For the Love of Lilah

by Nora Roberts

  Lilah paused in her stroll down the nature path to give her latest group time to photograph and rest. They had had an excellent crowd in the park that day, with a hefty percentage of them interested enough to hike the trails and be guided by a naturalist. Lilah had been on her feet for the best part of eight hours, and had covered the same ground eight times—sixteen if she counted the return trip.

  But she wasn't tired, yet. Nor did her lecture come strictly out of a guidebook.

  "Many of the plants found on the island are typi­cally northern," she began. "A few are subarctic, re­maining since the retreat of the glaciers ten thousand years ago. More recent specimens were brought by Europeans within the last two hundred and fifty years."

  With a patience that was a primary part of her, Lilah answered questions, distracted some of the younger crowd from trampling the. wildflowers and fed information on the local flora to those who were interested. She identified the beach pea, the seaside goldenrod, the late-blooming harebell. It was her last group of the day, but she gave them as much time and attention as the first.

  In any case she always enjoyed this seaside stroll, listening to the murmur of pebbles drifting in the surf or the echoing call of gulls, discovering for herself and the tourists what treasures lurked in the tide pools.

  The breeze was light and balmy, carrying that an­cient and mysterious scent that was the sea. Here the rocks were smooth and flat, worn to elegance by the patient ebb and flow of water. She could see the glitter of quartz running in long white rivers down the black stone. Overhead, the sky was a hard summer blue, nearly cloudless. Under it, boats glided, buoys clanged, orange markers bobbed.

  She thought of the yacht, the Windrider, and though she searched as she had on each tour, she saw nothing but sleek tourist boats or the sturdy crafts of lobstermen.

  When she saw Max hiking the nature trail down to join the group, she smiled. He was on time, of course. She'd expected no less. She felt a slow tingle of warmth when his gaze lifted from his feet to her face. He really had wonderful eyes, she thought. Intent and serious, and just a little shy.

  As always when she saw him, she had an urge to tease him and an underlying longing to touch. An interesting combination, she thought now, and one she couldn't remember experiencing with anyone else.

  She looked so cool, he thought, the mannish uni­form over the willowy feminine form. The military khaki and the dangle of gold and crystal at her ears. He wondered if she knew how suited she was to stand before the sea while it bubbled and swayed at her back.

  "At the intertidal zone," she began, "life has ac­climated to tidal change. In spring, we have the high­est and lowest tides, with a rise and fall of 14.5 feet."

  She went on in that easy, soothing voice, talking of intertidal creatures, survival and food chains. Even as she spoke, a gull glided to perch on a nearby rock to study the tourists with a beady, expectant eye. Cameras clicked. Lilah crouched down beside a tide pool. Fascinated by her description of life there, Max moved to see for himself.

  There were long purple fans she called dulse, and she had the children in the group groaning when she told them it could be eaten raw or boiled. In the dark little pool of water, she found a wealth of living things, all waiting, she said, for the tide to come in again before they went back to business.

  With a graceful fingertip she pointed out the sea anemones that looked more like flowers than animals, and the tiny slugs that preyed on them. The pretty shells that were mollusks and snails and whelks. She sounded like a marine biologist one moment and a stand-up comedian the next.

  Her appreciative audience bombarded her with questions. Max caught one teenage boy staring at her with a moony kind of lust and felt instant sympathy.

  Tossing her braid behind her back, she wound up the tour, explaining about the information available at the visitors center, and the other naturalist tours. Some of the group started to meander their way back along the path, while others lingered behind to take more pictures. The teenager loitered behind his par­ents, asking any question his dazzled brain could form on the tide pools, the wildflowers and, though he wouldn't have looked twice at a robin, the birds. When he'd exhausted all angles, and his mother called impatiently for the second time, he trudged re­luctantly off.

  "This is one nature walk he won't forget any time soon," Max commented.

  She only smiled. "I like to think they'll all remem­ber some pieces of it. Glad you could make it, Professor." She did what her instincts demanded and kissed him fully, softly on the mouth.

  Looking back, the teenager experienced a flash of miserable envy. Max was simply knocked flat. Lilah's lips were still curved as she eased away. "So," she asked him, "how was your day?" Could a woman kiss like that then expect him to continue a normal conversation? Obviously this one could, he decided and took a long breath. "Interest­ing."

  "Those are the best kind." She began to walk up the path that would lead back to the visitors center. Arching a brow, she glanced over her shoulder. "Coming?"

