For the Love of Lilah

by Nora Roberts

  "Yes." Legs braced against the rolling deck, Cau­field smiled. He was enjoying himself—the wind, the electric air, the white face of the prey he had cor­nered. "And now that I can be more frank about just what I want you to look for, our work should go much more quickly. Come now, Doctor, use that celebrated brain of yours."

  From the corner of his eye, Max saw that Hawkins was closing in from the other side, as steady on the heeling deck as a mountain goat on a beaten path. In a moment, they would have him. Once they did, he was quite certain he would never see the inside of a classroom again.

  With an instinct for survival that had never been tested, he swung over the rail. He heard another crack of thunder, felt a burning along his temple, then plunged blindly beneath the dark, swirling water.

  Lilah had driven down, following the winding road to the base of the cliff. The wjnd had picked up, was shrieking now as she stepped out of her car and let it stream through her hair. She didn't know why she'd felt compelled to come here, to stand alone on this narrow and rocky stretch of beach to face the storm.

  But she had come, and the exhilaration streamed into her, racing just under her skin, speeding up her heart. When she laughed, the sound hung on the wind then echoed away. Power and passion exploded around her in a war she could delight in.

  Water fumed against the rock, spouting up, spray­ing her. There was an icy feel to it that made her shiver, but she didn't draw back. Instead she closed her eyes for a moment, lifted her face and absorbed it.

  The noise was huge, wildly primitive. Above, closer now, the storm threatened. Big and bad and boisterous. The rain, so heavy in the air you could taste it, held up, but the lightning took command, spearing the sky, ripping through the dark while the boom of thunder competed with the crash of water and wind.

  She felt as though she were alone in a violent paint­ing, but there was no sense of loneliness and certainly none of fear. It was anticipation that prickled along her skin, just as a passion as dark as the storm's beat in her blood.

  Something, she thought again as she lifted her face to the wind, was coming.

  If it hadn't been for the lightning, she wouldn't have seen him. At first she watched the dark shape in the darker water and wondered if a dolphin had swum too close to the rocks. Curious, she walked over the shale, dragging her hair away from the greedy fingers of wind.

  Not a dolphin, she realized with a clutch of panic. A-man. Too stunned to move, she watched him go under. Surely she'd imagined it, she told herself. She was just caught up in the storm, the mystery of it, the sense of immediacy. It was crazy to think she'd seen someone fighting the waves in this lonely and violent span of water.

  But when the figure appeared again, floundering, Lilah was kicking off her sandals and racing into the icy black water.

  His energy was flagging. Though he'd managed to pry off his shoes, his legs felt abominably heavy. He'd always been a strong swimmer. It was the only sport he had had any talent for. But the sea was a great deal stronger. It carried him along now rather than his own arms and legs. It dragged him under as it chose, then teasingly released him as he struggled to break free for one more gulp of air.

  He couldn't even remember why he was fighting. The cold that had long since numbed his body granted the same favor to his brain. His thrashing movements were merely automatic now and growing steadily weaker. It was the sea that guided him, that trapped him, that would, he was coming to accept, kill him.

  The next wave battered him, and exhausted, he let it take him under. He only hoped he would drown before he bashed into the rocks.

  He felt something wrap around his neck and, with the last of his strength, pushed at it. Some wild thought of sea snakes or grasping weeds had him struggling. Then his face was above the surface again, his burning lungs sucking air. Dimly he saw a face close to his own. Pale, stunningly beautiful. A glory of dark, wet hair floated around him.

  "Just hang on," she shouted at him. "We'll be all right."

  She was pulling him toward shore, fighting the backwash of wave. Hallucinating, Max thought. He had to be hallucinating to imagine a beautiful woman coming to his aid a moment before he died. But the possibility of a miracle kicked into his fading sense of survival, and he began to work with her.

  The waves slammed into them, dragging them back a foot for every two exhausting feet of progress they made. Overhead the sky opened to pour out a lashing rain. She was shouting something again, but all he could hear was the dull buzzing in his own head.

  He decided he must already be dead. There cer­tainly was no more pain. All he could see was her face, the glow of her eyes, the water-slicked lashes. A man could do worse than to die with that image in his mind.

  But her eyes were bright with anger, electric with it. She wanted help, he realized. She needed help. Instinctively he put an arm around her waist so that they were towing each other.

  He lost track of the times they went under, of the times one would pull the other up again. When he saw the jutting rocks, fangs spearing up through the swirling black, he turned his weary body without thought to shield hers. An angry wave flicked them waist high out of the water, as easily as a finger flicks an ant from a stone.

  His shoulder slammed against rock, but he barely felt it. Then there was the grit of sand beneath his knees, biting into flesh. The water fought to suck them back, but they crawled onto the rocky shore.

