by Nora Roberts
"But– "
He shook his head, cupping his hands around her face. "Aren't you the one who says to trust your feelings? Think about it. Trent comes to The Towers and falls in love with C.C. Because of his idea to renovate and turn part of the house into a retreat, the old legend comes out. Once it's made public, Livingston or Cau–field or whatever we choose to call him develops an obsession. He makes a play for Amanda, but she's already hooked on Sloan–who's also there because of the house. Caufield's impatient, so he steals some of the papers. That brings me into it. You fish me out of the water, take me into your home. Since then we've been able to piece more together. We've found a photograph of the emeralds. We've located a woman who actually knew Bianca, and who's corroborated the fact that she hid the necklace in the house. It's all connected, every step. Do you think we'd have gotten this far if we weren't meant to find them?"
Her eyes softened as she linked her hands over his wrists. "You're awfully good for me, Professor. A little optimistic logic's just what I need right now."
"Then I'll give you some more. I think the next step is to start tracking down the artist."
"Christian? But how?"
"You leave it to me."
"All right." Wanting his arms around her, she laid her head on his shoulder. "There's another connection. You might think it's out of left field, but I can't help thinking about it."
"Tell me."
"A couple of months ago, Trent was walking the cliffs. He found Fred. We've never been able to figure out what the puppy was doing out there all alone. It made me think of the little dog Bianca brought to her children, the one she and Fergus argued about so bitterly only a day before she died. I wonder what happened to that dog, Max." She let out a long sigh. "Then I think about those children. It's difficult to imagine one's grandfather as a little boy. I never even knew him because he died before I was born. But I can see him, standing outside of his mother's door, grieving. And it breaks my heart."
"Shh." He tightened his arms around her. "It's better to think that Bianca had some happiness with her artist. Can't you see her running to him on the cliffs, stealing a few hours in the sun, or finding some quiet place where they could be alone?"
"Yes." Her lips curved against his throat. "Yes, I can. Maybe that's why I love sitting in the tower. She wasn't always unhappy there, not when she thought of him."
"And if there's any justice, they're together now."
Lilah tilted her head back to look at him. "Yes, you are awfully good for me. Tell you what, why don't we take advantage of that pool down there? I'd like to swim with you when it wasn't a matter of life or death."
He kissed her forehead. "You've got a deal."
She did more floating than swimming. Max had never seen anyone who could actually sleep on the water. But Lilah could–her eyes comfortably closed behind tinted glasses, her body totally relaxed. She wore two tiny scraps of leopard–print cloth that raised Max's blood pressure–and that of every other male within a hundred yards. But she drifted, hands moving gently in the water. Occasionally she would kick into a lazy sidestroke, her hair flowing out around her. Now and again, she would reach out to link her hand with his, or twine her arms around his neck, trusting him to keep her buoyant.
Then she kissed him, her lips wet and cool, her body as fluid as the water around them.
"Time for a nap," she said, and left him in the pool to stretch out on a chaise under an umbrella.
When she awoke, the shadows were long and only a few diehards were left in the water. She looked around for Max, vaguely disappointed that he hadn't stayed with her. Gathering up her wrap, she went back inside to find him.
The room was empty, but there was a note on the bed in his careful handwriting.
Had a couple of things to see to. Be back soon.
With a shrug, she tuned the radio to a classical station and went in to take a long, steamy shower.
Revived and relaxed, she toweled off, then began to cream her skin in long, lazy strokes. Maybe they could rind some cozy little restaurant for dinner, she mused. Someplace where there were dim corners and music. They could linger over the meal while the candles burned down, and drink cool, sparkling wine.
Then they would come back, draw the drapes on the balcony, close themselves in. He would kiss her in that thorough, drugging way until they couldn't keep their hands off each other. She picked up her bottle of scent, spritzing it onto her softened skin. They would make love slowly or frantically, gently or desperately, until, tangled together, they slept.
