“Bamboo shoots and brass knuckles,” Lilah mused, not terribly displeased with the image. “That'll just make them more stubborn. Male egos on the line, ladies. Get out your hard hats and flak jackets.”

Suzanna laughed and patted her leg. “You've got a point. Let's see what we know... Sloan gets called back so they must think they're getting close. I can't see them being secretive if they thought they'd hit on the location of the emeralds.”

“Neither can I.” Because she thought best on her feet, Amanda paced. “Remember how stiff – necked they got when we decided to look for the yacht Max had jumped off? Sloan threatened to...what was it? Hog – tie,” she said viciously. “Yes, that was it. He threatened to hog – tie me if I so much as thought about trying to find Livingston on my own.”

“Trent won't even discuss Livingston with me,” C.C. added, then wrinkled her nose. “It isn't good for me to be upset in my delicate condition.”

From her sprawled perch on the window seat, Lilah gave a hoot. “I'd like to see any man go through childbirth then have the nerve to call a woman delicate.”

“Holt says that Livingston is out of our league. Ours,” Suzanna explained, making a circular motion with her finger. “Not his.”

“Jerk.” C.C. plopped down on the window seat beside Lilah. “So are we agreed? They've got a line on Livingston and they're keeping it to themselves.”

The vote was unanimous.

“Now, we need to find out what they know.” Amanda stopped pacing and tapped her foot. “Suggestions?”

“Well...” Suzanna looked down at her nails and smiled. “I say divide and conquer. The four of us should be able to dig information out of the meach in our own way. Then we rendezvous here, tomorrow, same time, and put the pieces together.”

“I like it.” Lilah sat up to put a hand on Suzanna's shoulder. “The poor guys haven't got a chance.”

Suzanna reached up to lay her hand on Lilah's as Amanda and C.C. added theirs. “And when it's over,” she said, “maybe they'll realize the Calhoun women take care of their own.”

Chapter Eleven

Holt had never felt more ridiculous in his life. He was about to take part in a séance. If that wasn't bad enough, before the night was over, he was going to ask the woman who was currently laughing at him, to be his wife.

“It isn't a firing squad.” Chuckling, Suzanna patted his cheek. “Relax.”

“Damn foolishness is what it is.” From the foot of the table, Colleen scowled at everyone in general. “The idea of talking to spirits. Hogwash. And you –” She stabbed a finger toward Coco. “Not that you ever kept an ounce of sense in that flighty head of yours, but I'd have thought even you would know better than to raise these girls on such bilge.”

“It isn't bilge.” As always, the steely gaze made Coco tremble, but she felt fairly safe with the length of the table between them. “You'll see after we begin.”

“What I see is a table full of dolts.” Though her face remained in stern lines, Colleen's heart melted as she looked up at the portrait of her mother, which had been hung over the fireplace. “I'll give you ten thousand for it.”

Holt shrugged. She'd been dogging him for days about buying the painting. “It isn't for sale.”

“If you think you're going to hose me, young man, you're mistaken. I know a hustle.”

He grinned at her. He would have bet his last nickel she'd hustled plenty herself. “I'm not selling it.”

“It's worth more, anyway,” Lilah put in, unable to resist. “Isn't that right, Professor?”

“Well, actually, yes.” Max cleared his throat. “Christian Bradford's early work is increasing in value. At Sotheby's two years ago, one of his seascapes went for thirty – five thousand.”

“What are you,” Colleen snapped, “his agent?” Max swallowed a grin. “No, ma'am.”

“Then hush. Fifteen thousand, and not a penny more.” Holt ran his tongue around his teeth. “Not interested.”

“Maybe if we got on with the matter at hand.” Coco held her breath, waiting for her aunt's wrath to fall. When Colleen only muttered and scowled, she relaxed. “Amanda, dear, light the candles. Now we must all try to empty our minds of all worries, all doubts. Concentrate on Bianca.” When the candles were glowing, and the chandelier extinguished, she gave a last glance around the table. “Join hands.”

Holt grumbled under his breath but took Suzanna's hand in his right, Lilah's in his left.

“Focus on the picture,” Coco whispered, closing her eyes to bring it into her mind since it was behind her on the wall. Tingles of anticipation raced up and down her spine. “She's close to us, very close to us. She wants to help.”

