For the Love of Lilah

by Nora Roberts

  "I thought it might be a family trait." He began to tap his pencil against the pad. "I don't know very much about women."

  "Well then, I should tell you all I know." Stee-pling his fingers, Trent sat back. "They're frustrating, exciting, baffling, wonderful and infuriating."

  Max waited a moment. "That's it?"

  "Yeah." He glanced up, lifting a hand in salute as Sloan approached.

  "Coffee break?" Sloan asked, and finding the idea appealing, took out a cigar.

  "A discussion on women," Trent informed him. "You might like to add something to my brief dis­sertation."

  Sloan took his time lighting the cigar. "Stubborn as mules, mean as alley cats and the best damn game in town." He blew out smoke and grinned at Max. "You've got a thing for Lilah, don't you?"

  "Well, I—"

  "Don't be bashful." Sloan's grin widened as he poked out with the cigar. "You're among friends."

  Max wasn't accustomed to discussing women, and certainly not his feelings toward a particular woman. "It would be difficult not to be interested."

  Sloan gave a hoot of laughter and winked at Trent. "Son, you'd be dead if you weren't interested. So what's the problem?"

  "I don't know what to do about her."

  Trent's lips curved. "Sounds familiar. What do you want to do?"

  Max slanted Trent a long, slow look that had him chuckling.

  "Yeah, there is that." Sloan puffed contentedly on his cigar. "Is she, ah, interested?"

  Max cleared his throat. "Well, she's indicated that she—that is, earlier we took a walk up on the cliffs, and she...yeah."

  "But?" Trent prompted.

  "I'm already in over my head."

  "Then you might as well go under for the third time," Sloan told him, and eyed the tip of his cigar. '"Course, if you make the lady unhappy, I'd have to pound your face in." He stuck the cigar back into his mouth. "I'm right fond of her."

  Max studied him a moment, then laid his head back and laughed. "There's no way to win here. I think I finally figured that out."

  "That's the first step." Trent shifted. "Since we've got a minute here without the ladies I thought you both should know that I finally got a report on this Hawkins character. Jasper Hawkins, smuggler, out of Miami. He's a known associate of our old friend Liv­ingston."

  "Well, well," Sloan murmured, crushing out the cigar.

  "It begins to look like Livingston and Caufield are one in the same. No sign of the boat yet."

  "I've been thinking about that," Max put in. "It might be that they covered their tracks there. Even if they figured I was dead, they'd have to consider that the body would wash up eventually, be identified. Questions would be asked."

  "So they ditched the boat," Trent mused.

  "Or switched it." Max spread his hands. "They won't back off. I'm sure of that. Caufield, or whoever he is, is obsessed with the necklace. He'd change tac­tics, but he wouldn't give up."

  "Neither will we," Trent murmured. The three men exchanged quiet looks. "If the necklace is in this house, we'll find it. And if that bastard—" He cut himself off as he spotted his wife racing through the doors at the far end of the terrace. "C.C." He was up quickly, starting toward her. "What's wrong? What are you doing home?"

  "Nothing. Nothing's wrong." With a laugh, she threw her arms around him. "I love you."

  “I love you, too." But he drew away to study her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brilliant and wet. "Well, it must be good news." He brushed her hair back, checking her brow as he did so. He knew she hadn't been feeling quite herself for the past week.

  "The best." She glanced over at Sloan and Max. "Excuse us." Gripping Trent's hand, she pulled him down the terrace toward their room where she could tell him in private. Halfway there, she exploded. "Oh, I can't wait. I know I broke the sound barrier getting home after the test came in."

  "What test? You're sick?"

  "I'm pregnant." She held her breath, watching his face. Concern to shock, shock to wonder.

  "You—pregnant?" He gaped down at her flat stomach, then back into her face. "A baby? We're having a baby?"

  Even as she nodded, he was scooping her up, to swing her around and around as she clung to him.

  "What the hell's with them?" Sloan wondered.

  "Men." Behind Max, Lilah glided from another room. "You're all so dense." With a sigh, she laid a hand on Max's shoulder, watching her sister and Trent through misty eyes. "We're having a baby, you dummies."

  "I'll be damned." After a whoop, Sloan headed down to slap Trent on the back and kiss C.C. Hearing the sniffle behind him, Max rose.

  "You okay?"

  "Sure." She brushed a tear from her lashes, but another fell. "She's my baby sister." She sniffed again, then gave a watery laugh when Max offered her a handkerchief. "Trust you." She dabbed her eyes, blew her nose then sighed. "I'm going to keep it awhile, okay? We're all going to cry buckets when we go down and make the announcement to the rest of the family."