They wouldn't think about Bianca or tragedies, about emeralds or thieves. Tonight they would only think about each other.
Dreaming of him, she stepped out into the bedroom.
He was waiting for her. It seemed he'd been waiting for her all of his life. She paused, her eyes darkened by the candles he'd lit, her damp hair gleaming with the delicate light. Her scent wafted into the room, mysterious, seductive, to tangle with the fragrance of the clutch of freesias he'd bought her.
Like her, he had imagined a perfect night and had tried to bring it to her.
The radio still played, low romantic strings. On the table in front of the open balcony doors two slender white tapers glowed. Champagne, just poured, frothed in tall tulip glasses. Behind the table, the sun was sinking in the sky, a scarlet ball, bleeding into the deepening blue.
"I thought we'd eat in," he said, and held out a hand for hers.
"Max." Emotion tightened her throat. "I was right all along." Her fingers linked with his. "You are a poet."
"I want to be alone with you." Taking one of the fragile blooms, he slipped it into her hair. "I'd hoped you wouldn't mind."
"No." She let out a shaky breath when he pressed his lips to her palm. "I don't mind."
He picked up the glasses, handed her one. "Restaurants are so crowded."
"And noisy," she agreed, touching her glass to his.
"And someone might object if I nibbled on you rather than the appetizers."
Watching him, she took a sip. "I wouldn't."
He slid a finger up her throat, then tilted her chin so that their lips met. "We'd better give dinner a try," he said after a long moment.
They sat, close together to watch the sun set, to feed each other little bites of lobster drenched with sweet, melted butter. She let champagne explode on her tongue, then turned her mouth to his where the flavor was just as intoxicating.
As a Chopin prelude drifted from the radio, he pressed a light kiss to her shoulder, then skimmed more up her throat.
"The first time I saw you," he said as he slipped a bite of lobster between her lips, "I thought you were a mermaid. And I dreamed about you that first night." Gently he rubbed his lips over hers. "I've dreamed about you every night since."
"When I sit up in the tower, I think about you– the way I imagine Bianca once thought about Christian. Do you think they ever made love?"
"He couldn't have resisted her."
Her breath shuddered out between her lips. "She wouldn't have wanted him to." With her eyes on his, she began to unbutton his shirt. "She would have ached needing him, wanting to touch him." On a sigh, she ran her hands over his chest. "When they were together, alone together, nothing else could have mattered."
"He would have been half–mad for her." Taking her hands, he brought her to her feet. He left her for a moment, to draw the shades so that they were closed in with music and candlelight. "Thoughts of her would have haunted him, day and night. Her face..." He skimmed his fingers over Lilah's cheeks, over her jaw, down her throat. "Every time he closed his eyes, he would have seen it. Her taste..." He pressed his lips to hers. "Every time he took a breath it would be there to remind him what it was like to kiss her."
"And she would have lain in bed, night after night, wanting his touch." Heart racing, she pushed the shirt from his shoulders, then shivered when he reached for the belt of her robe. "Remembering how he looked at her when he undressed her."
; "He couldn't have wanted her more than I want you." The robe slithered to the floor. His arms drew her closer. "Let me show you."
The candles burned low. A single thread of moonlight slashed through the chink in the drapes. There was music, swelling with passion, and the scent of fragile flowers.
Murmured promises. Desperate answers. A low husky laugh, a sobbing gasp. From patience to urgency, from tenderness to madness, they drove each other. Through the dark, endless night they were tireless and greedy. A gentle touch could cause a tremor; a rough caress a soft sigh. They came together with generous affection, then again like warriors.
Each time they thought they were sated, they would turn to each other once more to arouse or to soothe, to cling or to stroke, until the candles gutted out and the gray light of dawn crept into the room.
Chapter Eleven
Hawkins was sick and tired of waiting around. As far as he was concerned every day on the island was a day wasted. Worse, he'd given up a tidy little job in New York that would have earned him at least ten grand. Instead, he'd invested half that much in a heist that looked more and more like a bust.
