When Amanda, as hotel manager, took over the tour, Megan was told that each suite was unique. The storage rooms of The Towers had been full of old furniture, mementos and art. What hadn't been sold prior to Trent's having invested the St.

James money in the transformation now graced the guest rooms.

Some suites were two levels, with an art deco staircase connecting the rooms, some had wainscoting or silk wallpaper. There was an Aubusson rug here, an old tapestry there. And all the rooms were infused with the legend of the Calhoun emeralds and the woman who had owned them.

The emeralds themselves, discovered after a difficult and dangerous search some said with the help of the spirits of Bianca Calhoun and Christian Bradford, the artist who had loved her resided now in a glass case in the lobby. Above the case was a portrait of Bianca, painted by Christian more than eighty years before.

They're gorgeous,

Megan whispered.

Stunning.

The tiers of grass green

emeralds and white diamonds almost pulsed with life.

Sometimes I'll just stop and look at them, Amanda admitted,

and remember all

we went through to find them. How Bianca tried to use them to escape with her children to Christian. It should make me sad, I suppose, but having them here, under her portrait, seems right.

Yes, it does.

Megan could feel the pull of them, even through the glass.

But isn't

it risky, having them out here this way?

Holt arranged for security. Having an ex-cop in the family means nothing's left to chance. The glass is bulletproof.

Amanda tapped her finger against it.