For the Love of Lilah

by Nora Roberts

  Her lips curved. "I figured we both deserved it." She touched a gentle hand to the bruise spreading on his shoulder. "You hit the rocks. What were you do­ing out there?"

  "I..." He closed his eyes to try to clear his fuzzy brain. The effort had sweat pearling on his brow. "I'm not sure."

  "Okay, why don't we start with your name?"

  "My name?" He opened his eyes to give her a blank look. "Don't you know?"

  "We didn't have the chance to introduce ourselves formally. Lilah Calhoun," she said, and offered a hand.

  "Quartermain." He accepted her hand, relieved that much was clear. "Maxwell Quartermain."

  "Drink some more tea, Max. Ginseng's good for you." Taking the witch hazel, she began to rub it gently over the bruise. "What do you do?"

  "I'm, ah, a history professor at Cornell." Her fin­gers eased the ache in his shoulder and cajoled him into relaxing.

  "Tell me about Maxwell Quartermain." She wanted to take his mind off the pain, to see him relax into sleep again. "Where are you from?"

  "I grew up in Indiana..." Her fingers slid up to his neck to unknot muscles.

  "Farm boy?"

  "No." He sighed as the tension eased and made her smile. "My parents ran a market. I used to help out after school and over the summer."

  "Did you like it?"

  His eyes were growing heavy. "It was all right. It gave me plenty of time to study. Annoyed my fa­ther—always had my face in a book. He didn't un­derstand. I skipped a couple grades and got into Cor­nell."

  "Scholarship?" she assumed.

  "Hmm. Got my doctorate," The words were slurred and weighty, "Do you know how much man accomplished between 1870 and 1970?"

  "Amazing."

  "Absolutely." He was nearly asleep, coaxed into comfort by her quiet voice and gentle hands. "I'd like to have been alive in 1910."

  "Maybe you were." She smiled, amused and charmed. "Take a nap, Max."

  When he awakened again, he was alone. But he had a dozen throbbing aches to keep him company. He noted that she had left the aspirin and a carafe of water beside the bed, and gratefully swallowed pills.

  When that small chore exhausted him, he leaned back to catch his breath. The sunlight was bright, streaming through the open terrace doors with fresh sea air. He'd lost his sense of time, and though it was tempting just to lie back and shut his eyes again, he needed to take back some sort of control.

  Maybe she'd read his mind, he thought as he saw his pants and someone else's shirt neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He rose creakily, like an old man with brittle bones and aching muscles. His body sang a melody of pain as he picked up the clothes and peeked through a side door. He eyed the claw-footed tub and chrome shower works with pleasure.

  The pipes thudded when he turned on the spray, and so did his muscles as the water beat against his skin. But ten minutes later, he felt almost alive.

  It wasn't easy to dry off—even that simple task had his limbs singing. Not sure the news would be good, he wiped the mist from the mirror to study his face.

  Beneath the stubble of beard, his skin was white and drawn. Flowering out from the bandage at his temple was a purpling bruise. He already knew there were plenty more blooming on his body. As a result of salt water, his eyes were a patriotic red, white and blue. Though he'd never considered himself a vain man—his Jooks had always struck him as dead av­erage—he turned away from the mirror.

  Wincing and groaning and swearing under his breath, he struggled into the clothes.

  The shirt fit fairly well. Better, in fact, than many of his own. Shopping intimidated him—rather sales-clerks intimidated him with their bright, impatient smiles. Most of the time Max shopped out of cata­logues and took what came.

  Glancing down at his bare feet, Max admitted that he'd have to go shopping for shoes—and soon.

  Moving slowly, he walked out onto the terrace. The sunlight stung his eyes, but the breezy, moist air felt like heaven. And the view... For a moment he could only stop and stare, hardly even breathing. Water and rock and flowers. It was like being on top of the world and looking down at a small and perfect slice of the planet. The colors were vibrant—sapphire, emerald, the ruby red of roses, the pristine white of sails preg­nant with wind. There was no sound but the rumble of the sea and then, far off, the musical gong of a buoy. He could smell hot summer flowers and the cool tang of the ocean.

  With his hand braced on the wall, he began to walk. He didn't know which direction he should take, so wandered aimlessly and with no little effort. Once, when dizziness overtook him, he was forced to stop, shut his eyes and breathe his way through it.

  When he came to a set of stairs leading up, he opted to climb them. His legs were wobbly, and he could already feel fatigue tugging at htm. It was pride as much as curiosity that had him continuing.