He knew Caufield was good. The fact was, there were few better at lifting locks and dancing around the police. In the ten years of their association, they had pulled off some very smooth operations. Which was why he was worried.
There was nothing smooth about this job. Damn college boy had messed things up good and proper. Hawkins resented the fact that Caufield wouldn't let him take care of Quartermain. He knew Caufield didn't think he had any finesse, but he could have arranged a nice, quiet accident.
The real problem was that Caufield was obsessed with the emeralds. He talked about them day and night–and he talked as though they were living things rather than some pretty sparklers that would bring in some good, crisp cash.
Hawkins was beginning to believe that Caufield didn't intend to fence the emeralds after all. He smelled the double cross and had been watching his partner like a hawk. Every time Caufield went out, Hawkins would pace the empty house, looking for some clue to his partner's true intentions.
Then there were the rages. Caufield was well–known for his unstable temper, but those ugly tantrums were becoming more frequent. The day before, he had stormed into the house, white–faced and wild–eyed, his body trembling with fury because the Calhoun woman hadn't been at her station in the park. He'd trashed one of the rooms, hacking away at furniture with a kitchen knife until he'd come to himself again.
Hawkins was afraid of him. Though he was a stocky man with ready fists, he had no desire to match Caufield physically. Not when the man got that gleam in his eyes.
His only hope now, if he wanted his rightful share and a clean escape, was to outwit his partner.
With Caufield out of the house again, haunting the park, Hawkins began a slow, methodical search. Though he was a big man, often considered dull wit–ted by his associates, he could toss a room and hardly raise the dust. He sifted through the stolen papers, then turned away in disgust. There was nothing of use there. If Caufield had found anything, he would never have left it in plain view. He decided to start with the obvious, his partner's bedroom.
He shook out the books first. He knew Caufield liked to pretend he was educated, even erudite, though he'd had no more schooling than Hawkins himself. There was nothing in the volumes of Shakespeare and Steinbeck but words.
Hawkins searched under the mattress, through the drawers in the bureau. Since Caufield's pistol wasn't around, he decided the man had tucked it into his knapsack before setting off to find Lilah. Patient, Hawkins looked behind the mirrors, behind drawers, beneath the rug. He was beginning to think he had misjudged his partner when he turned to the closet.
There, in the pocket of a pair of jeans, he found the map.
It was crudely drawn on yellowed paper. For Hawkins, there was no mistaking its meaning. The Towers was clearly depicted, along with direction and distance and a few out–of–proportion landmarks.
The map to the emeralds, Hawkins thought as he smoothed out the creases. A bitter fury filled him while he studied each line and marker. The double–dealing Caufield had found it among the stolen papers and hidden it away for himself. Well, two could play that game, he thought. He slipped out of the room as he tucked the paper into his own pocket. Wouldn't Caufield have a fine rage when he discovered his partner had snatched the emeralds out from under his nose. Hawkins thought it was almost a pity that he wouldn't be around to see it.
He found Christian. It was so much easier than Max had supposed that he could only sit and stare at the book in his hand. In less than a half day in the library, he'd stumbled across the name in a dusty volume titled Artists and Their Art: 1900–1950. He had patiently dug away through the A's, was meticulously slogging through the B's, when there it was. Christian Bradford, 1884–1976. Though the given name had caused Max to perk up, he hadn't expected it to be so easy. But it all fell into place.
Though Bradford did not come to enjoy any real success until his last years, his early work has become valuable since his death.
Max skimmed over the treatise on the artist's style.
Considered a gypsy in his day, due to his habit of moving from one location to another, Bradford often sold his work for room and board. A prolific artist, he would often complete a painting in a matter of days. It is said he would work for twenty hours straight when the mood was on him. It remains a mystery why he produced nothing during the years between 1914 and 1916.
Oh God, Max thought, and rubbed his damp palms on his slacks.
