But they hadn't lived, and money had become an increasing problem. How she hated to have to sell off the girls' inheritance piece by piece just to keep the sagging roof they all loved over their heads.

Trenton St. James III was going to change all that by falling madly in love with one of her darling babies.

Maybe it would be Suzanna, she thought, plumping the pillows on the parlor sofa. Poor little dear with her heart broken by the worthless cur she had married. Coco's lips tightened. To think he had fooled air of them. Even her! He had made her baby's life a misery, then had divorced her to marry that busty bimbo.

Coco let out a disgusted breath then cast a beady eye on the cracked plaster in the ceiling. She would have to make sure that Trenton would suit as a father to Suzanna's two children. And if he didn't...

There was Lilah, her own lovely free spirit. Her Lilah needed someone who would appreciate her lively mind and eccentric ways. Someone who would nurture and settle. Just a bit. Coco wouldn't tolerate anyone who would try to smother her darling girl's mystical bent.

Perhaps it would be Amanda. Coco twitched a drapery so that it covered a mouse hole. Hardheaded, practical-minded Amanda. Now that would be a match! The successful businessman and woman, wheeling and dealing. But he would have to have a softer side, one that recognized that Mandy needed to be cherished, as well as respected. Even if she didn't recognize it herself.

With a satisfied sigh, Coco moved from parlor to sitting room, from sitting room to library, library to study.

Then there was C.C. Shaking her head, Coco adjusted a picture so that it hid—almost—the watermarks on the aging silk wallpaper. That child had inherited the Calhoun stubbornness in spades. Imagine, a lovely girl wasting her life diddling with engines and fuel pumps. A grease monkey. Lord save us.

It was doubtful that a man like Trenton St. James III would be interested in a woman who spent all of her time under a car. Then again, C.C. was the baby of the family at twenty-three. Coco felt that she had more than enough

time to find her little girl the perfect husband.

The stage was set, she decided. And soon, Mr. St. James would be walking into Act One.

The front door slammed. Coco winced, knowing that the vibration would have pictures jittering on the walls and crockery dancing on tables. She worked her way through the winding maze of rooms, tidying as she went.

“Aunt Coco!”

Coco's hand lifted automatically to pat her breast. She recognized CC.'s voice, and the fury in it. Now what could have happened to fire the girl up? she wondered, and put on her best sympathetic smile.

“Just coming, dear. I didn't expect you home for hours yet. It's such a pleasant...” She trailed off as she saw her niece, stripped down to fighting weight in torn jeans and a T-shirt, traces of grease still on her face and the hands she had fisted and jammed at her hips. And the man behind her—the man Coco recognized as her prospective nephew-in-law. “Surprise,” she finished, and pasted the smile back into place. “Why, Mr. St. James, how lovely.” She stepped forward, hand extended. “I'm Mrs. McPike.”

“How do you do?”

“It's so nice to meet you at last. I hope you had a pleasant trip.” “An...interesting one, all in all.”

“Even better than pleasant.” She patted his hand before releasing it, approving his level gaze and well-pitched voice. “Please, come in. I believe a person should begin as they mean to go on, so I want you to begin to make yourself at home right now. I'll just fix us all some tea.”

“Aunt Coco,” C.C. said in a low voice.

“Yes, dear, would you like something other than tea?” “I want an explanation, and I want it now.”

Coco's heart hammered a bit, but she gave her niece an open, slightly curious smile. “Explanation? For what?”

“I want to know what the hell he's doing here.”

“Catherine, really!” Coco tsk-tsked. “Your manners, one of my very few failures. Come, Mr. St. James—or may I call you Trenton—you must be a bit frazzled after the drive. You did say you were driving? Why don't we just go in and sit in the parlor?” She was easing him along as she spoke. “Marvelous weather for a drive, isn't it?”

“Hold it.” C.C. moved quickly and planted herself in their path. “Hold it. Hold it. You're not tucking him up in the parlor with tea and small talk. I

want to know why you invited him here.”

“C.C.” Coco gave a long-suffering sigh. “Business is more pleasant and more successful on all sides when it's conducted in person, and in a relaxed atmosphere. Wouldn't you agree, Trenton?”

“Yes.” He was surprised that he had to hold back a grin. “Yes, I would.” “There.”

“Not another step.” C.C. flung out both hands. “We haven't agreed to sell.”