  The house was built of granite, a sober and sturdy stone that did nothing to take away from the fancy of the architecture. Max felt as though he were exploring the circumference of a castle, some stubborn bulwark of early history that had taken its place upon the cliffs and held it for generations.

  Then he heard the anachronistic buzz of a power saw and a man's casual oath. Walking closer, he rec­ognized the busy noises of construction in prog­ress—the slap of hammer on wood, the tinny music from a portable radio, the whirl of drills. When his path was blocked by sawhorses, lumber and tarps, he knew he'd found the source.

  A man stepped out of another set of terrace doors. Reddish-blond hair was tousled around a tanned face. He squinted at Max, then hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "Up and around, I see."

  "More or less."

  The guy looked as if he'd been kicked by a team of mules, Sloan thought. His face was dead white, his eyes bruised, his skin sheened with the sweat of ef­fort. He was holding himself upright through sheer stubbornness. It made it tough to hold on to suspi­cions.

  "Sloan O'Riley," he said, and offered a hand.

  "Maxwell Quartermain."

  "So I hear. Lilah says you're a history professor. Taking a vacation?"

  "No." Max's brow furrowed. "No, I don't think so."

  It wasn't evasion Sloan saw in his eyes, but puz­zlement, laced with frustration. "Guess you're still a little rattled."

  "I guess." Absently he reached up to touch the bandage at his temple. "I was on a boat," he mur­mured, straining to visualize it. "Working." On what? "The water was pretty rough. I wanted to go on deck, get some air..." Standing at the rail, deck heaving. Panic. "I think I fell—" Jumped, was thrown. "—I must have fallen overboard."

  "Funny nobody reported it."

  "Sloan, leave the man alone. Does he look like an international jewel thief?" Lilah strolled lazily up the steps, a short-haired black dog at her heels. The dog jumped at Sloan, tripped, righted himself and man­aged to get his front paws settled on the knees of Sloan's jeans.

  "I wondered where you'd wandered off to," Lilah continued, and cupped a hand under Max's chin to examine his face. "You look a little better," she de­cided as the dog started to sniff at Max's bare toes. "That's Fred," she told him. "He only bites crimi­nals."

  "Oh. Good."

  "Since you have his seal of approval, why don't you come down? You can sit in the sun and have some lunch."

  He would dearly love to sit, he realized and let Lilah lead him away. "Is this really your house?"

  "Hearth and home. My great-grandfather built it just after the turn of the century. Look out for Fred." The dog dashed between them, stepped on his own ear and yelped. Max, who'd gone through a long clumsy stage himself, felt immediate sympathy. "We're thinking of giving him ballet lessons," she said as the dog struggled back to his feet. Noting the blank look on Max's face, she patted his cheek. "I think you could use some of Aunt Coco's chicken soup."

  She made him sit and kept an eye on him while he ate. Her protective instincts were usually reserved for family or small, wounded birds. But something about the man tugged at her. He seemed so out of
his ele­ment, she thought. And helpless with it.

  Something was going on behind those big blue eyes, she thought. Something beyond the fatigue. She could almost see him struggle to put one mental foot in front of the other.

  He began to think that the soup had saved his life as surely as Lilah had. It slid warm and vital into his system. "I fell out of a boat," he said abruptly.

  "That would explain it."

  "I don't know what I was doing on a boat, ex­actly."

  In the chair beside him she brought up her limber legs to settle in the lotus position. "Taking a vaca­tion?"

  "No." His brow furrowed. "No, I don't take va­cations."

  "Why not?" She reached over to take one of the crackers from his plate. She wore a trio of glittering rings on her hand.

  "Work."

  "School's out," she said with a lazy stretch.

  "I always teach summer courses. Except..." Something was tapping at the edges of his brain, tauntingly. "I was going to do something else this summer. A research project. And I was going to start a book."

  "A book, really?" She savored the cracker as if it were laced with caviar. He had to admire her basic, sensual enjoyment. "What kind?"

  Her words jerked him back. He'd never told any­one about his plans to write. No one who knew him would have believed that studious, steady-as-she-goes Quartermain dreamed of being a novelist. "It's just something I've been thinking of for a while, but I had a chance to work on this project...a family history."

  "Well, that would suit you. I was a terrible student.

  Lazy," she said with a smile in her eyes. "I can't imagine anyone wanting to make a career out of a classroom. Do you like it?"