  "Yeah." With his hands in his pockets, he started after her. "You're very good." Her laugh was light and warm. "Why, thank you." "I meant—I was talking about your job." "Of course you were." Companionably she tucked an arm through his. "It's too bad you missed the first twenty minutes of the last tour. We saw two slate-colored juncos, a double-crested cormorant and an os-prey."

  "It's always been one of my ambitions to see a slate-colored junco," he said, and made her laugh again. "Do you always do the same trail?"

  "No, I move around. One of my favorites is Jordan Pond, or I might take a shift at the Nature Center, or hike up in the mountains."

  "I guess that keeps it from getting boring."

  "It's never boring, or I wouldn't last a day. Even on the same trail you see different things all the time.

  Look." She pointed to a thatch of plants with narrow leaves and faded pink blooms. "Rhodora," she told him. "A common azalea. A few weeks ago it was at peak. Stunning. Now the blooms will die off, and wait until spring." She brushed her fingertips over the leaves. "I like cycles. They're reassuring."

  Though she claimed to be an unenergetic woman, she walked effortlessly along the trail, keeping an eye out for anything of interest. It might be lichen cling­ing to a rock, a sparrow in flight or a spray of hawk-weed. She liked the scent here, the sea they were leav­ing behind, the green smell of trees that began to crowd in to block the view.

  "I didn't realize that your job kept you on your feet most of the day."

  "Which is why I prefer to stay off them at all other times." She tilted her head to look at him. "Tell you what though, the next time I have an afternoon, I'll give you a more in-depth tour. We can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Take in the scenery, and poke around for your friend, Caufield."

  "I want you to stay out of it."

  The statement took her so off guard that she walked another five feet before it registered'. "You what?"

  "I want you to stay out of it," he repeated. "I've been giving it a lot of thought."

  "Have you?" If he had known her better, he might have recognized the hint of temper in the lazy tone. "And just how did you come to that particular con­clusion?"

  "He's dangerous." The voice, laced with hints of fanaticism came back clearly. "I think he might even be unbalanced. It's certain that he's violent. He's al­ready shot at your sister, and at me. I don't want you getting in his way."

  "It's not a matter of what you want. It's family business."

  "It's been mine since I took a swim in a storm." Caught between sunlight and shade on the path, he stopped to put his hands on her shoulders. "You didn't hear him that night, Lilah. I did. He said noth­ing would stop him from getting the necklace, and he meant it. This is a job for the police, not for a bunch of women who—''

  "A bunch of women who what?" she interrupted with a gleam in her eyes.

  "Who are too emotionally involved to react cau­tiously."

  "I see." She n
odded slowly. "So it's up to you and Sloan and Trent, the big, brave men to protect us poor, defenseless women and save the day?"

  It occurred, a bit too late, that he was on very shaky ground. "I didn't say you were defenseless."

  "You implied it. Let me tell you something, Pro­fessor, there isn't one of the Calhoun women who can't handle herself and any man who comes swag­gering down the road. That includes geniuses and un­balanced jewel thieves."

  "There, you see?" His hands lifted from her shoul­ders, then settled again. "Your reaction is pure emo­tion without any logic or thought."

  The heated eyes narrowed. "Do you want to see emotion?"

  Besides brains, he prided himself on a certain amount of street smarts. Cautious, he eased back. "I don't think so."

  "Fine. Then I suggest you take care with your phrasing, and think twice before you tell me to keep out of something that is wholly my concern." She brushed by him to continue toward the voices around the visitors center.

  "Damn it, I don't want you hurt."

  "I don't intend to get hurt. I have a very low threshold for pain. But I'm not going to sit around with my hands folded while someone plots to steal what's mine."

  "The police—"

  "Haven't been a hell of a lot of help," she snapped. "Did you know that Interpol has been look­ing for Livingston, and his many aliases, for fifteen years? No one was able to trace him after he shot at Amanda and stole our papers. If Caufield and Living­ston are one in the same, then it's up to us to protect what's ours."

  "Even if it means getting your brains bashed in?"

  She tossed a look over her shoulder. "I'll worry about my brains, Professor. You worry about yours."

  "I'm not a genius," he muttered, and surprised a smile out of her.

  The exasperation on his face took the edge off her temper. She stepped off the path. "I appreciate the concern, Max, but it's misplaced. Why don't you wait out here, sit on the wall? I've got to go in and get my things."

  She left him muttering to himself. He only wanted to protect her. Was that so wrong? He cared about her. After all, she had saved his life. Scowling, he sat on the stone wall. People were milling in and out of the building. Children were whining as parents tugged, dragged or carried them to cars. Couples were strolling along hand in hand while others pored ea­gerly through guide books. He saw a lot of skin broiled Maine lobster red by the sun.