“Of course not,” Coco said patiently. “That's why Trenton is here. So we can discuss all the options and possibilities. You really should go up and wash before tea, C.C. You've engine grease or whatever on your face.”

With the heel of her hand, C.C. rubbed at it. “Why wasn't I told he was coming?”

Coco blinked and tried to leave her eyes slightly unfocused. “Told? Why, of course, you were told. I would hardly have invited company without telling all of you.”

Face mutinous, C.C. held her ground. “You didn't tell me.”

“Now, C.C., I...” Coco pursed her lips, knowing—since she'd practiced in the mirror—that it made her look befuddled. “I didn't? Are you certain? I would have sworn I told you and the girls the minute I got Mr. St. James's acceptance.”

“No,” C.C. said flatly.

“Oh, my.” Coco lifted her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, how awful, really. I must apologize. What a dreadful mix-up. And all my fault. C.C, I do beg your pardon. After all, this is your house, yours and your sisters'. I would never presume on your good nature and your hospitality by...”

Before Coco had trailed off again, the guilt was working away. “It's your house as much as ours, Aunt Coco. You know that. It's not as if you have to ask permission to invite anyone you like. It's simply that I think we should have—”

“No, no, it's inexcusable.” Coco had blinked enough to have her eyes glistening nicely. “Really it was. I just don't know what to say. I feel terrible about the whole thing. I was only trying to help, you see, but—”

“It's nothing to worry about.” C.C. reached out for her aunt's hand. “Nothing at all. It was just a little confusing at first. Look, why don't I make the tea, and you can sit with—him.”

“That's so sweet of you, dear.”

C.C. muttered something unintelligible as she walked down the hall.

“Congratulations,'' Trent murmured, sending Coco an amused glance. “That was one of the smoothest shuffles I've ever witnessed.”

Coco beamed and tucked her arm through his. “Thank you. Now, why don't we go in and have that chat?” She steered him to a wing chair by the fireplace, knowing that the springs in the sofa were only a memory. “I must apologize for C.C. She has a very quick temper but a wonderful heart.”

Trent inclined his head. “I'll have to take your word for it.”

“Well, you're here and that's what matters.” Pleased with herself. Coco sat across from him. “I know you'll find The Towers, and its history, fascinating.”

He smiled, thinking he'd already found its occupants a fascination.

“My grandfather,” she said, gesturing to a portrait of a dour-faced thinlipped man above the ornate cherry wood mantel. “He built this house in 1904.”

Trent glanced up at the disapproving eyes and lowered brows. “He looks...formidable,” he said politely.

Coco gave a gay laugh. “Oh, indeed. And ruthless in his prime, so I'm told. I only remember Fergus Calhoun as a doddering old man who argued with shadows. They finally put him away in 1945 after he tried to shoot the butler for serving bad port. He was quite insane—Grandfather,” she explained. “Not the butler.”

“I...see.”

“He lived another twelve years in the asylum, which put him well into his eighties. The Calhouns either have long lives or die tragically young.” She crossed her long, sturdy legs. “I knew your father.”

“My father?”

“Yes, indeed. Not well. We attended some of the same parties in our youth. I remember dancing with him once at a cotillion in Newport. He was dashingly handsome, fatally charming. I was quite smitten.” She smiled. “You resemble him closely.”

“He must have fumbled to let you slip through his fingers.”

Pure feminine delight glowed in her eyes. “You're quite right,” she said with a laugh. “How is Trenton?”

“He's well. I think if he had realized the connection, he wouldn't have passed this business on to me.”

She lifted a brow. As a woman who followed the society and gossip pages religiously, she was well aware of the senior St. James's current messy

divorce. “The last marriage didn't take?”

It was hardly a secret, but it made Trent uncomfortable just the same. “No. Should I give him your regards when I speak with him?”

“Please do.” A sore point, she noted, and skimmed lightly over it. “How is it you ran into C.C.?”

Fate, he thought, and nearly said so. “I found myself in need of her services—or I should say my car needed them. I didn't immediately make the connection between C.C's Automovations and Catherine Calhoun.”

“Who could blame you?” Coco said with a fluttering hand. “I hope she wasn't too, ah, intense.”

“I'm still alive to talk about it. Obviously, your niece isn't convinced to sell.”

“That's right.” C.C. wheeled in a tea cart, steering it across the floor like a go-cart and stopping it with a rattle between the two chairs. “And it's going to take more than some slick operator from Boston to convince me.”