  It wasn't a matter of liking it. It was what he did. "I'm good at it." Yes, he realized, he was good at it. His students learned—some more than»others. His lectures were well attended and well received.

  "That's not the same thing. Can I see your hand?"

  "My what?"

  "Your hand," she repeated, and took it, turning it palm up. "Hmm."

  "What are you doing?" For a heady moment, he thought she would press her lips to it.

  "Looking at your palm. More intelligence than in-tuitiveness. Or maybe you just trust your brains more than your instincts."

  Staring at the top of her bent head, he gave a ner­vous laugh. "You don't really believe in that sort of thing. Palm reading."

  "Of course—but it's not just the lines, it's the feel­ing." She glanced up briefly with a smile that was at once languid and electric. "You have very nice hands. Look here." She skimmed a finger along his palm and had him swallowing. "You've got a long life ahead of you, but see this break? Near-death ex­perience."

  "You're making it up."

  "They're your lines," she reminded him. "A good imagination. I think you'll write that book—but you'll have to work on that self-confidence."

  She looked up again, a trace of sympathy on her face. "Rough childhood?"

  "Yes—no." Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. "No more than anyone's, I imagine."

  She lifted a brow, but let it pass. "Well, you're a big boy now." In one of her casual moves, she slid her hair back then studied his hand again. "Yes, see, this represents careers, and there's a branch off this way. Things have been very comfortable for you pro­fessionally—you've hoed yourself a nice little rut— but this other line spears off. Could be that literary effort. You'll have to make the choice."

  "I really don't think—"

  "Sure you do. You've been thinking about it for years. Now here's the Mound of Venus. Hmm. You're a very sensual man." Her gaze flicked up to his again. "And a very thorough lover."

  He couldn't take his eyes off her mouth. It was full, unpainted and curved teasingly. Kissing her would be like sinking into a dream—the dark and erotic kind. And if a man survived it, he would pray never to wake up.

  She felt something creep in over her amusement. Something unexpected and arousing. It was the way he looked at her, she thought. With such complete absorption. As though she were the only woman in the world—certainly the only one who mattered.

  There couldn't be a female alive who wouldn't weaken a bit under that look.

  For the first time in her life she felt off balance with a man. She was used to having the controls, of setting the tone in her own unstudied way. From the time she'd understood that boys were different from girls, she had used the power she'd been born with to guide members of the opposite sex down a path of her own choosing.

  Yet he was throwing her off with a look.

  Struggling for a casualness that had always come easily, she started to release his hand. Max surprised them both by turning his over to grip hers.

  "You are," he said slowly, "the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

  It was a standard line, even a cliche, and shouldn't have had her heart leaping. She made herself smile as she drew away. "Don't get out much, do you, Pro­fessor?"

  There was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes before he made himself settle back. It was as much with himself as with her. He'd never been the hand-holding Casanova type. Nor had he ever been put so neatly back in his place.

  "No, but that was a simple statement of fact. Now, I guess I'm supposed to cross your palm with silver, but I'm fresh out."

  "Palm reading's on the house." Because she was sorry she'd been so glib and abrupt, she smiled again. "When you're feeling better, I'll take you up for a tour of the haunted tower."

  "I can't wait."

  His dry response had her laughing. "I have a feel­ing about you, Max. I think you could be a lot of fun when you forget to be intense and thoughtful. Now I'm going downstairs so you can have some quiet. Be a good boy and get some more rest."

  He might have been weak, but he wasn't a boy. Max rose as she did. Though the move surprised her, she gave him one of her slow, languid smiles. His color was coming back, she noted. His eyes were clear and, because he was only an inch or so taller than she, nearly on level with hers.

  "Is there something else I can get you, Max?"

  He felt steadier and took a moment to be grateful. "Just an answer. Are you involved with anyone?"

  Her brow lifted as she swept her hair over her shoulder. "In what way?"

  "It's a simple question, Lilah, and deserves a sim­ple answer."

  The lecturing quality of his tone had her frowning at him. "If you mean am I emotionally or sexually involved with a man, the answer is no. At the mo­ment."

  "Good." The vague irritation in her eyes pleased him. He'd wanted a response, and he'd gotten one.

  "Look, Professor, I pulled you out of the drink. You strike me as being too intelligent a man to fall for that gratitude transference."

  This time he smiled. "Transference to what?"

  "Lust seems appropriate."

  "You're right. I know the difference—especially when I'm feeling both at the same time." His own words surprised him. Maybe the near-death experi­ence had rattled his brains. For a moment she looked as though she would swipe at him. Then abruptly, and beautifully, she laughed.