Married in 1925 to Margaret Doogan, Bradford had one child, a son. Little more is known about his personal life, as he remained an obsessively private man until his death. He suffered a debilitating heart attack in the late sixties, but continued to paint. He died in Bar Harbor, Maine, where he had kept a cottage for more than a half century. He was survived by his son and a grandson.
"I've found you," Max murmured. Turning the page, he studied the reproduction of one of Bradford's works. It was a storm, fighting its way in from the sea. Passionate, violent, frenzied. It was a view Max knew–the view from the cliffs beneath The Towers.
An hour later, a half–dozen books under his arm, he arrived home. There was still an hour before he could pick up Lilah at the park, an hour before he could tell her they had jumped the next hurdle. Giddy with success, he greeted Fred so exuberantly that the dog raced up and down the hall, running into walls and tripping on his tail.
"Goodness." Coco trotted down the stairs. "What a commotion."
"Sorry."
"No need to apologize, I wouldn't know what to do if a day went by without a commotion. Why, Max, you look positively delighted with yourself."
"Well, as it happens, I–"
He broke off when Alex and Jenny came bounding down, firing invisible laser pistols. "Dead meat!" Alex shouted. "Dead meat!"
"If you must kill something," Coco said, "please do it outside. Fred needs an airing anyway."
"Death to the invaders," Alex announced. "We'll fry them like bacon."
In total agreement, Jenny aimed her laser at Fred and sent the dog scampering down the hall again. Deciding he made a handy invader, they raced after him. Even with the distance, the sound of the back door slamming boomed through the house.
"I don't know where they get those violent imaginations," Coco commented with a relieved sigh. "Suzanna's so mild tempered, and their father..."
Something dark came into her eyes when she trailed off. "Well, that's another story. So tell me, what has you so happy?"
"I was just in the library, and I–"
This time it was the phone that interrupted. Coco slipped off an earring as she picked up the receiver. "Hello. Yes. Oh, yes, he's right here." She cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. "It's your dean, dear. He'd like to speak to you."
Max set the books on the telephone stand as Coco began to straighten pictures a few discreet feet away. "Dean Hodgins? Yes, I am
, thank you. It's a beautiful spot. Well, I haven't really decided when I'm coming back...Professor Blake?"
Coco glanced back at the alarm in his voice.
"When? Is it serious? I'm sorry he's ill. I hope... I beg your pardon?" Letting out a long breath, Max leaned back against the banister. "I'm very flattered, but–" He lapsed into silence again, dragging a hand through his hair. "Thank you. Yes, I understand that. If I could have a day or two to consider. I appreciate it. Yes, sir. Goodbye."
When he simply stood, staring into space. Coco cleared her throat. "I hope it wasn't bad news, dear."
"What?" He focused on her, then shook his head. "No, well, yes. That is, the head of the history department had a heart attack last week."
"Oh." Immediately sympathetic, Coco came forward. "How dreadful."
"It was mild–if you can term anything like that mild. The doctors consider it a warning. They're recommending that he cut back on his work load, and he's taken them seriously, because he's decided to retire." He gave Coco a baffled look. "It seems he's recommended me to take over his position."
"Well now." She smiled and patted his cheek, but she was watching him carefully. "That's quite an honor, isn't it?"
"I'd have to go back next week," he said to himself. "To take over as acting head of the department until a final decision's made."
"Sometimes it's difficult to know what to do, which fork in the road to take. Why don't we have a nice cup of tea?" she suggested. "Then I'll read the leaves and we'll see."
"I really don't think–" The next interruption relieved him, and Coco clucked her tongue as she went to answer the banging on the door.
"Oh, my" was all she said. With her hand pressed to her breast, she said it again. "Oh, my!"
"Don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open, Cordelia," a crisp, authoritative voice demanded. "Have someone deal with my bags."
"Aunt Colleen." Coco's hand fluttered to her side. "What a...lovely surprise."