark – haired little boy. Her son? Holt wondered. It was obvious the kid was on the verge of some kind of rebellion. He was shuffling his feet and tugging at the bow tie. He had Holt's sympathy. There couldn't be anything much worse for a kid on a summer evening then being stuck in a mini tuxedo and having to hang around with adults. Suzanna whispered something in his ear, then tugged on it. The boy's mutinous expression turned into a grin.

“Still brooding in corners, I see.” Holt turned and was once again struck by Lilah Calhoun's resemblance to the woman his grandfather had painted. “Just watching the show.”

“It is worth the price of a ticket. Max.” Lilah laid a hand on the arm of the tall, lanky man at her side.

“This is Holt Bradford, whom I was madly in love with for about twentyfour hours some fifteen years ago.”

Holt's brow lifted. “You never told me.”

“Of course not. At the end of the day I decided I didn't want to be in love with the surly, dangerous sort after all. This is Max Quartermain, the man I'm going to love for the rest of my life.”

“Congratulations.” Holt took Max's offered hand. Firm grip, Holt mused, steady eyes and a slightly embarrassed smile. “You're the teacher, right?”

“I was. And you're Christian Bradford's grandson.” “That's right,” Holt agreed, and his voice had cooled.

“Don't worry, we're not going to hound you as long as you're a guest.” Studying him, Lilah ran a fingertip around the rim of her glass. “We'll do that later. I'll have Max show you the scar he got while we were having our little publicity stunt.”

“Lilah.” Max's voice was soft with an underlying command.

Lilah merely shrugged and sipped champagne. “You remember C.C.” She gestured as her sister joined them.

“I remember a gangly kid with engine grease on her face.” He relaxed enough to smile. “You look good.”

“Thanks. My husband, Trent. Holt Bradford.”

It was Coco's dance partner. Holt noted as the two men summed each other up during the polite introductions.

“And the bride and groom,” Lilah announced, toasting the couple before she drank again.

“Hello, Holt.” Though she was still glowing, Amanda's eyes were steady and watchful. “I'm glad you could come.” As she introduced Sloan, Holt realized he'd been surrounded quite neatly. They didn't press. No, the emeralds were never mentioned. But they'd joined ranks, he thought, in a solid wall of determination he had to admire, even as he resented it.

“What is this, a family meeting?” Suzanna hurried up. “You're supposed to be mingling, not huddling in a corner. Oh. Holt.” Her smile wavered a bit. “I didn't know you were here.”

“Your aunt invited me.”