  "That's all right." Unsure of himself, he stuck his hands into his pockets.

  "Let's go down and see if there's any champagne in the fridge."

  "Well, I think I should stay up here. Out of the way."

  With a shake of her head, she took his hand firmly in hers. "Don't be a jerk. Like it or not, Professor, you're part of the family."

  He let her lead him away and discovered he did like it. He liked it a lot.

  It was the stray puppy that started it. Such a poor, bedraggled little thing. Homeless and helpless. I have no idea how he found his way to the cliffs. Perhaps someone had disposed of an unwanted titter, or the pup had become separated from its mother. But we found him, Christian and I, on one of our golden af­ternoons. He was hiding in a huddle of rocks, half-starved and whimpering, a tiny black bundle of bones and scruffy black fur.

  How patiently Christian lured him out, with a gen­tle voice and bits of bread and cheese. It touched me to see this sweetness in the man I love. With me, he is always tender, but I have seen the fierce impatience in him, for his art. I have felt the near-violent passion fighting for freedom when he holds me in his arms.

  Yet with the puppy, the poor little orphan, he was instinctively kind. Perhaps sensing this, the pup licked his hand and allowed himself to be petted even after the meager meal had been gobbled down.

  "A scrapper." Christian laughed as he took his beautiful artist's hands over the dirty fur. "Tough little fellow, aren't you?''

  "He needs a bath," I said, but laughed as well when the dusty paws streaked my dress. “And a real meal.'' Delighted with the attention, the pup licked my face, his whole body trembling with delight.

  Of course, I fell in love. He was such a homely little bundle, so trusting, so needy. We played with him, as charmed as children, and had a laughing argument over what to call him.

  We named him Fred. He seemed to approve as he yipped and danced and tumbled in the dirt. I will never forget the sweetness of it, the simplicity. My love and I sitting on the ground with a little lost pup, pretending that we would take him home together, care for him together.

  In the end, I took Fred with me. Ethan had been asking for a pet, and I felt he was old enough now to be both appreciative and responsible. What a clamor there was when I brought the puppy to the nursery. The children were wide-eyed and excited, each taking turns holding and hugging until I'm sure young Fred felt like a king.

  He was bathed and fed with a great deal of cere­mony. Stroked and cuddled and tickled until he fell asleep in exhausted euphoria.

  Fergus returned. The excitement over Fred had caused me to forget our plans for the evening. I'm sure my husband was right to be annoyed that I was far from ready to go out and dine. The children, un­able to contain their delight, raced about, adding to his impatience. Little Ethan, proud as a new father, carried Fred into the parlor.

  "What the devil have you got?" Fergus demanded.

  “A puppy-'' Ethan held the wriggling bundle up for his father
's inspection. "His name is Fred."

  Noting my husband's expression, I took the puppy from my son and began to explain how it had come about. I suppose I'd hoped to appeal to Fergus's softer side, to the love, or at least the pride he felt for Ethan. But he was adamant.

  "I'll not have a mongrel in my house. Do you think I have worked all my life to own such things only to have some flea-ridden mutt relieving himself on the carpets, chewing on the draperies?"

  "He'll be good" Lip quivering, Colleen hugged my skirts. "Please, Papa. We'll keep him in the nurs­ery and watch him.''

  "You'll do no such thing, young lady." Fergus dis­missed Colleen's tears with a glance and turned to Ethan, whose eyes were also brimming. There was a fractional softening in his expression. After all this was his first son, his heir, his immortality. "A mon­grel's no pet for you, my lad Why any fisherman's son might own a mongrel. If it's a dog you want, we'll look into it when we get back to New York, A fine dog, with a pedigree.''

  "I want Fred." With his sweet face crumbling, Ethan looked up at his father. Even little Sean was crying now, though I doubt he understood.

  "Out of the question." With his temper obviously straining, Fergus walked to the whiskey decanter and poured. "It's completely unsuitable. Bianca, have one of the servants dispose of it.''

  I know I paled as quickly as the children. Even Fred whimpered, pressing his face to my breast. "Fergus, you can't be so cruel."

  There was surprise in his eyes, I have no doubt of it. It had never occurred to him that I would speak to him so, and in front of the children. "Madam, do as I bid."

  “Mama said we could keep him,'' Colleen began, her youthful temper lifting her voice. "Mama prom­ised. You can't take him away. Mama won't let you.''

  "I run this home. If you don't wish a strapping, mind your tone.''