  "I guess that was another simple statement of fact. You're an interesting man, Max."

  And, she told herself as she carried the tray inside, harmless.

  She hoped.

  Chapter Three

  Even after he'd arranged to have funds wired from his account in Ithaca, the Calhouns wouldn't consider Max's suggestion that he move to a hotel. In truth, he didn't put up much of a fight. He'd never been pampered before, or fussed over. More, he'd never been made to feel part of a big, boisterous family. They took him in with a casual kind of hospitality that was both irresistible and gracious.

  He was coming to know them and appreciate them for their varied personalities and family unity. It was a house where something always seemed to be hap­pening and where everyone always had something to say. For someone who had grown up an only child, in a home where his bookishness had been considered a flaw, it was a revelation
to be among people who celebrated their own, and each others', interests.

  C.C. was an auto mechanic who talked about en­gine blocks and carried the mysterious glow of a new bride. Amanda, brisk and organized, held the assistant manager's position at a nearby hotel. Suzanna ran a gardening business and devoted herself to her chil­dren. No one mentioned their father. Coco ran the house, cooked lavish meals and appreciated male company. She'd only made Max nervous when she'd threatened to read his tea leaves.

  Then there was Lilah. He discovered she worked as a naturalist at Acadia National Park. She liked long naps, classical music and her aunt's elaborate des­serts. When the mood struck her, she could sit, sprawled in a chair, prodding little details of his life from him. Or she could curl up in a sunbeam like a cat, blocking him and everything else around her out of her thoughts while she drifted into one of her pri­vate daydreams. Then she would stretch and smile and let them all in again.

  She remained a mystery to him, a combination of smoldering sensuality and untouched innocence—of staggering openness and unreachable solitude.

  Within three days, his strength had returned and his stay at the The Towers was open-ended. He knew the sensible thing to do was leave, use his funds to pur­chase a one-way ticket back to New York and see if he could pick up a few summer tutoring jobs.

  But he didn't feel sensible.

  It was his first vacation and, however he had been thrust into it, he wanted to enjoy it. He liked waking up in the morning to the sound of the sea and the smell of it. It relieved him that his accident hadn't caused him to fear or dislike the water. There was something incredibly relaxing about standing on the terrace, looking across indigo or emerald water and seeing the distant clumps of islands.

  And if his shoulder still troubled him from time to time, he could sit out and let the afternoon sun bake the ache away. There was time for books. An hour, even two, sitting in the shade gobbling up a novel or biography from the Calhoun library.

  His life had been full of time tables, never time-lessness. Here, in The Towers, with its whispers of the past, momentum of the present and hope for the future, he could indulge in it.

  Underneath the simple pleasure of having no schedule to meet, no demands to answer, was his growing fascination with Lilah.

  She glided in and out of the house. Leaving in the morning, she was neat and tidy in her park service uniform, her fabulous hair wound in a neat braid. Drifting home later, she would change into one of her flowing skirts or a pair of sexy shorts. She smiled at him, spoke to him, and kept a friendly but tangible distance.

  He contented himself with scribbling in a notebook or entertaining Suzanna's two children, Alex and Jenny, who were already showing signs of summer boredom. He could walk in the gardens or along the cliffs, keep Coco company in the kitchen or watch the workmen in the west wing.

  The wonder of it was, he could do as he chose.

  He sat on the lawn, Alex and Jenny hunched on either side of him like eager frogs. The sun was a hazy silver disk behind a sheet of clouds. Playful and brisk, the breeze carried the scent of lavender and rosemary from a nearby rockery. There were butter­flies dancing in the grass, easily eluding Fred's pur­suits. Nearby a bird trilled insistently from the branch of a wind-gnarled oak.

  Max was spinning a tale of a young boy caught up in the terrors and excitement of the revolutionary war. In weaving fact with fiction, he was keeping the chil­dren entertained and indulging in his love of story­telling.

  "I bet he killed whole packs of dirty redcoats," Alex said gleefully. At six, he had a vivid and violent imagination.

  "Packs of them," Jenny agreed. She was a year younger than her brother and only too glad to keep pace. "Single-handed."

  "The Revolution wasn't all guns and bayonets, you know." It amused Max to see the young mouths pout at the lack of mayhem. "A lot of battles were won through intrigue and espionage."

  Alex struggled with the words a moment then brightened. "Spies?"