Nora Roberts - Calhoun Women 01 - Courting Catherine.pdf - Nora Roberts - sinderella

Courting Catherine, by Nora Roberts

The Calhouns # 1

Summary:

STRICTLY BUSINESS

All hard-driving executive Trenton St. James III had on his mind was business-making the final arrangements to buy a

run-down old mansion on the coast of Maine. He wasn't expecting any complications. And he definitely wasn't

expecting anything like Catherine "C.C." Calhoun.

This feisty, independent-minded young woman bristled at the very thought of her family's most highly prized

possession ending up as part of some faceless hotel chain. And she seemed to bristle at the very sight of Trenton St.

James, too. But all that was going to have to change, because Trent not only wanted her home, he wanted her, too.

And he wasn't a man who took no for an answer.

Prologue

Bar Harbor, Maine June 12, 1912

I saw him on the cliffs overlooking Frenchman Bay. He was tall and dark and

young. Even from a distance, as I walked with little Ethan's hand in mine, I could

see the defiant set of his shoulders. He held the brush as though it were a saber,

his palette like a shield. Indeed it seemed to me that he was dueling with his

canvas rather than painting on it. So deep was his concentration, so fast and

fierce the flicks of his wrist, one would have thought his life depended on what he

created there.

Perhaps it did.

I thought it odd, even amusing. My image of artists had always been one of gentle

souls who see things we mortals cannot, and suffer in their quest to create them for

us.

Yet I knew, before he turned and looked at me, that I would not see a gentle face.

It seemed that he was the product of an artist himself. A rough sculptor who had

shorn away at an oak slab, carving out a high brow, dark hooded eyes, a long

straight nose and full sensual mouth. Even the sweep of his hair might have been

hewn from some ebony wood.

How he stared at me! Even now I can feel the heat rise to my face and the

dampness spring to my palms. The wind was in his hair, sweet and moist from the

sea, and ruffled the loose shirt he wore that was splattered and streaked from his

paint. With the rocks and sky at his back, he looked very proud, very angry, as if

he owned this jut of land — or the entire island — and I was the intruder.

He stood in silence for what seemed like forever, his eyes so intense, so fierce

somehow that my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. Then little Ethan began

to babble and tug at my hand. The angry glare in his eyes softened. He smiled. I

know a heart does not stop at such moments. And yet...

I found myself stammering, apologizing for the intrusion, lifting Ethan into my

arms before my bright and curious little boy could rush forward toward the rocks.

He said, “Wait.”

And taking up pad and pencil began to sketch as I stood immobile and trembling

for reasons I cannot fathom. Ethan stilled and smiled, somehow as mesmerized by

the man as I. I could feel the sun on my back and the wind on my face, could smell

the water and the wild roses.

“Your hair should be loose,” he said, and, putting the pencil aside, walked

toward me. “I've painted sunsets that were less dramatic.” He reached out and

touched Ethan's bright red hair. “You share the color with your young brother.''

“My son.” Why was my voice so breathless? “He is my son. I'm Mrs. Fergus

Calhoun,” I said while his eyes seemed to devour my face.

“Ah, The Towers.” He looked beyond me then to where the peaks and turrets of

our summer home could be seen on the higher cliff above. “I've admired your

house, Mrs. Calhoun.''

Before I could reply, Ethan was reaching out, laughing, and the man scooped him

up. I could only stare as he stood with his back to the wind, holding my child,

jiggling him easily on his hip.

“A fine boy.”

“And an energetic one. I thought to take him for a walk to give his nanny a bit of

a rest. She has less trouble with my two other children combined than with young

Ethan.''

“You have other children?”

“Yes, a girl, a year older than Ethan, and a baby, not quite one. We only arrived

for the season yesterday. Do you live on the island?”

“For now. Will you pose for me, Mrs. Calhoun?”

I blushed. But beneath the embarrassment was a deep and dreamy pleasure. Still,

I knew the impropriety and Fergus's temper. So I refused, politely, I hoped. He did

not persist, and I am ashamed to say that I felt a keen disappointment. When he

gave Ethan back to me, his eyes were on mine — a deep slate gray that seemed to

see more than my face. Perhaps more than anyone had seen before. He bid me

good day, so I turned to walk with my child back to The Towers, my home and my

duties.

I knew as surely as if I had turned to look, that he watched me until I was hidden

by the cliff. My heart thundered.

