For the Love of Lilah

by Nora Roberts

  "If you'd just—" Her last words sank in, dazzling him, dazing him, delighting him. "Oh, God, Lilah." He started to rush forward, but she threw up both hands.

  "Don't touch me," she said so fiercely, he stopped, baffled.

  "What do you expect me to do?"

  "I don't expect anything. If I had stuck to that from the beginning, you wouldn't have been able to hurt me like this. As it is, it's my problem. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  He grabbed her arm before she reached the door. "You can't say things like this, you can't tell me you're in love with me then just walk away."

  "I'll do exactly as I please." Eyes cold, she jerked her arm free. "I don't have anything more to say to you, and there's nothing you can say I want to hear right now."

  She walked out of his room into her own and locked the door behind her.

  Hours later, she sat in her room, cursing herself for losing her pride and her temper so completely. All she had succeeded in accomplishing was embarrass­ing herself and Max, and giving herself a vicious headache.

  She'd slashed at him, and that had been wrong. She'd pushed him, and that had been stupid. Any hope she'd had of steering him gently into love had been smashed because she'd demanded things he hadn't wanted to give. Now, more than likely, she had ruined a friendship that had been vitally important to her.

  There could be no apologizing. No matter how mis­erable she felt, she couldn't apologize for speaking the truth. And she could never claim to be sorry to have fallen in love.

  Restless, she walked out on the terrace. There were clouds over the moon. The wind shoved them across the sky so that the light glimmered for a moment then was smothered. The heat of the day was trapped; the night almost sultry. Fireflies danced over the black carpet of lawn like sparks from a dying fire.

  In the distance thunder rumbled, but there was no freshening scent of rain. The storm was out at sea, and even if the capricious wind blew it to land, it might be hours before it hit and relieved the hazy heat. She could smell the flowers, hot and heady, and glanced toward the garden. Her thoughts were so in­volved that she stared at the glimmer of light for a full minute before it registered.

  Not again, she thought, and was almost depressed enough to let the amateur treasure hunters have their thrill. But Suzanna worked too hard on the gardens to have some idiot with a map dig up her perennials. In any case, at least chasing off a trespasser was con­structive.

  She moved quietly down the steps and into the deeper gloom of the garden. It was simple enough to follow the beam of light. As she walked toward it, Lilah debated whether to use the Calhoun curse or the old The Police Are On Their Way. Both were reliable ways of sending trespassers scurrying. Any other time the prospect might have amused her.

  When the light blinked out, she stopped, frowning, to listen. There was only the sound of her own breathing. Not a leaf stirred, and no bird sang in the brush. With a shrug, she moved on. Perhaps they had heard her and had already retreated, but she wanted to be certain.

  In the dark, she nearly fell over the pile of dirt. AH amusement vanished when her eyes adjusted and she saw the destruction of Suzanna's lovely bed of dahl­ias.

  "Jerks," she muttered, and kicked at the dirt with a sandaled foot. "What the hell is wrong with them?" On a little moan, she bent down to pick up a trampled bloom. Her fingers clenched over it when a hand slapped against her mouth.

  "Not a sound." The voice hissed at her ear. Re­acting to it, she started to struggle, then froze when she felt the point of the knife at her throat. "Do ex­actly what I say, and I won't cut you. Try to yell, and I'll slice this across your throat. Understand?"

  She nodded and let out a long careful breath when his hand slid away from her mouth. It would have been foolish to ask what he wanted. She knew the answer. But this wasn't some adventure-seeking tour­ist out for a late-night lark.

  "You're wasting your time. The emeralds aren't here."

  "Don't play games with me. I've got a map."

  Lilah closed her eyes and bit back a hysterical and dangerous laugh.

  Max paced his room, scowled at the floor and wished he had something handy to kick. He'd messed things up beautifully. He wasn't exactly sure how he'd managed it, but he'd hurt Lilah, infuriated her and alienated her all in one swoop. He'd never seen a woman go through so many emotions in such a short time. From unhappiness to fury, from fury to frost—hardly letting him get in a single word.

  He could have defended himself—if he'd been to­tally certain of the offense. How could he have known that she'd be offended he hadn't mentioned the book? He hadn't wanted to bore her. No, that was a lie, he admitted. He hadn't told her because he'd been afraid. Plain and simple.

  As far as the promotion went, he'd meant to tell her, but it had slipped his mind. How could she be­lieve that he'd have accepted the position and left without telling her?

  "What the hell was she supposed to think, you jerk?" he muttered, and plopped down into a chair.