  The initial sickness was hideous, racking through him until he was certain his body would simply break apart. When the worst of it passed, he rolled, cough­ing, onto his back. The sky wheeled overhead, black, then brilliant. The face was above his again, close. A hand moved gently over his brow.

  "You made it, sailor."

  He only stared. She was eerily beautiful, like some­thing he might have conjured if he'd had enough imagination. In the flickering lightning he could see her hair was a rich, golden red. She had acres of it. It flowed around her face, down her shoulders, onto his chest. Her eyes were the mystical green of a calm sea. As the water ran from her onto him, he reached up to touch her face, certain they would pass through the image. But he felt her skin, cold, wet and soft as spring rain.

  "Real." His voice was a husky croak. "You're real."

  "Damn right." She smiled, then cupping his face in her hands, laughed. "You're alive. We're both alive." And kissed him. Deeply, lavishly, until his head spun with it. There was more laughter beneath the kiss. He heard the joy in it, but not the simple relief.

  When he looked at her again, she was blurring, that ethereal face fading until alt he could see were those incredible, glowing eyes.

  "I never believed in mermaids," he murmured be­fore he lost consciousness.

  Chapter Two

  “Poor man." Coco, splendid in a flowing purple caftan, hovered beside the bed. She kept her voice low and watched, eagle eyed, as Lilah bandaged the shallow crease on their unconscious guest's temple. "What in the world could have happened to him?"

  "We'll have to wait and ask." Her fingers gentle, Lilah studied the pale face on the pillow. Early thirties, she guessed. No tan, though it was mid-June. The indoor type, she decided, despite the fact that he had fairly good muscles. His body was well toned, if a bit on the lanky side—the weight of it had given her more than a little trouble when she'd dragged him to the car. His face was lean, a little long, nicely bony. Intellectual, she thought. The mouth was certainly en­gaging. Rather poetic, like the pallor. Though his eyes were closed now, she knew they were blue. His hair, nearly dry, was full of sand and long and thick. It was dark and straight, like his lashes.

  "I called the doctor," Amanda said as she hurried into the bedroom. Her fingers tapped on the footboard as she frowned down at the patient. "He says we should bring him into Emergency."

  Lilah looked up as the lightning struck close to the house and the rain slashed against the windows. "I don't want to take him out in this unless we have to."

  "I think she's right." Suzanna stood on the othe
r side of the bed. "I also think Lilah should have a hot bath and lie down."

  'Tin fine." At the moment she was wrapped in a chenille robe, warmed by that and a healthy dose of brandy. In any case, she was feeling much too pro­prietary about her charge to turn him over.

  "Crazy is what you are." C.C. massaged Lilah's neck as she lectured her. "Diving into the ocean in the middle of a storm."

  "I guess I could've let him drown." Lilah patted CC's hand. "Where's Trent?"

  C.C. sighed as she thought of her new husband. "He and Sloan are making sure the new construc­tion's protected. The rain's coming down pretty hard and they were worried about water damage."

  "I think I should make some chicken soup." Coco, maternal instincts humming, studied the patient again. "That's just what he needs when he wakes up."

  He was already waking up, groggily. He heard the distant and lovely sound of women's voices. Low pitched, smooth, soothing. Like music, it lulled him in and out of dreams. When he turned his head, Max felt the gentle feminine touch on his brow. Slowly, he opened eyes still burning from saltwater. The dimly lit room blurred, tilted, then slid into soft focus.

  There were five of them, he noted dreamily. Five stupendous examples of womanhood. On one side of the bed was a blonde, poetically lovely, eyes filled with concern. At the foot was a tall, trim brunette who seemed both impatient and sympathetic. An older woman with smoky-blond hair and a regal figure beamed at him. A green-eyed, raven-haired Amazon tilted her head and smiled more cautiously.

  Then there was his mermaid, sitting beside him in a white robe, her fabulous hair falling in wild curls to her waist He must have made some gesture, for they all came a little closer, as if to offer comfort. The mermaid's hand covered his.

  "I guess this is heaven," he managed through a dry throat. "It's worth dying for."

  With a laugh, Lilah squeezed his fingers. "Nice thought, but this is Maine," she corrected. Lifting a cup, she eased brandy-laced tea through his lips. "You're not dead, just tired."

  "Chicken soup." Coco stepped forward to tidy the blanket over him. She was vain enough to take an instant liking to him for his waking statement. "Doesn't that sound good, dear?"

  "Yes." The thought of something warm sliding down his aching throat sounded glorious. Though it hurt to swallow, he took another greedy gulp of tea. "Who are you?"