  I found myself clutching Colleen's shoulders, as much to suppress her as to protect. He would not lift a hand to my children. Fury at the thought of it blinded me to all else. I know I trembled as I bent to her, to shift Fred back into her arms.

  “Go upstairs to Nanny now,'' I said quietly. “Take your brothers."

  “He won't kill Fred.'' Is there a rage more poi­gnant than that of a child? “I hate him, and I won't let him kill Fred"

  “Shh. It will be all right, I promise you. It will be all right. Go up to Nanny."

  "A poor job you've done. Bianca," Fergus began when the children had left us. “The girl is old enough to know her place.''

  "Her place?" The fury had my heart roaring in my head. "What is her place, Fergus? To sit quietly in some comer, her hands folded, her thoughts and feel­ings unspoken until you have bartered her off into a suitable marriage? They are children. Our children. How could you hurt them so?"

  Never in our marriage had I used such a tone with him. Never had I thought to. For a moment I was certain that he would strike me. It was in his eyes. But he seemed to pull himself back, though his fingers were white as marble against the glass he held.

  "You question me, Bianca?" His face was very pale with his rage, his eyes very dark. “Do you forget whose house you stand in, whose food you eat, whose clothes you wear?"

  "No." Now I felt a new kind of grief, that our marriage should be brought down to only that. “No, I don't forget. I can't forget. I would sooner wear rags and starve than see you hurt my children so. I will not allow you to take that dog from them and have him destroyed.''

  "Allow?" He was no longer pale, but crimson with fury. “Now it is you who forget your place. Bianca. Is it any wonder the children openly defy me with such a mother?"

  "They want your love, your attention." I was shouting now, beyond restraint. “As I have wanted it. But you love nothing but your money, your position.''

  How bitterly we argued then. The names he called me I can't repeat. He dashed the glass against the wall, shattering the crystal and his own control. There was a wildness in his eyes when his hands came around my throat. I was afraid for my life, terrified for my children. He shoved me aside so that I fell into a chair. He was breathing quickly as he stared down at me.

  Very slowly, with great effort, he composed himself. The violent color faded from his cheeks. "I can see now that I've been too generous with you," he said. “From this point, it will change. Don't think you will continue to go your own way as you choose. We will cancel our plans for this evening. I have business in Boston. While I'm there, I will interview governesses. It's time the children learned respect, and how to ap­preciate their position. Between you and their nanny, they have become spoiled and willful." He took his watch from his pocket and studied the time. "I will leave tonight and be gone two days. When I return I expect you to have remembered your duties. If the mongrel is still in my house when I return, both you and the children will be punished. Am I clear, Bianca?"

  "Yes." My voice shook. "Quite clear."

  "Excellent. In two days then."

  He walked out of the parlor. I did not move for an hour. I heard the carriage come for him. Heard him instruct the servants. In that time my head had cleared and I knew what I had to do.

  Chapter Seven

  “What the hell good is messing with all these pa­pers?" Hawkins paced the sun-washed room in the rented house. He had never been a patient man and preferred to use his fists or a weapon rather than his brain. His associate, now going by the name of Robert Marshall, sat at an oak desk, carefully leafing through the papers he had stolen from The Towers a month before. He had dyed his hair a nondescript brown and had grown a credible beard and mustache that he tinted the same shade.

  If Max Quartermain had seen him, he would have called him Ellis Caufield. Whatever name he chose, whatever disguise he employed, he was a thief whose unscrupulous mind had centered on the Calhoun em­eralds.

  "I went through a great deal of trouble to get these papers," Caufield said mildly. "Now that we've lost the professor, I'll have to decipher them myself. It will simply take a little longer."

  "This whole job stinks." Hawkins stared out the window at the thick trees that sheltered the house. It was tucked behind a grove of quaking aspen, and the cool leaves quivered continually in the breeze. With the windows of the study thrown open, the scents of pine and sweet peas wafted into the room. He could only smell his own frustration. The bright glint of blue that was the bay didn't lift his mood. He'd spent enough time in prison to feel shut in, however lovely the surroundings.

  Cracking his knuckles, he turned away from the view. "We could be stuck in this place for weeks."

  "You should learn to appreciate the scenery. And the room." His partner's nervous habit was an an­noyance, but he tolerated it. For the time being, he needed Hawkins. After the emeralds had been found...well, that was another matter. "I certainly prefer the house to the boat for the long term. And finding the right accommodations across the bay on this island was difficult and expensive."

  "That's another thing." Hawkins pulled out a cig­arette. "We're spending a bundle, and all we've got to show for it is a bunch of old papers."