  So much for all his careful plans, his step-by-step courtship. His tidy little itinerary for making her fall in love with him had blown up in his face. She'd been in love with him all along.

  She loved him. He dragged a hand through his hair. Lilah Calhoun was in love with him, and he hadn't had to wave a magic wand or implement any com­plicated plan. All he'd had to do was be himself.

  She'd been in love with him all along, but he'd been too stupid to believe it even when she'd tried to tell him. Now she'd locked herself in her room and wouldn't listen to him.

  As far as he could see, he had two choices. He could sit here and wait until she cooled off, then he could beg. Or he could get up right now, beat down her door and demand that she hear him out.

  He liked the second idea. In fact, he thought it was inspired.

  Without taking the time to debate with himself, he went through the terrace doors. Since it was two in the morning, it made more sense to rattle the glass than beat on the inside door and wake up the house­hold. And it was more romantic. He'd shove open those doors, stride across the room and drag her into his arms until she...

  His erotic dream veered off as he caught a glimpse of her just before she disappeared into the garden.

  Fine, he thought. Maybe better. A sultry garden in the middle of the night. Perfumed air and passion. She wasn't going to know what hit her.

  "You know where they are." Hawkins dragged her head back by the hair and she nearly cried out.

  "If I knew where they were, I'd have them."

  "It's a publicity stunt." He whirled her around, laying the edge of the knife against her cheek. "I figured it out. You've just been playing games to get your names in the paper. I've put time and money into this deal, and it's going to pay off tonight."

  She was too terrified to move. Even a tremor might have the blade slicing over her skin. She recognized rage in his eyes, just as she recognized him. This was the man Max had called Hawkins. "The map," she began, then heard Max call her name. Before she could take a breath, the knife was at her throat again.

  "Make a sound and I kill you, then him."

  He'd kill them both anyway, she thought franti­cally. It had been in his eyes. "The map," she said in a whisper. "It's a fake." She gasped when the blade pricked her skin. "I'll show you. I can show you where they are."

  She had to get him away, away from Max. He was calling her again, and the frustration in his voice had tears welling in her eyes.

  "Down that way." She gestured on impulse and let Hawkins drag her down the path until Max's voice faded. At the side edge, the garden gave way to the rocks where the smell and sound of the sea grew stronger. "Over there." She stumbled as he pulled her over the uneven ground. Beside her, the slope ran almost gently to a ridge. Below that, dizzying feet below, were the jagged teeth of rocks and the tem­peramental sea.

  When the first flash of lightning struck, she jolted, then looked desperately over her shoulder. The wind had come up, but she hadn't noticed. The cloud
s still hid the moon and smothered the light.

  Was she far enough away? she wondered. Had Max given up looking for her and gone back inside? Where it was safe.

  "If you're trying to pull something on me—"

  "No. They're here." She tripped on a jumble of rocks and went down hard. "Under here. In a box under the rocks."

  She would inch away slowly, she told herself as every instinct screamed for her to run. While he was involved, she would inch away, then spring up and race to the house. He grabbed the hem of her skirt, ripping it.

  "One wrong move, and you're dead." She saw the gleam of his eyes as he bent close. "If I don't find the box, you're dead."

  Then his head went up, like a wolf scenting. Out of the dark with a vicious oath, Max leaped.

  She screamed then as she saw the wicked edge of the knife glint in the flash of lightning. They hit the ground beside her, rolling over dirt and rock. She was still screaming when she jumped on Hawkins's back to grope for his knife hand. The blade sliced into the ground an inch from Max's face before she was bucked off.

  "Damn it, run!" Max shouted at her, gripping Hawkins's beefy wrist with both hands. Then he grunted as a fist grazed his temple.

  They were rolling again, the impetus taking them down the slope and onto the ridge. She did run, but toward them, sliding along the loose dirt and sending a shower of pebbles to rain over the struggling bodies. Panting for breath, she grabbed a rock. Her next scream sliced the air as Max's leg dangled over the edge into space.

  AH he could see was the contorted face above his. All he could hear was Lilah shouting his name. Then he saw stars when Hawkins rammed his head against the rock. For an instant, Max teetered on the edge, the brink between sky and sea. His hand slipped down the sweaty forearm. When the knife came down, he smelled the blood and heard Hawkins's grunt of tri­umph.

  There was something else in the air—something passionate and pleading—as insubstantial as the wind but as strong as bedrock. It slammed into him like a fist. The understanding went through him that he wasn't only fighting for his life, but for Lilah's and the life they would make together.

