She only laughed and said she was pleased to meet him.

“I'm so sorry.” Suzanna collared each child and sent Trent a sympathetic glance. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” He untangled himself and rose.

“These are my children, Disaster and Calamity.”

She kept a firm maternal arm around each. “Apologize.”

“Sorry,” they told him. Alex, a few inches taller than his sister looked up from under a mop of dark hair.

“We didn't see you.”

“Didn't,” Jenny agreed, and smiled winningly.

Suzanna decided to go into the lecture about storming into rooms later and steered them both toward the door. “Go ask Aunt Coco if dinner's ready. Walk!” she added firmly but without hope.

Before anyone could pick up the threads of a conversation, there was a loud, echoing boom.

“Oh, Lord,” Amanda said into her glass. “She's dragged out the gong again.”

“That means dinner.” If there was one thing Lilah moved quickly for, it was food. She rose, tucked her arm through Trent's and beamed up at him. “I'll show you the way. Tell me, Trent, what are your views on astral projection?”

“Ah...” He sent a glance over his shoulder and saw C.C. grinning.

Aunt Coco had outdone herself. The china gleamed. What was left of the Georgian silver that had been a wedding present to Bianca and Fergus Calhoun glittered. Under the fantasy light of the Wa-terford chandelier the rack of lamb glistened. Before any of her nieces could comment, she dived cleanly into polite conversation.

“We're dining formal style, Trenton. So much more cozy. I hope your room is suitable.”

“It's fine, thank you.” It was, he thought, big as a barn, drafty, with a hole the size of a man's fist in the ceiling. But the bed was wide and soft as a cloud. And the view... “I can see some islands from my window.”

“The Porcupine islands,” Lilah put in, and passed him a silver basket of dinner rolls.

Coco watched them all like a hawk. She wanted to see some chemistry, some heat. Lilah was flirting with him, but she couldn't be too hopeful about that. Lilah flirted with men in general, and she wasn't paying any more attention to Trent than she did to the boy who bagged groceries in the market.

No, there was no spark there. On either side. One down, she thought philosophically, three to go.

“Trenton, did you know that Amanda is also in the hotel business? We're all so proud of our Mandy.” She looked down the rosewood table at her niece. “She's quite a businesswoman.”

“I'm assistant manager of the BayWatch, down in the village.” Amanda's smile was both cool and friendly, the same she would give to any harried tourist at checkout time. “It's not on the scale of any of your hotels, but we do very well during the season. I heard you're adding an underground shopping complex to the St. James Atlanta.”

Coco frowned into her wine as they discussed hotels. Not only was there not a spark, there wasn't even a weak glow. When Trent passed Amanda the mint jelly and their hands brushed, there was no breathless pause, no meeting of the eyes. Amanda had already turned to giggle with little Jenny and mop up spilled milk.

Ah, there! Coco thought triumphantly. Trent had grinned at Alex when the boy complained that brussels sprouts were disgusting. So, he had a weakness for children.

“You don't have to eat them,” Suzanna told her suspicious son as he poked through his scalloped potatoes to make sure nothing green was hidden inside. “Personally, I've always thought they looked like shrunken heads.”

“They do, kinda.” The idea appealed to him, as his mother had known it would. He speared one, stuck it into his mouth and grinned. “I'm a cannibal. Uga bugga.”

“Darling boy,” Coco said faintly. “Suzanna's done such a marvelous job of mothering. She seems to have a green thumb with children as well as flowers. All the gardens are our Suzanna's work.”

“Uga bugga,” Alex said again as he popped another imaginary head into his mouth.

“Here you go, little creep.” C.C. rolled her vegetables onto his plate. “There's a whole passel of missionaries.”

“I want some, too,” Jenny complained, then beamed at Trent when he passed her the bowl.

Coco put a hand to her breast. Who would have guessed it? she thought. Her Catherine. The baby of her babies. While the dinner conversation bounced around her, she sat back with a quiet sigh. She couldn't be mistaken. Why, when Trent had looked at her little girl—and she at himthere hadn't just been a spark. There had been a sizzle.

C.C. was scowling, it was true, but it was such a passionate scowl. And Trent had smirked, but it was such a personal smirk. Positively intimate, Coco decided.

