For the Love of Lilah

by Nora Roberts

  "The curse and blessing of small towns."

  "I cruised around a little before I came home." C.C. rolled her tired shoulders. "Down to Hulls Cove and back."

  "You shouldn't be poking around alone."

  "Just looking." C.C. shrugged. "Anyway, I didn't see anything. Our fearless men are out right now on search and destroy."

  A quick bolt of alarm shot into Lilah. "Max went with them?"

  On a yawn, C.C. opened her eyes. "Sure. Sud­denly, they're the Three Musketeers. Is there anything more annoying than machismo?"

  "Tooth decay," Lilah said absently, but there were nerves bumping along in her system she didn't care for. "I thought Max was going to stick to the research books."

  "Well, he's one of the boys now." She patted Lilah's ankle. "Don't worry, honey. They can handle themselves."

  "For heaven's sake, he's a history professor. What if they actually run into trouble?"

  "He already has," C.C. reminded her. "He's tougher than he looks."

  "What makes you think so?" Unreasonably dis­tressed, Lilah got up to pace. The unaccustomed show of energy had C.C. lifting a brow.

  "The man jumped out of a boat in the middle Of a storm and almost made it to shore, despite the fact he'd been grazed by a bullet. The next day, he was on his feet again—looking like hell, but on his feet. There's a stubborn streak behind those quiet eyes. I like him."

  Restless, Lilah moved her shoulders. "Who doesn't? He's a likable man."

  "Well, with everything that Amanda found out— the wonder boy stuff—you'd expect him to be con­ceited, or stiff-necked. But he's not. He's sweet. Aunt Coco's ready to adopt him."

  "He is sweet," Lilah agreed as she sat again. "And I don't want him to get hurt because of some mis­guided sense of gratitude."

  C.C. leaned forward to look into her sister's eyes. There was more than casual concern in them, she thought, and smiled to herself. "Lilah, I know you're the mystic in the family, but I'm getting definite vibes. Are you getting serious about Max?"

  "Serious?" The word had Lilah's nerves stretch­ing. "Of course not. I'm fond of him, and I feel a certain responsibility toward him." And when he kisses me, I go directly to meltdown. She frowned a little. "I enjoy him," she slowly added.

  "He's very attractive."

  "You're a married woman now, kiddo."

  "But not blind. There's something appealing about all that intelligence, those romantic and scholarly looks." She waited a beat. "Don't you think?"

  Lilah sat back. Her lips were curved again to match the amusement in her eyes. "Are you apprenticing with Aunt Coco as matchmaker?"

  "Just checking. I guess I'm so happy I want every­one I love to feel the same way."

  "I am happy." She took a long, limbering stretch. "I'm too lazy not to be."

  "Speaking of lazy, I feel like I could sleep for a week. Since Trent's out playing Hardy Boys, I think I'll go to bed." C.C. started to rise when a wave of dizziness had her plopping down again. Lilah was up like a shot and bending over her.

  "Hey. Hey, honey. Are you all right?"

  "Got up too fast, that's all." As the light grayed, she lifted a hand to her spinning head. "I feel a lit­tle..."

  Moving fast, Lilah shoved C.C.'s head between her knees. "Just breathe slow. Take it easy."

  "This is stupid." But she did as she was told until the faintness passed. "I'm just overtired. Maybe I'm coming down with something, damn it."

  "Mmm." Because she suspected just what C.C. had come down with, Lilah's lips curved. "Tired? Have you been feeling sick?"

  "Not really." Steadier, C.C. straightened. "Out of sorts, I guess. A little queasy the past couple of morn­ings, that's all."

  "Honey." With a laugh, Lilah tapped her knuckles on her sister's head. "Wake up and smell the baby powder."

  "Huh?"

  "Hasn't it occurred to you that you could be preg­nant?"

  "Pregnant?" The dark green eyes widened like saucers. "Pregnant? Me? But we've only been mar­ried a little over a month."

  Lilah laughed again and cupped G.C.'s face in her hands. "You haven't spent all that time playing pi­nochle, have you?"

  C.C.'s mouth opened and closed before she man­aged to form a word. "It just never crossed my mind.... A baby." Her eyes changed, misting, soft­ening. "Oh, Lilah."

  "Could be Trenton St. James IV."

  "A baby," C.C. repeated, and laid a hand over her stomach in a gesture that was filled with awe and protectiveness. "Do you really think?"

  "I really think." She slid back on the seat to hug C.C. tight. "I don't have to ask you how you feel about it. It's all over your face."