Chapter One

Bar Harbor 1991

Trenton St. James III was in a foul mood. He was the kind of man who expected

doors to open when he knocked, phones to be answered when he dialed. What he

did not expect, and hated to tolerate, was having his car break down on a narrow

two-lane road ten miles from his destination. At least the car phone had allowed him

to track down the closest mechanic. He hadn't been overly thrilled about riding into

Bar Harbor in the cab of the tow truck while strident rock had bellowed from the

speakers and his rescuer had sung along, off-key, in between bites of an enormous

ham sandwich.

“Hank, you just call me Hank, ayah,” the driver had told him then took a long pull

from a bottle of soda. “CC.'ll fix you up all right and tight. Best damn mechanic in

Maine, you ask anybody.”

Trent decided, under the circumstances, he'd have to take just-call-me-Hank's word

for it. To save time and trouble, he'd had the driver drop him off in the village with

directions to the garage and a grimy business card Trent studied while holding it

gingerly at the corners.

But as with any situation Trent found himself in, he decided to make it work for him.

While his car was being dealt with, he made half a dozen calls to his office back in

Boston—putting the fear of God into a flurry of secretaries, assistants and junior

vice-presidents. It put him in a slightly better frame of mind.

He lunched on the terrace of a small restaurant, paying more attention to the

paperwork he took from his briefcase than the excellent lobster salad or balmy

spring breeze. He checked his watch often, drank too much coffee and, with

impatient brown eyes, studied the traffic that streamed up and down the street.

Two of the waitresses on lunch shift discussed him at some length. It was early

April, several weeks before the height of the season, so the restaurant wasn't exactly

hopping with customers.

They agreed that this one was a beaut, from the top of his dark blond head to the

tips of his highly polished Italian shoes. They agreed that he was a businessman, and

an important one, because of the leather briefcase and spiffy gray suit and tie. Plus,

he wore cuff links. Gold ones.

They decided, as they rolled flatware into napkins for the next shift, that he was

young for it, no more than thirty. Outrageously handsome was their unanimous vote

while they took turns refilling his coffee cup and getting closer looks. Nice clean

features, they agreed, with a kind of polished air that would have been just a tad slick

if it hadn't been for the eyes.

They were dark and broody and impatient, making the waitresses speculate as to

whether he'd been stood up by a woman. Though they couldn't imagine any female

in her right mind doing so.

Trent paid no more attention to them than he would have to anyone who performed

a paid service. That disappointed them. The whopping tip he left made up for it

nicely. It would have surprised him that the tip would have meant more to the

waitresses if he had offered a smile with it.

He relocked his briefcase and prepared to take the brisk walk to the mechanic at the

end of town. He wasn't a cold man and wouldn't have considered himself aloof. As

a St. James he had grown up with servants who had quietly and efficiently gone

about the business of making his life simpler. He paid well, even generously. If he

didn't show any overt appreciation or personal interest, it was simply because it

never occurred to him.

At the moment, his mind was on the deal he hoped to close by the end of the week.

Hotels were his business, with the emphasis on luxury and resorts. The summer

before, Trent's father had located a particular property while he and his fourth wife

had been yachting in Frenchman Bay. While Trenton St. James II's instincts as to

women were notoriously skewed, his business instincts were always on target.

He'd begun negotiations almost immediately for the buy of the enormous stone

house overlooking Frenchman Bay. His appetite had been whetted by the reluctance

of the owners to sell what had to be a white elephant as a private home. As

expected, the senior Trenton had been turning things his way, and the deal was on

the way to being set.

Then Trent had found the whole business dumped into his lap as his father was once

again tangled in a complicated divorce.

Wife number four had lasted almost eighteen months, Trent mused. Which was two

months longer than wife number three. Trent accepted, fatalistically, that there was

bound to be a number five around the corner. The old man was as addicted to

marriage as he was to real estate.

Trent was determined to close the deal on The Towers before the ink had dried on

this last divorce decree. As soon as he got his car out of the garage, he would drive

up and take a firsthand look at the place.

Because of the time of year, many of the shops were closed as he walked through

town, but he could see the possibilities. He knew that during the season the streets of

Bar Harbor were crammed with tourists with credit cards and travelers' checks at the

ready. And tourists needed hotels. He had the statistics in his briefcase. With solid

planning, he figured The Towers would cull a hefty percentage of that tourist trade

within fifteen months.

All he had to do was convince four sentimental women and their aunt to take the

money and run.

He checked his watch again as he turned the corner toward the mechanic's. Trent

had given him precisely two hours to deal with whatever malfunction the BMW had

suffered. That, he was convinced, was enough.

Nora Roberts - Calhoun Women 01 - Courting Catherine.pdf

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