  "We're the Calhouns," Amanda said from the foot of the bed. "Welcome to The Towers."

  Calhouns. There was something familiar about the name, but it drifted away, like the dream of drowning. "I'm sorry, I don't know how I got here."

  "Lilah brought you," C.C. told him. "She—"

  "You had an accident," Lilah interrupted her sis­ter, and smiled at him. "Don't worry about it right now. You should rest."

  It wasn't a question of should, but must. He could already feel himself drifting away. "You're Lilah," he said groggily. As he drifted to sleep, he repeated the name, finding it lyrical enough to dream on.

  "How's the lifeguard this morning?"

  Lilah turned from the stove to look at Sloan, Amanda's fiance. At six-four, he filled the doorway, was so blatantly male—and relaxed with it—she had to smile.

  "I guess I earned my first merit badge."

  "Next time try making a pot holder." After crossing the room, he kissed the top of her head. "We wouldn't want to lose you."

  "I figure jumping into a stormy sea once in my life is enough." With a little sigh, she leaned against him. "I was petrified."

  "What the hell were you doing down there with a storm coming?"

  "Just one of those things." She shrugged, then went back to fixing tea. For now, she preferred to keep the sensation of being sent to the beach to her­self.

  "Did you find out who he is?"

  "No, not yet. He didn't have a wallet on him, and since he was in pretty rough shape last night, I didn't want to badger him." She glanced up, caught Sloan's expression and shook her head. "Come on, big guy, he's hardly dangerous. If he was looking for a way into the house to have a shot at finding the necklace, he could have taken an easier route than drowning."

  He was forced to agree, but after having Amanda shot at, he didn't want to take chances. "Whoever he is, I think you should move him to the hospital."

  "Let me worry about it." She began to arrange plates and cups on a tray. "He's all right, Sloan. Trust me?"

  Frowning, he put a hand on hers before she could lift the tray. "Vibes?"

  "Absolutely." With a laugh, she tossed back her hair. "Now, I'm going to take Mr. X some breakfast. Why don't you get back to knocking down walls in the west wing?"

  "We're putting a few up today." And because he did trust her, he relaxed a little. "Aren't you going to be late for work?"

  "I took the day off to play Florence Nightingale." She slapped his hand away from the saucer of toast. "Go be an architect."

  Balancing the tray, she left Sloan to start down the hallway. The main floor of The .Towers was a hodge­podge of rooms with towering ceilings and cracked plaster. In its heyday, it had been a showplace, an elaborate summer home built by Fergus Calhoun in 1904. It had been his symbol of status with gleaming paneling, crystal doorknobs, intricate murals.

  Now the roof leaked in too many places to count, the plumbing rattled and the plaster flaked. Like her sisters, Lilah adored every inch of chipped molding. It had been her home, her only home, and held mem­ories of the parents she had lost fifteen years before.

  At the top of the .curving stairs, she paused. Muffled with distance came the energetic sound of hammer­ing. The west wing was getting a much needed face-lift. Between Sloan and Trent, The Towers would recapture at least part of its former glory. Lilah liked the idea and, as a woman who considered napping a favored pastime, enjoyed the sound of busy hands.

  He was still sleeping when she walked into the room. She knew he had barely stirred through the night because she had stretched out on the foot of the bed, reluctant to leave him, and had slept there, patch-ily, until morning.

  Quietly Lilah set the tray on the bureau and moved over to open the terrace doors. Warm and fragrant air glided in. Unable to resist, she stepped out to let it revitalize her. The sunlight sparkled on the wet grass, glittered on the petals of shell-pink peonies still heavy headed from rain. Clematis, their saucer-sized blos­soms royally blue, spiraled on one of the white trel­lises in a race with the climbing roses.

  From the waist-high terrace wall, she could see the glint of the deep blue water of the bay and the greener, less serene, surface of the Atlantic. It hardly seemed possible that she had been in the water just last night, grasping a stranger and fighting for life. But muscles, unaccustomed to the exercise, ached enough to bring the moment, and the terror, back.

  She preferred concentrating on the morning, the generous laziness of it. Made tiny as a toy by the distance, one of the tourist boats streamed by, filled with people clutching cameras and children, hoping to see a whale.

  It was June, and the summer people poured into Bar Harbor to sail, to shop, to sun. They would gob­ble up lobster rolls, haunt the ice cream and T-shirt shops and pack the streets, searching for the perfect souvenir. To them it was a resort. To Lilah, it was home.

  She watched a three-masted schooner head out to sea and allowed herself to dream a little before going back inside.

  He was dreaming. Part of his mind recognized it as a dream, but his stomach muscles still fisted, and his pulse rate increased. He was alone in an angry black sea, fighting to make his arms and legs swim through the rising waves. They dragged at him, pull­ing him under into that blind, airless world. His lungs strained. His own heartbeat roared in his head.