  He wouldn't lose it. With every ounce of strength, he smashed his fist into the face grinning over his. Blood spouted out of Hawkins's nose, then they were grappling again with the knife wedged between them.

  Lilah lifted the rock in both hands, started to bring it down when the men at her feet reversed positions. Sobbing, she scrambled back. There were shouts behind her and wild barking. She held tight to the only weapon she had and prayed that she would have the chance to use it.

  Then the struggling stopped, and both men went still. With a grunt, Max pushed Hawkins aside and managed to gain his knees. His face was streaked with dirt and blood, his clothes splattered with it. Weakly he shook his head to clear it and looked up at Lilah. She stood like an avenging angel, hair flying, the rock gripped in her hands.

  "He rolled on the knife," Max said in a distant voice. "I think he's dead." Dazed, he stared down at his hand, at the dark smear that was the blood of the man he'd killed. Then he looked up at her again. "Are you hurt?"

  "Oh, Max. Oh, God." The rock slipped from her fingers as she tumbled to her knees beside him.

  "It's okay." He patted her shoulder, stroked her hair. "It's okay," he repeated though he was deathly afraid he would faint.

  The dog got there first, then the others came thun­dering down the slope in nightgowns or robes and hastily pulled-on jeans.

  "Lilah." Amanda was there, desperate hands run­ning over her sister's body in a search for wounds. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

  "No." But her teeth were starting to chatter in the sultry night. "No, he was—Max came." She looked over to see Trent crouched beside him, examining a long gash down his arm. "You're bleeding."

  "Not much."

  "It's shallow," Trent said between his teeth. "I imagine it hurts like hell."

  "Not yet," Max murmured.

  Trent looked over as Sloan walked back from the man sprawled on the ridge. Tight-lipped, Sloan shook his head. "It's done," he said briefly.

  "It was Hawkins." Max struggled to his feet and stood, swaying. "He had Lilah."

  "We'll discuss this later." Her voice uncharacteris­tically crisp, Coco took Max's good arm. "They're both in shock. Let's get them inside."

  "Come on, baby." Sloan reached down to gather Lilah into his arms. "I'll give you a ride home."

  "I'm not hurt." From the cradle of his arms she swiveled her head around to look for Max. "He's bleeding. He needs help."

  "We'll fix him up," Sloan promised her as they started across the lawn. "Don't you worry, sweetie, the teacher's tougher than you think."

  Up ahead, The Towers was ablaze with lights. An­other roll of thunder walked the sky above its peaks, then echoed into silence. Abruptly, a tall, thin figure appeared on the second-floor terrace, a cane in one hand, a glinty chrome revolver in the other.

  "What the hell is going on around here?" Colleen shouted. "How is a body supposed to get a decent night's sleep with all this hoopla?"

  Coco sent one weary glance upward. “Oh, be quiet and go back to bed."

  For some reason, Lilah laid her head on Sloan's shoulder and began to laugh.

  It was nearly dawn when things settled. The police had come and gone, taking away their grisly package. Questions had been asked and answered—asked and answered again. Lilah had been plied with brandy, fussed over and ordered into a hot bath.

  They hadn't let her tend Max's wound. Which might have been for the best, she thought now. Her hands hadn't been steady.

  He'd bounced back from the incident remarkably well, she mused as she curled on the window seat in the tower room. While she had still been numb and shaky, he had stood in the parlor, his arm freshly ban­daged, and given the investigating officer a clear and concise report of the whole event.

  He might have been lecturing one of his classes on the cause and effect of the German economy on World War I, she thought with the ghost of a smile. It had been obvious that Lieutenant Koogar had ap­preciated the precision and clarity.

  Lilah liked to think that her own account had been calm enough, though she hadn't been able to control the trembling very well even when her sisters had joined ranks around her.

  Suzanna had finally told the lieutenant enough was enough and had bundled Lilah upstairs.

  But despite the bath and brandy, she hadn't been able to sleep. She was afraid if she closed her eyes that she would see it unfolding again, see Max tee­tering on the edge of the ridge. They'd hardly spoken since the whole horrible business had happened. They would have to, of course, she reflected. She wanted to clear her thoughts and find just the right words.

  But then he walked in, while the sky behind her was being gilded with sunrise, and she was afraid she would never find them.

  He stood awkwardly, favoring his left arm, his face shadowed by fatigue. "I couldn't sleep," he began. "I thought you might be up here."

  "I guess I needed to think. It's always easier for me to think up here." Feeling as awkward as he, she smoothed back her hair. It fell untamed, the color of the young sun, against the white shoulders of her robe. "Would you like to sit?"