  "Don't say anything to anyone yet. I want to be sure." Laughing, she squeezed Lilah against her. "Suddenly I don't feel tired at all. I'll call the doctor first thing in the morning. Or maybe I should pick up one of those tests from the drugstore. I could do both."

  Lilah let her ramble. Long after C.C. had gone, the echoes of her joy remained in the room.

  It was what the tower needed, Lilah thought. That jolt of pure happiness. She stayed where she was, con­tent now, watching the moon rise. Half-full, bone white, it hung in the sky and had her dreaming.

  What would it be like, being with someone, smugly married, having a child growing inside you? Making a life with someone who would know you so well. Know every part of you and love you despite the flaws. Maybe because of them.

  Lovely, she thought. It would be simply lovely.

  And if she had yet to find that for herself, she had only to look at C.C. and Amanda to know it could happen.

  With some regret she switched off the light and started downstairs to her room. The house was quiet now. She imagined it must be at least midnight, and everyone had gone to bed. A wise choice, she mused, but she couldn't seem to shake the restlessness.

  To comfort herself, she indulged in a long, fragrant bath before slipping into her favorite robe. Those were the little things that always pleased her—hot, scented water, cool, thin silk. Still unsettled, she walked out onto the terrace to see if the night air would lull her.

  It was much too romantic, she thought. The glitter of moonlight silvering the trees, the quiet whoosh of water on rock, the scents from the garden. As she stood, a bird, as restless as she, began a lonely night song. It made her long for something. For someone. A touch, a whisper in the dark. An arm around her shoulders.

  A mate.

  Not just the physical, but the emotional, the spiritu­al partner. She had had men desire her and knew that could never be enough. There had to be someone who could look beyond the color of her hair or the shape of her face and into her heart.

  Perhaps she was asking for too much, Lilah thought with a sigh. But wasn't that better than asking for too little? In the meantime she would have to concentrate on other things and leave her heart in fate's capricious hands.

  She had started to turn back into her room when a movement caught her eye. In the swaying moonlight she saw two shadows bent low, moving with silent swiftness across the lawn. Before she could do more than register the shapes, they had melted into the gar­den.

  She didn't even think about it. A home was meant to be defended. Her bare feet were noiseless on the stone steps as she walked down them. Whoever was trespassing on Calhoun territory was about to get the scare of their lives.

  Like a ghost, she slipped into the garden, the robe floating around her. There were voices, muffled and excited, a faint yellow beam of a flashlight. There was a laugh, quickly smothered, then the sound of a shovel striking earth.

  That more than anything brought the Calhoun tem­per bubbling to the surface. With the courage of the righteous, she strode forward.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  The shovel clanged on stone as it was dropped. The flashlight went spiraling into the azaleas. Two teen­agers, wound up with the treasure hunt, looked around wildly for the source of the voice. They saw the pale figure of a woman draped in white. Summing up
her quarry, Lilah lifted her arms for effect, knowing the full sleeves would billow nicely.

  "I am guardian of the emeralds." She nearly chuckled, pleased with the way her voice floated. "Do you dare to face the curse of the Calhouns? Hid­eous death is certain for any who defile this ground. Run, if you value your lives."

  They didn't have to be told twice. The treasure map they had paid ten bucks for fluttered to the ground as they raced back down the path, shoving each other and tripping over their own scrambling feet. Chuck­ling to herself, Lilah picked up the map.

  She'd seen its like before. Some enterprising soul was making them up and selling them to gullible tour­ists. After shoving it into her pocket, she decided to give her two uninvited guests a little extra boost. She dashed after them. Ready to send up a ghostly wail, she burst out of the garden.

  The wail turned into a grunt as she rammed into another shadow. Stopped in a dead run, Max over­balanced, swore, then went tumbling to the ground on top of her.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "It's me," she managed, then sucked in a breath. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "I saw someone. Stay here."

  "No." She grabbed his arms and held on. "It was just a couple of kids with a treasure map. I scared them off."

  "You—" Furious, he braced on an elbow. Despite the dark, the anger shone clearly in his eyes. "Are you out of your mind?" he demanded. "You came out here, alone, to face down two intruders?"

  "Two terrified teenagers with a treasure map," she corrected. Her chin lifted. "It's my house."

  "I don't give a damn whose house it is. It might have been Caufield and Hawkins. It might have been anyone. No one with an ounce of sense folfows po­tential robbers into a dark garden alone, in the middle of the night."

  She had her breath back and studied him blandly. "What were you doing?"

  "I was going after them," he began, then caught her expression. "That's different."

  "Why? Because I'm a woman?"

  "No. Well, yes."

  "That's stupid, untrue and sexist."

  "That's sensible, factual and sexist." They'd been arguing in furious whispers. Now he sighed. "Lilah, you might have been hurt."