  His disorientation was complete—black sea below, black sky above. There was a hideous throbbing in his temple, a terrifying numbness in his limbs. He sank, floating down, fathoms deep. Then she was there, her red hair flowing around her, twining around lovely white breasts, down a slender torso. Her eyes were a soft, mystical green. She spoke his
name, and there was a laugh in her voice—and an invitation in the laugh. Slowly, gracefully as a dancer, she held out her arms to him, folding him in. He tasted salt and sex on her lips as she closed them over his.

  With a groan, he came regretfully awake. There was pain now, ripe and throbbing in his shoulder, sharp and horrible in his head. His thought patterns skidded away from him. Concentrating, he worked his way above the pain, focusing first on a high, coffered ceiling laced with cracks. He shifted a little, acutely aware that every muscle in his body hurt.

  The room was enormous—or perhaps it seemed so because it was so scantily furnished. But what fur­nishings. There was a huge antique armoire with in­tricately carved doors. The single chair was undoubt­edly Louis Quinze, and the dusty nightstand Hepplewhite. The mattress he lay on sagged, but the footboard was Georgian.

  Struggling up to brace on his elbows, he saw Lilah standing in the open terrace doors. The breeze was fluttering those long cables of hair. He swallowed. At least he knew she wasn't a mermaid. She had legs. Lord, she had legs—right up to her eyes. She wore flowered shorts, a plain blue T-shirt and a smile.

  "So, you're awake." She came to him and, com­petent as a mother, laid a hand on his brow. His tongue dried up. "No fever. You're lucky."

  "Yeah."

  Her smile widened. "Hungry?"

  There was definitely a hole in the pit of his stom­ach. "Yeah." He wondered if he'd ever be able to get more than one word out around her. At the mo­ment he was lecturing himself for having imagined her naked when she'd risked her life to save his. "Your name's Lilah."

  "That's right." She walked over to fetch the tray. "I wasn't sure you'd remember anything from last night."

  Pain capered through him so that he gritted his teeth against it and struggled to keep his voice even. "I remember five beautiful women. I thought I was in heaven."

  She laughed and, setting the tray at the foot of the bed, came to rearrange his pillows. "My three sisters and my aunt. Here, can you sit up a little?"

  When her hand slid down his back to brace him, he realized he was naked. Completely. "Ah..."

  "Don't worry, I won't peek. Yet." She laughed again, leaving him flustered. "Your clothes were drenched—I think the shirt's a lost cause. Relax," she told him as she set the tray on his lap. "My brother-in-law and future brother-in-law got you into bed."

  "Oh." It looked as though he was back to single syllables.

  "Try the tea," she suggested. "You probably swal­lowed a gallon of sea water, so I'll bet your throat's raw." She saw the intense concentration in his eyes and the nagging pain behind it. "Headache?"

  "Vicious."

  "I'll be back." She left him, trailing some potently exotic scent in her wake.

  Max used the time alone to build back what little strength he had. He hated being weak—a leftover ob­session from childhood when he'd been puny and asthmatic. His father had given up in disgust on build­ing his only and disappointing son into a football star. Though he knew it was illogical, sickness brought back unhappy memories of childhood.

  Because he'd always considered his mind stronger than his body, he used it now to block the pain.

  Moments later, she was back with an aspirin and witch hazel. "Take a couple of these. After you eat, I can drive you into the hospital."

  "Hospital?"

  "You might want to have a doctor take a look."

  "No." He swallowed the pills. "I don't think so."

  "Up to you." She sat on the bed to study him, one leg lazily swinging to some inner tune.

  Never in his life had he been so sexually aware of a woman—of the texture of her skin, the subtle tones of it, the shape of her body, her eyes, her mouth. The assault on his senses left him uneasy and baffled. He'd nearly drowned, he reminded himself. Now all he could think about was getting his hands on the woman who'd saved him. Saved his life, he remem­bered.

  "I haven't even thanked you."

  "I figured you'd get around to it. Try those eggs before they get any colder. You need food."

  Obediently he scooped some up. "Can you tell me what happened?"

  "From the time I came into it." Relaxed, she brushed her hair behind her shoulder and settled more comfortably on the bed. "I drove down to the beach. Impulse," she said with a lazy movement of her shoulders. "I'd been watching the storm build from the tower."

  "The tower?"

  "Here, in the house," she explained. "I got the urge to go down, watch it roll in from sea. Then I saw you." In a careless gesture, she brushed the hair back from his brow. "You were in trouble, so I went in. We sort of pulled each other to shore."

  "I remember. You kissed me."