  He glanced at his own forearms and was surprised to see that they were tanned. Things were changing, he realized. He was getting a tan. He had no schedule to keep, no itinerary to follow. He was involved in a mystery, and with an incredibly sexy woman.

  "Well..." Lilah adjusted the strap of her purse on her arm. "You're looking very smug."

  He looked up at her and smiled. "Ami?"

  "As a cat with feathers in his mouth. Want to let me in on it?"

  "Okay. Come here." He rose, gave her one firm yank and closed his mouth over hers. All of his new and amazed feelings poured into the kiss. If he took the kiss deeper than expected, it only added to the dawning pleasure of discovery. If kissing her made the people walking around them disappear, it only accented the newness. Starting fresh.

  It was happiness rather than lust she felt from him. It confused her. Or perhaps it was the way his lips slid over hers that dimmed coherent thought. She didn't resist. The reason for her earlier irritation was already forgotten. All she knew now was that it felt wonderful, somehow perfect, to be standing with him on the sunny patio, feeling his heart thud against hers.

  As his mouth slipped from hers, she let out a long, pleased sigh, opening her eyes slowly. He was grin­ning at her, and the delighted expression on his face had her smiling back. Because she wasn't sure what to do with the tender feelings he tugged from her, she patted his cheek.

  "Not that I'm complaining," she began. "But what was that for?"

  "I just felt like it."

  "An excellent first step."

  Laughing, he swung an arm around her shoulder as they started toward the parking lot. "You've got the sexiest mouth I've ever tasted."

  He didn't see the cloud come into her eyes. If he had, she couldn't have explained it. It always came down to sex, she supposed and made an effort to shrug the vague disappointment away. Men usually saw her just that way, and there was no reason to let it start bothering her now, particularly when she'd enjoyed the moment as much as he.

  "Glad I could oblige," she said lightly. "Why don't you drive?"

  "All right, but first I've got something to show you." After settling into the driver's seat, he picked up a manilla envelope. "I went through a lot of books in the library. There are several mentions of your fam­ily in histories and biographies. There was one in par­ticular I thought would interest you."

  "Hmm." She was already stretched out and think­ing of a nap.

  "I made a copy of it. It's a picture of Bianca."

  "A picture?" She straightened again. "Really? Fergus destroyed all her pictures after she died, so I've never seen her."

  "Yes, you have." He drew the copy out and handed it to her. "Every time you look in the mir­ror."

  She said nothing, but with her eyes focused on the grainy copy she lifted a hand to her own face. The same jaw, the same mouth, nose, eyes. Was this why she felt the bond so strongly? she wondered, and felt tears burn her throat.

  "She was beautiful," Max said quietly.

  "So young." The words came out as a sigh. "Younger than I when she died. She'd already fallen in love when this was taken. You can see it, in her eyes."

  "She's wearing the emeralds."

  "Yes, I know." As he had, she traced a fingertip over them. "How difficult it must have been for her, tied to one man, loving another. And the necklace— a symbol of one man's hold on her, and a reminder of her children."

  "Is that how you see it, a symbol?"

  "Yes. I think her feelings for it, about it, were ter­ribly strong. Otherwise, she wouldn't have hidden it." She slipped the paper back into the envelope. "A good day's work, Professor."

  "It's just a beginning."

  As she looked at him, she linked her fingers with his. "I like beginnings. Everything that follows has such possibilities. We'll go home and show this to everyone, after we make a couple of stops."

  "Stops?"

  "It's time for another beginning. You need some new clothes."

  He hated shopping. He told her, repeatedly and firmly, but she blithely ignored him and strolled from shop to shop. He held his ground on a fluorescent T-shirt, but lost it again over one depicting a lobster dressed like a maitre d'.

  She wasn't intimidated by clerks, but sailed through the process of selection and purchase with a languid air of pure relaxation. Most of the merchants called her by name, and during the chats that accom­panied the buying and selling, she would casually ask about a man fitting Caufield's description.

  "Are we finished yet?" There was a plea in his voice that made her chuckle as they stepped out onto the sidewalk again. It was teeming with people in bright summer clothes.

  "Not quite." She turned to study him. Harassed, definitely. Adorable, absolutely. His arms were full of bags and his hair was falling into his eyes. Lilah brushed it back. "How are you fixed for underwear?"

  "Well, I..."

  "Come on, there's a shop right down here that has great stuff. Tiger prints, obscene sayings, little red hearts."

  "No." He stopped dead. "Not on your life."

  It was a struggle, but she kept her composure. "You're right. Completely unsuitable. We'll just stick with those nice white briefs that come three to a pack­age."