  "The only one who hurt me was you, with that flying tackle."

  "I didn't tackle you," he muttered. "I was watch­ing them and didn't see you. And I certainly didn't expect to find you out here sneaking around in the dark."

  "I wasn't sneaking." She blew hair out of her eyes. "I was playing ghost, and very effectively."

  “Playing ghost." He shut his eyes. "Now I know you're out of your mind."

  "It worked," she reminded him.

  "That's beside the point."

  "It's precisely the point, the other being that you knocked me down before I could finish the job."

  "I've already apologized."

  "No, you haven't."

  "All right. I'm sorry if I..." He started to push himself off her and made the mistake of glancing down. Her robe had come loose during the fall and lay open to the waist. Like alabaster, her breasts glowed in the moonlight. "Oh, Lord," he managed to say through suddenly dry lips.

  She'd lost her breath again. Lying still, she watched his eyes change. Irritation to shock, shock to wonder, wonder to a deep and dark desire. As his gaze skimmed up, came back to hers, every muscle in her body melted like hot wax.

  No one had ever looked at her just that way. There was such intensity in his eyes, the same focused con­centration they had held when he'd struggled to block out pain. They roamed to her mouth, lingering there until her lips trembled apart on his name.

  It was like moving into a dream, he thought as he lowered himself onto her again. Everything was just one click out of focus, soft and fuzzy. His hands were in her hair, lost in it. Beneath his, her lips were warm, beautifully warm. Her arms came around him as if they had been waiting. He heard her sigh, long and deep.

  His mouth was so gentle on hers, as if he were afraid she might vanish if he dared too much too soon. Yet she could feel the tension in the way he held himself, the way his hands fisted in her hair, the way his breath shuddered out as he brushed his lips over hers.

  Her limbs grew heavy, her head light. Though she wanted to keep her eyes open, as his were, they drifted closed. The most pleasant of aches coursed through her as he nibbled delicately at her parted lips. Her murmur mixed with his, indecipherable.

  The grass whispered as she shifted beneath him. Its cool, fresh fragrance seemed perfectly suited to him. As his fingers slid softly over her breast, she heard her own quiet moan of acceptance.

  She was unbelievably perfect, he thought dizzily. Like some fantasy conjured on a lonely night. Long slender limbs, silky skin, an avid and generous mouth. The sheer physical pleasure of her was like a drug, and he was already addicted.

  Murmuring her name, he skimmed his lips to her throat There her pulse beat like thunder, heating her skin so that her scent tangled with each breath he took. Tasting her was like dining on sin. Touching her was paradise. He brought his lips back to hers to lose himself on that glorious edge between heaven and hell.

  She could almost feel herself floating an inch above the cool grass. Her body felt free as air, soft as water. When his mouth met hers again, she let herself drift into the new kiss. Then it happened.

  It was not the sweet click of a door opening that she had been hoping for. It was a rushing roar, like a gust of wind sweeping through her body. Behind it, speeding in its wake, was a pain, sharp, sweet and stunning. She stiffened against it, her cry of protest muffled against his lips.

  If she had slapped him, his passion wouldn't have cooled more quickly. He jerked back to see her star­ing at him, her eyes wide and filled with fear and confusion. Appalled by his behavior, he scrambled to his knees. He was trembling, he realized, So was she. Small wonder. He had acted like a maniac, knocking her down, pawing her.

  Lord help him, he wanted to do it again.

  "Lilah..." His voice was a husky rasp, and he struggled to clear it. She didn't move a muscle. Her eyes never left his. He wanted to stroke her cheek, to gather her close and hold her, but was afraid to touch her again. "I'm sorry. Very sorry. You looked so beautiful. I guess I lost my head."

  She waited for a moment, for the balance and ease that was so much a part of her. But it didn't come. "Is that it?"

  "I..." What did she want him to say? he won­dered. He felt like a monster already. "You're an incredibly desirable woman," he said carefully. "But that's no excuse for what happened just now."

  What had happened? She was afraid she had fallen in love with him, and if she had, love hurt. She didn't like it one damn bit. "You want me, physically."

  He cleared his throat. Want wasn't the word. Craved was closer, but still fell pitifully short of the mark. As gently as he would for a child, he brought her robe together again. "Any man would," he said, nerves straining.

  Any man, she thought and closed her eyes on the slash of disappointment. She hadn't been waiting for any man, but for one man. "It's all right, Max." Her voice was a shade overbright as she sat up. "No harm done. It's just a matter of us finding the other physi­cally attractive. Happens all the time."