  "I assure you, the emeralds will be more than worth any overhead."

  "If the bloody things exist."

  "They exist." Caufield waved the smoke away in a fussy gesture, but his eyes were intense. ' "They ex­ist. Before the summer ends, I'm going to hold them in my hands." He lifted them. They were smooth and white and clever. He could all but see the glittery green stones dripping from his palms. "They're going to be mine."

  Ours," Hawkins corrected. Caufield looked up and smiled. "Ours, of course."

  After dinner, Max went back to his lists. He told himself he was being responsible, doing what needed to be done. In truth he'd needed to put some distance between himself and Lilah. He couldn't delude him­self into thinking it was only desire he felt for her. That was a basic biological reaction and could be trig­gered by a face on a television screen, a voice on the radio.

  There was nothing so simple or so easily dismissed about his reaction to Lilah
.

  Every day he was around her his emotions became more tangled, more unsteady and more ungovernable. It had been difficult enough when he had looked at her and wanted her. Now he looked at her and felt his needs meld with dreams that were unrealistic, foolish and impossible.

  He'd never given much thought to falling in love, and none at all to marriage and family. His work had always been enough, filling the gaps nicely. He en­joyed women, and if he fell far short of being the Don Juan of Cornell, he had managed a few com­fortable and satisfying relationships. Still, he'd never felt a burning need to race to the altar or to start building picket fences.

  Bachelorhood had suited him, and when he had thought about the future, he had imagined himself getting crusty, perhaps taking up the pipe and baying a nice dog for companionship.

  He was an uncomplicated man who lived a quiet life. At least until recently. Once he had helped the Calhouns locate the emeralds, he would go back to that quiet life. And he would go back alone. While things might never be exactly the same for him, he knew that she would forget the awkward college pro­fessor before the winter winds blew across the bay.

  And he figured the sooner he finished what he had agreed to do and went away, the easier it would be to go. Gathering his lists, he decided it was time to take the next step toward ending the most incredible summer of his life.

  He found Amanda in her room, going over her own lists. These were for her wedding, which would take place in three weeks.

  "I'm sorry to interrupt."

  "That's okay." Amanda pushed her glasses back up her nose and smiled. "I've got everything under control here except my nerves." She tapped her pa­pers together and set them aside on the slant-top desk. "I was all for eloping, but Aunt Coco would have murdered me."

  "I guess weddings take a lot of work."

  "Even planning a small family ceremony is like plotting a major offensive. Or being in the circus," she decided, and laughed. "You end up juggling pho­tographers with color schemes and fittings and floral arrangements. But I'm getting good at it. I took care of C.C.'s, I ought to be able to do the same for my­self. Except..." Pulling her glasses off, she began to fold and unfold the earpieces. "The whole thing scares the good sense right out of me. So, take my mind off it, Max, and tell me what's on yours."

  "I've been working on this. I don't know how complete it is." He set his list in front of her. "The names of all the servants I could find, the ones who worked here the summer Bianca died."

  Lips pursed, Amanda slid her glasses back on. She appreciated the precise handwriting and neat columns. "All of these?"

  "According to the ledger I went through. I thought we could contact the families, maybe even luck out and find a few still alive."

  "Anyone who worked here back then would have to be over the century mark."

  "Not necessarily. A lot of the help could have been young. Some of the maids, the garden and kitchen help." When she began to tap her pencil on the desk, he shrugged. "It's a long shot, I know, but—"

  "No." Her gaze still on the list, she nodded. "I like it Even if we can't reach anyone who actually worked here then, they might have told stories to their children. It's a safe bet some of them were local—-maybe still are." She looked up at him. "Good think­ing, Max."

  "I'd like to help you try to pin some of the names down."

  "I can use all the help I can get. It's not going to be easy."

  "Research is what I'm best at"

  "You've got yourself a deal." She held out a hand to shake. "Why don't we split the list in half and start tomorrow? I imagine the cook, the butler, the housekeeper, Bianca's personal maid and the nanny all traveled with them from New York."

  "But the day help, and the lower positions were hired locally."

  "Exactly. We could divide the list in that way, then cross-reference..." She trailed off as Sloan came in through the terrace doors carrying a bottle of cham­pagne and two glasses.

  "Leave you alone for five minutes and you start entertaining other men in your room." He set the wine aside. "And talking about cross-referencing, too. Must be serious."

  "We hadn't even gotten to alphabetizing," Amanda told Sloan.

  "Looks like I got here just in time." He took the pencil out of her hand before drawing her to her feet. "In another minute you might have been hip deep