  "For a woman with no brothers, you sure know a lot about men's underwear." He shifted the bags, and as an afterthought, shoved half of them into her arms. "But I think I can handle this one on my own."

  "Okay. I'll window-shop."

  She was easily diverted by a window filled with crystals of different sizes and shapes. They dangled from wire, shooting colored ligh
t behind the glass. Beneath them was a display of handmade jewelry. She was on the point of stepping inside to wrangle over a pair of earrings when someone bumped her from behind.

  "Sorry." The apology was terse. Lilah glanced up at a burly man with a weathered face and graying hair. He looked a great deal more irritated than the slight bump warranted, and something about the pale eyes had her taking a step back. Still, she shrugged and smiled.

  "It's all right."

  Frowning after him a moment, she started to turn back into the shop. She spotted Max a few feet away, staring in shock. Then he was moving fast, and the expression on his face had her catching her breath.

  "Max—"

  With one hard shove, he had her in the shop. "What did he say to you?" he demanded with an edge to his voice that had her eyes widening. "Did he touch you? If the bastard put his hands on you—"

  "Hold on." Since they had most of the people in the shop staring, Lilah kept her voice low. "Calm down, Max. I don't know what you're talking about."

  There was a violence trembling through his blood he'd never experienced before. The echo of it in his eyes had several tourists edging back out the door. "I saw him standing next to you."

  "That man?" Baffled, she glanced out the window, but he had long since moved on. "He just bumped into me. The sidewalks are crowded in the summer."

  "He didn't say anything to you?" He didn't even realize that his hands had firmed into fists and that the fists were ready to do damage. "He didn't hurt you?"

  "No, of course not. Come on, let's go sit down." Her tone was soothing now as she nudged htm out. But instead of taking one of the benches that lined the street, Max kept Lilah behind him and searched the crowd. "If I'd known buying underwear would put you in such a state, Max, I wouldn't have brought it up."

  There was fury in his eyes when he whirled around. "It was Hawkins," he said grimly. "They're still here."

  Chapter Five

  She didn't know what to make of him. Alone, with the lamplight glowing gold, Lilah sat in the tower room, watching night fall gently over water and rock. And thought of Max. He wasn't nearly as simple a man as she had believed at first—and as she was cer­tain he believed of himself.

  One moment he was shy and sweet and easily in­timidated. The next he was as fierce as a Viking, the mild blue eyes electric, the poet's mouth grim. The metamorphosis was as fascinating as it was baffling, and left Lilah off balance. It wasn't a sensation she cared for.

  After he had seen the man he called Hawkins, Max had all but dragged her to the car—muttering under his breath all the way—bundled her inside, then had driven off. Her idea about following Hawkins had been briskly and violently vetoed. Back at The Tow­ers, he'd called the police, relating the information as calmly as he would list assigned reading for a student.

  Then, in a typical male move had powwowed with Sloan and Trent.

  The authorities had not yet located Caufield's boat, nor, from Max's descriptions, had they identified ei­ther Caufield or Hawkins.

  It was much too complicated, Lilah decided. Thieves and aliases and international police. She pre­ferred the simple. Not the humdrum, she thought, but the simple. Life had been anything but since the press had begun their love affair with the Calhoun emer­alds, and things had become only more convoluted since Max had washed up on the beach.

  But she was glad he had. She wasn't sure why. Certainly she'd never considered the shy and brainy sort her type. It was true that she enjoyed men in general, simply for being men. An offshoot, she sup­posed, from living in a female household most of her life. But when she dated, she most often looked for fun and easy companionship. Someone to dance with or to laugh with over a meal. She'd always hoped she would fall in love with one of those carefree, uncom­plicated men and start a carefree, uncomplicated life.

  Sober college professors with outdated notions of chivalry and serious minds hardly met the qualifica­tions.

  Yet he was so sweet, she thought with a little smile. And when he kissed her, there was nothing sober or cerebral about it.

  With a little sigh, she wondered just what she should do about Dr. Maxwell Quartermain.

  "Hey." C.C. poked her head through the doorway. "I thought I'd find you in here."

  "Then I must be becoming too predictable." Happy to have company, Lilah curled up her legs to make room on the window seat. "What's going on with you, Mrs. St. James?"

  "Nearly finished the reconditioning on that Mus­tang." She sighed as she sat. "Lord, what a honey. I had an electrical system that gave me fits today, and two tune-ups." An unaccustomed fatigue was drag­ging at her, making her close her eyes and think about an early night. "Then all this excitement at home. Imagine, you bumping into one of the characters the cops are after."