Holt let his mind drift because it helped him forget what he was doing. He tried to imagine what it would be like when he and Suzanna were alone in the cottage. He'd bought candles. Not the sturdy type he kept in the kitchen drawer for power outages, but slender white tapers that smelted of jasmine.

There was champagne chilling beside the six – pack in his refrigerator, and two new clear flutes beside his coffee mugs. Even now the jeweler's box was burning a hole in his hip pocket.

Tonight, he thought, he'd take the step. The words would come exactly as he planned. The music would be playing. She would open the box, look inside....

Her hands were draped with emeralds. He frowned, giving himself a little shake. That wasn't right. He hadn't bought her emeralds. But the image focused so clearly. Suzanna on her knees holding emeralds. Three glittering tiers flanked by icy diamonds and centered by a glowing teardrop stone of dreamy green.

The Calhoun necklace. He felt the chill on his neck and ignored it. He'd seen the picture Max had found in the old library book. He knew what the emeralds looked like. It was the atmosphere, the humming silence and the flickering candles that made him think of them. That made him see them.

He didn't believe in visions. But when he closed his eyes to clear it from his mind, it seemed imprinted there. Suzanna kneeling on the floor with emeralds dripping from her fingers.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around.

There was no one there, only shadows and light thrown by the candles. But the feeling remained, with an urgency that had his hackles rising.

It was crazy, he told himself. And it was time to put an end to the whole insane business.

“Listen,” he began. And the portrait of Bianca crashed to the floor.

Coco gave a piping squeak and jolted out of the chair. “Oh, my. Oh, my goodness,” she murmured, patting her speeding heart.

Amanda was already racing forward. “Oh, I hope it isn't damaged.”

“I don't think it will be.” Lilah released Holt's hand. “Do you?”

The clear and steady gaze made him uncomfortable. Ignoring her, he turned to Suzanna. Her hand was like ice in his. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” But she gave a quick shudder. “I think you'd better check the portrait.”

He rose to go over where the others were crouched. As he did, Suzanna looked down the length of the table at her great – aunt. Colleen's white skin had paled like glass. Her eyes were dark and damp. Without a word, Suzanna rose and poured her a brandy. “It's going to be all right,” she murmured, laying a hand on the thin shoulder.

“The frame cracked.” Sloan ran a finger along it before he rose. “Funny that it would fall that way. Those nails are sturdy.”

Holt started to shrug it off, but when he bent closer to where the frame had separated from the backing, he went very still. “There's something between the canvas and the back.” Hefting the portrait, he laid it facedown on the table. “I need a knife.”

Sloan pulled out his pocketknife and offered it. Holt made a long thin slit just beneath the cracked frame and slid out several sheets of paper.

“What is it?” The question was muffled as Coco had her hands pressed to her mouth.

“It's my grandfather's writing.” The emotion sprang up strong and fast. It churned in Holt's eyes as he lifted them to Suzanna's. “It looks like a kind of diary. It's dated 1965.”

“Sit down, dear.” Coco put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Trent, would you pour the brandy? I'll brew some tea for C.C.”

He did need to sit, and he hoped the drink would steady him. For now, he could only stare at the papers and see his grandfather. Sitting on the back porch of the cottage, watching the water. Standing in his loft, slashing paint on canvas. Walking on the cliffs, telling a young boy stories.

When Suzanna came back to lay a hand on his, he turned his palm up and gripped her fingers. “It's been there all this time, and I didn't know.”

“You weren't meant to know,” she said quietly. “Until tonight.” When he looked at her again, she curled her fingers tight around his. “Some things we just have to take on faith.”

“Something happened tonight. Something upset you.” “I'll tell you. Not yet.”

Composed, Coco brought in the tea, then took her seat. “Holt, whatever your grandfather wrote belongs to you. No one here will ask you to share it. If after you read it, you feel you prefer to keep it to yourself, we'll understand.”

He glanced down at the papers again, then lifted the first sheet. “We'll read it together.” He took a long breath, kept Suzanna's hand tight in his. '“The moment I saw her, my life changed.”'

No one spoke as Holt read through his grandfather's memories. But around the table, hands linked again. There was no sound but his voice and the wind breathing through the trees outside the windows. When he was finished, the room remained silent.