  "Yeah." He crossed the room and eased his aching muscles down onto the seat beside her. The silence dragged on, one minute, then two. "Some night," he said at length.

  "Yes."

  "Don't," he murmured when her eyes filled.

  "No." She swallowed them back and stared out at the quiet dawn. "I thought he would kill you. It was like a nightmare—the dark, the heat, the blood."

  "It's done now." He took her hand, curled strong fingers around hers. "You led him away from the garden. You were trying to protect me, Lilah. I can't thank you for it."

  Off guard, she looked back at him. "What was I supposed to do, let him jump out of the petunias and stab you in the dark?"

  "You were supposed to let me take care of you."

  She tr
ied to jerk her hand free, but he held firm. "You did, didn't you? Whether I wanted you to or not. You came rushing out like a crazy man, jumping on a maniac with a knife and nearly—" She broke off, struggling for composure while he only sat watch­ing her with those patient eyes. "You saved my life," she said more calmly.

  "Then we're even, aren't we?" She shrugged and went back to watching the sky. "The oddest thing happened during those last few minutes I was fighting with Hawkins. I felt myself slipping, losing ground. Then I felt something else, something incredibly strong. I'd say it was simple adrenaline, but it didn't come from me. It was something—other," he said, studying her profile. "I suppose you could call it a force. And I knew that I wasn't meant to lose, that there were reasons I couldn't I guess I'll always won­der if that force, if that feeling came from you, or from Bianca."

  Her lips curved as she looked back at him. "Why, Professor, how illogical."

  He didn't smile. "I was coming to your room, to make you listen to me, when I saw you go into the garden. Normally I would consider it only right—or logical—to back off and give you rime to recover after what's happened. But things change, Lilah. You're going to listen now."

  For a moment she leaned her brow on the cool glass. Then she nodded. "All right, you're entitled. But first I'd like to say that I know I was angry ear­lier—about the book. It was the wrong reaction—"

  "No, it wasn't. You trusted me with a great deal, and I didn't trust you. I was afraid you'd be kind."

  "I don't understand."

  "Writing's something I've wanted to do most of my life, but I...well, I'm not used to taking risks."

  She had to laugh and, going with instinct, leaned over to kiss the bandage on his arm. "Max, what a thing to say now of all times."

  "I haven't been used to taking risks," he corrected. "I thought if I told you about the book and got up the courage to show you a few pages, you'd see it as a pipe dream and be kind."

  "It's stupid to be so insecure about something you have such talent for." Then she sighed. "And it was stupid for me to take it so personally. Take it from someone who isn't particularly kind. It's going to be a wonderful book, Max. Something you can be very proud of."

  He cupped a hand behind her neck. "Let's see if you say that after I make you read several hundred more pages." He leaned toward her, touched his lips gently to hers. But when he started to deepen the kiss, she jumped up.

  "I'll give you the first critique when it's pub­lished." Nerves humming, she began to pace.

  "What is it, Lilah?"

  "Nothing. So much has happened." She took a deep breath before she turned, smile firmly in place. "The promotion. I was so involved with myself be­fore that I didn't even congratulate you."

  "I wasn't keeping it from you."

  "Max, let's not go over all of that again. The im­portant thing is it's a wonderful honor. I think we should have a party to celebrate before you go."

  A smile ghosted around his mouth. "Do you?"

  "Of course. It isn't every day you get made head of your department. The next thing you know, you'll be dean. It's only a matter of time. And then—"

  "Lilah, sit down. Please."

  "All right." She clung to the desperate gaiety. "We'll have Aunt Coco bake a cake, and—"

  "You're happy about the offer then?" he inter? rupted.

  "I'm very proud of you," she said, and brushed the hair from his brow. "I like knowing that the pow­ers that be appreciate how valuable you are."

  "And you want me to accept?"

  Her brows drew together. "Of course. How could you refuse? This is a wonderful opportunity for you, something you've worked for and earned."

  "That's a pity." He shook his head and leaned back, still watching her. "I've already declined."

  "You did what?"

  "I declined, with appreciation. It's one of the rea­sons I never mentioned the whole business to you. I didn't see it as an issue."

  "I don't understand. A career opportunity like this isn't something you casually turn aside."

  "It depends on your career. I also tendered my res­ignation."

  "You—you quit? But that's crazy."

  "Yes, probably." And because it was, he had to grin. "But if I went back to Cornell to teach, the book would end up in a file somewhere gathering dust." He held out his hand, palm up. "You looked at this once and told me I'd have to make a choice. I've made it."