Page 22 of Suzanna's Surrender
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
Smiling a little, Megan glanced out of the window. “It hasn’t affected them. Look.”
Suzanna walked over. Down in the yard she could see her children, and Megan’s son, climbing into the plywood fort.
Holt gave it a lot of thought. Up until the moment when he dragged the suit out of his closet, he’d been certain he wasn’t going. What the devil was he supposed to do at a society wedding? He didn’t like socializing or making small talk or picking at those tiny little canapés. You never knew what the hell was in them anyway.
He didn’t like strangling himself with a tie or having to iron a shirt.
So why was he doing it?
He loosened the hated knot of the tie and frowned at himself in the dusty mirror over the bureau. Because he was an idiot and couldn’t resist an invitation to the castle on the cliffs. Because he was twice an idiot and wanted to see Suzanna again.
It had been over a week since they had planted the yellow bush. A week since he’d kissed her. And a week since he’d admitted that one kiss, however turbulent, wasn’t going to be enough.
He wanted to get a handle on her and thought the best way was to observe her in the midst of the family she seemed to love so much. He wasn’t quite sure if she was the cool and remote princess of his youth, the hot-blooded woman he’d held in his arms or the vulnerable one whose eyes were haunting his dreams.
Holt was a man who liked to know exactly what he was up against, whether it was a suspect, a dinky motor or a woman. Once he had Suzanna pegged, he’d move at his own pace.
He didn’t want to admit that she’d gotten to him with her fervent belief in the connection between his grandfather and her ancestor. More, he hated to admit that the visit by Coco McPike had made him feel guilty and responsible.
He wasn’t going to the wedding to help anyone, he reminded himself. He wasn’t making any commitments. He was going to please himself. This time he didn’t have to stop at the kitchen door.
It wasn’t a long drive, but he took his time, drawing it out. His first glimpse of The Towers bounced him back a dozen years. It was, as it had always been, a fanciful place, a maze of contrasts. It was built of somber stone, yet it was flanked with romantic towers. From one angle, it seemed formidable, from another graceful. At the moment, there was scaffolding on the west side, but instead of looking unsightly, it simply looked productive.
The sloped lawn was emerald green and guarded by gnarled and dignified trees, dashed with fragile and fragrant flowers. There was already a crowd of cars, and Holt felt foolish handing over the keys to his rusted Chevy to the uniformed valet.
The wedding was to take place on the terrace. Since it was about to begin, Holt kept well to the back of the crowd of people. There was organ music, very stately. He had to force himself not to drag at his tie and light a cigarette. There were a few murmured comments and sighs as the bridesmaids started down a long white runner spread over the lawn.
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 Holt 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 than 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 twenty-four 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?”