Sitting there, watching them, as Alex devoured his little decapitated heads, and Lilah and Amanda argued over the possibility of life on other planets, Coco could almost hear the loving thoughts C.C. and Trent sent out to each other.

Arrogant, self-important jerk. Rude, bad-tempered brat.

Who the hell does he think he is, sitting at the table as if he already owned it?

A pity she doesn't have a personality to match her looks.

Coco smiled fondly at them while the “Wedding March” hummed through her head. Like a general plotting strategy, she waited until after coffee and dessert to spring her next offensive.

“C.C, why don't you show Trenton the gardens?”

“What?” She looked up from her friendly fight with Alex over the last bite of her Black Forest cake.

“The gardens,” Coco repeated. “There's nothing like a little fresh air after a meal. And the flowers are exquisite in the moonlight.”

“Let Suzanna take him.”

“Sorry.” Suzanna was already gathering a heavy-eyed Jenny into her arms. “I've got to get these two washed up and ready for bed.”

“I don't see why—” C.C. broke off at the arched look from her aunt. “Oh, all right.” She rose. “Come on then,” she said to Trent and started out without him.

“It was a lovely meal, Coco. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” She beamed, imagining whispered words and soft, secret kisses. “Enjoy the gardens.”

Trent walked out of the terrace doors to find C.C. standing, tapping a booted foot on the stone. It was time, he thought, that someone taught the green-eyed witch a lesson in manners.

“I don't know anything about flowers,” she told him. “Or about simple courtesy.”

Her chin angled. “Now listen, buddy.”

“No, you listen, buddy.” His hand snaked out and snagged her arm. “Let's walk. The children might still be within earshot, and I don't think they're ready to hear any of this.”

He was stronger than she'd imagined. He pulled her along, ignoring the curses she tossed out under her breath. They were off the terrace and onto one of the meandering paths that wound around the side of the house. Daffodils and hyacinths nodded along the verge.

He stopped beneath an arbor where wisteria would bloom in another month. C.C. wasn't certain if the roar in her head was the sound of the sea or her own ragged temper.

“Don't you ever do that again.” She lifted a hand to rub where his fingers had dug. “You may be able to push people around in Boston, but not here. Not with me or any of my family.”

He paused, hoping and failing to get a grip on his own temper. “If you knew me, or what I do, you'd know I don't make a habit of pushing anyone around.”

“I know exactly what you do.”

“Foreclose on widows and orphans? Grow up, C.C”

She set her teeth. “You can see the gardens on your own. I'm going in.”

He merely shifted to block her path. In the moonlight, her eyes glowed like a cat's. When she lifted her hands to shove him aside, he clamped his fingers onto her wrists. In the brief tug-of-war that followed, he noted irrelevantly he assured himself—that her skin was the color of fresh cream and almost as soft.

“We're not finished.” His voice had an edge that was no longer coated with a polite veneer. “You'll have to learn that when you're deliberately rude, and deliberately insulting, there's a price.”

“You want an apology?” she all but spat at him. “Okay. I'm sorry I don't have anything to say to you that isn't rude or insulting.”

He smiled, surprising both of them. “You're quite a piece of work, Catherine Colleen Calhoun. For the life of me I can't figure out why I'm trying to be reasonable with you.”

“Reasonable?” She didn't spit the word this time, but growled it. “You call it reasonable to drag me around, manhandle me—”

“If you call this manhandling, you've led a very sheltered life.”

Her complexion went from creamy white to bright pink. “My life is none of your concern.”

“Thank God.”

Her fingers flexed then balled into fists. She hated the fact, loathed it, that her pulse was hammering double time under his grip. “Will you let me go?”

“Only if you promise not to take off running.” He could see himself chasing her, and the image was both embarrassing and appealing.

“I don't run from anyone.”

“Spoken like a true Amazon,” he murmured, and released her. Only quick reflexes had him dodging the fist she aimed at his nose. “I should have taken that into account, I suppose. Have you ever considered intelligent conversation?”

“I don't have anything to say to you.” She was ashamed to have struck out at him and furious that she'd missed. “If you want to talk, go suck up to Aunt Coco some more.” In a huff, she plopped down on the small stone bench under the arbor. “Better yet, go back to Boston and flog one of your underlings.”

“I can do that anytime.” He shook his head and, certain he was taking his life in his hands, sat beside her.