  "Yes, but—" Not to him, he thought. Not like this. He frowned down at a blade of grass. It was easier for her, he supposed. She was so open, so uninhibited. There had probably been dozens of men in her life. Dozens, he thought on a jolt of fury that had him tearing the blade in two. "What do you suggest we do about it?"

  "Do about it?" Her smile was strained, but he wasn't even looking at her. "Why don't we just see if it passes. Like the flu."

  He looked at her then, with something dangerous edging his eyes. "It won't. Not for me. I want you. A woman like you would know just how badly I want you."

  The words brought both a thrill and an ache. "A woman like me," she repeated softly. "Yes, that's the crux of it, isn't it, Professor?"

  "The crux of what?" he began, but she was al­read
y on her feet.

  "A woman who enjoys men, and who's very gen­erous with them."

  "I didn't mean—"

  "One who'll wrestle half-naked on the grass. A little bohemian for you, Dr. Quartermain, but you're not above experimenting a little bit here and there— with a woman like me."

  "Lilah, for God's sake—" He too was on his feet, baffled.

  "I wouldn't apologize again if I were you. There's certainly no need." Hurt beyond measure, she tossed back her hair. "Not when it concerns a woman like me. After all, you've got me pegged, don't you?"

  Good Lord, were those tears in her eyes? He ges­tured helplessly. "I haven't got a clue."

  "Right again. AH you understand about this is your own wants." She swallowed the tears. "Well, Pro­fessor, I'll take them under consideration and let you know."

  Completely lost, he watched her gather the skirts of her robe and dart up the stairs. Moments later her terrace doors closed with an audible click.

  She didn't cry. Lilah reminded herself it was an exhausting experience that usually left her with a mis­erable headache. She couldn't think of a single man who was worth the trouble. Instead, she dragged open the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out her emer­gency bar of chocolate.

  After plopping down onto the bed, she took a healthy bite and stared at the ceiling.

  Sexy. Beautiful. Desirable. Big damn deal, she thought and bit off another hunk. For all his celebrated brains, Maxwell Quartermain was as big a jerk as any other man. All he saw was a pretty package, and once he'd unwrapped it, that would be that. He wouldn't see any substance, any of the softer needs.

  Oh, he was more polite than most. A gentleman to the last, she thought in disgust. She hadn't had to untangle herself. God knew he'd been in a hurry to do that for himself.

  Lost his head. At least he was honest, she thought, and brushed impatiently at a tear that sneaked past her guard.

  She knew the kind of image she projected. It rarely bothered her what people thought of her. She under­stood herself, was comfortable with Lilah Maeve Calhoun. There certainly was no shame in the fact that she enjoyed men. Though she hadn't enjoyed them to the extent that others, including, she supposed, her family might think.

  Uninhibited? Perhaps, but that wasn't synonymous with promiscuity. Did she flirt? Yes, it came naturally to her, but it wasn't done with malice or guile.

  If a man flirted with women he was suave. If a woman flirted, she was a tease. Well, as far as she was concerned the game between the sexes was a two-way street, and she enjoyed playing. And as for the good professor...

  She curled up into a tight, defensive ball. Oh, God, he'd hurt her. All that stuttering, apologizing, explain­ing. And all the time he looked so appalled.

  A woman like you. The phrase played back in her head.

  Couldn't he see what he'd done to her with that careful tenderness? Hadn't he been able to feel how deeply he'd affected her? All she had wanted was for him to touch her again, to smile in that sweet, shy way of his and tell her that he cared. About who she was, what she was, how she felt inside. She'd wanted comfort and reassurance, and he'd given her excuses. She had looked up at him, with the stab of love still streaking through her, the terror of it still trembling, and he'd jerked back as if she'd clipped him on the jaw.

  She wished she had. If this was love, she didn't want her share after all.

  Because it was quiet, or perhaps because her ears were tuned for him, she heard Max come up the steps, sensed him hesitate near her doors. She stopped breathing, though her heart picked up a quick beat. Would he come in now, push those doors open and come to her, tell her what she wanted so badly to hear? She could almost see his hand reach for the knob. Then she heard his footsteps again as he moved on down the terrace to his own room.

  Her breath came out in a sigh. It wouldn't fit his principles to enter her bedroom uninvited. Outside, on the grass, he'd been following his instincts rather than his intellect, she admitted. No one was more in favor of that than Lilah. For him, it had been the moment, the moon, the mood. It was difficult to blame him, certainly impossible to expect him to feel as she felt. Want as she wanted.

  She sincerely hoped he didn't sleep a wink.

  She sniffled, swallowed chocolate, then began to think. Only two months before, CC. had come to her, hurt and infuriated because Trent had kissed her, then apologized for it.