For the Love of Lilah Page 8

  Pursing her lips, Lilah rolled onto her back again. Maybe it was typical male stupidity. It was difficult to fault the breed for something they were born with. If Trent had apologized because he'd cared about her sister, then it could follow that Max had played the same cards.

  It was an interesting theory, and one that shouldn't be too difficult to prove. Or disprove, she thought with a sigh. Either way, it was probably best to know before she got in any deeper. All she needed was a plan.

  Lilah decided to do what she did best, and slept on it.

  Chapter Six

  It wasn't difficult in a house the size of The Towers to avoid someone for a day or two. Max noted that Lilah had effortlessly stayed out of his way for that amount of time. He couldn't blame her, not after how badly he had botched things.

  Still, it irked him that she wouldn't accept a simple and sincere apology; Instead she'd turned it into... damned if he knew what she'd turned it into. The only thing he was sure of was that she'd twisted his words, and their meaning, then had stalked off in a snit.

  And he missed her like crazy.

  He kept busy enough, buried in his research books, poring over the old family papers that Amanda had meticulously filed according to date and content. He found what he considered the last public sighting of the necklace in a newspaper feature covering a dinner dance in Bar Harbor, August 10, 1913. Two weeks before Bianca's death.

  Though he considered it a long shot, he began a list of every servant's name he came across who had worked at The Towers the summer of 1913. Some of them could conceivably be alive. Tracking them or their families down would be difficult but not impos­sible. He had interviewed the elderly before on their memories of their youth. Quite often, those memories were as clear as crystal.

  The idea of talking to someone who had known Bianca, who had seen her—and the necklace—ex­cited him. A servant would remember The Towers as it had been, would have knowledge of their employ­ers' habits. And, he had no doubt, would know their secrets.

  Confident in the notion, Max bent over his lists.

  "Hard at work, I see."

  He glanced up, blinking, to see Lilah in the door­way of the storeroom. She didn't have to be told she'd dragged him out of the past. The blank, owlish look he gave her made her want to hug him. Instead she leaned lazily against the jamb.

  "Am I interrupting?"

  "Yes—no." Damn it, his mouth was watering. "I was just, ah, making a list."

  "I have a sister with the same problem." She was wearing a full-skirted sundress in sheer white cotton, her gypsy hair like cables of flames against it. Long chunks of malachite swung at her ears when she crossed the room.

  "Amanda." Because the pencil had gone damp in his hand, he set it aside. "She did a terrific job of cataloging all this information."

  "She's a fiend for organization." Casually she rested a hip on the card table he was using. "I like your shirt."

  It was the one she'd chosen for him, with the car­toon lobster. "Thanks. I thought you'd be at work."

  "It's my day off." She slid off the table to round it and lean over his shoulder. "Do you ever take one?"

  Though he knew it was ridiculous, he felt his mus­cles bunch up. "Take what?"

  "A day off." Brushing her hair aside, she turned her face toward his. "To play."

  She was doing it deliberately, there could be no doubt. Maybe she enjoyed watching him make a fool out of himself. "I'm busy." He managed to tear his gaze away from her mouth and stared down at the list he was making. He couldn't read a word. "Really busy," he said almost desperately. "I'm trying to note down all the names of the people who worked here the summer Bianca died."

  "That's quite an undertaking." She leaned closer, delighted with his reaction to her. It had to be more than lust. A man didn't fight so hard against basic lust. "Do you want some help?"

  "No, no, it's a one-man job." And he wanted her to go away before he started to whimper.

  "It must have been a terrible time here, after she died. Even worse for Christian, hearing about it, read­ing about it, and not being able to do anything. I think he loved her very much. Have you ever been in love?"

  Once again, she drew his eyes back to hers. She wasn't smiling now. There was no teasing light in her eyes. For some reason he thought it was the most serious question she had ever asked him.

  "No."

  "Neither have I. What do you think it's like?"

  "I don't know."

  "But you must have an opinion." She leaned a little closer. "A theory. A thought."

  He was all but hypnotized. "It must be like having your own private world. Like a dream, where every­thing's intensified, a bit off balance and completely yours."

  "I like that." He watched her lips curve, could almost taste them. "Would you like to take a walk, Max?"

  "A walk?"

  "Yes, with me. Along the cliffs."

  He wasn't even sure he could stand. "A walk would be good."

  Saying nothing, she offered him her hand. When he rose, she led him through the terrace doors.

  The wind was up, pushing the clouds across a blue sky. It tore at Lilah's skirts and sent her hair flying. Unconcerned, she strolled into it, her hand lightly clasped in his. They crossed the lawn and left the busy sounds of building behind.

  "I'm not much on hiking," she told him. "Since I spend most days doing just that, but I like to go to the cliffs. There are very strong, very beautiful mem­ories there."

  He thought again of all the men who must have loved her. "Yours?"

  "No, Bianca's, I think. And if you don't choose to believe in such things, the view's worth the trip."

  He started down the slope beside her. It felt easy, simple, even friendly. "You're not angry with me anymore."

  "Angry?" Deliberately she lifted a brow. She had no intention of making things too simple. "About what?"

  "The other night. I know I upset you."

  "Oh, that."

  When she added nothing else, he tried again. "I've been thinking about it."

  "Have you?" Her eyes, mysterious with secrets, lifted to his.

  "Yes. I realize I probably didn't handle it very well."

  "Would you like another chance?"

  He stopped dead in his tracks and made her laugh.

  "Relax, Max." She gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek. "Just give it some thought. Look, the moun­tain cranberry's blooming." She bent to touch a spray of pink bell-shaped flowers that clung to the rocks. Touch, but not pick, he noted. "It's a wonderful time for wildflowers up here." Straightening, she tossed her hair back. "See those?"

  "The weeds?"

  "Oh, and I thought you were a poet," With a shake of her head, she had her hand tucked back in his. "Lesson number one," she began.

  As they walked, she pointed out tiny clumps of flowers that pushed out of crevices or thrived in the thin, rocky soil. She showed him how to recognize the wild blueberry that would be ripe and ready the following month. There was the flutter of butterfly wings and the drone of bees deep in the grass. With her, the common became exotic.

  She snipped off a thin leaf, crushing it to release a pungent fragrance that reminded him of her skin.

  He stood with her on a precipice thrown out over the water. Far below, spray fumed on the rock, beat­ing them smooth in a timeless war. She helped him spot the nests, worked cleverly onto narrow ridges and clinging tenaciously to faults in the rocks.

  It was what she did every day for groups of strang­ers, and for herself. There was a new kind of pleasure in sharing it all with him, showing him something as simple and special as the tiny white sandwort or the wild roses that grew as tall as a man. The air was like wine, freshened by the wind, so that she sat on a huddle of rock to drink it with each breath.

  "It's incredible here." He couldn't sit. There was too much to see, too much to feel.

  "I know." She was enjoying his pleasure as much as the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. It was in his a
s well, streaming through the shaggy locks. There was fascination in his eyes, darkening them to indigo as the faint smile curved his lips. The wound on his temple was healing, but she thought it would leave a slight scar that would add something rakish to the intelligent face.

  As a thrush began to trill, she circled her knee with her arms. "You look good, Max."

  Distracted, he glanced over his shoulder. She was sitting easily on the rocks, as relaxed as she would have been on a cushy sofa. "What?"

  "I said you look good. Very good." She laughed as his jaw dropped. "Hasn't anyone ever told you you're attractive?"

  What game was she playing now? he wondered, and shrugged uncomfortably. "Not that I remember."

  "No star-struck undergraduate, no clever English Lit professor? That's very remiss. I imagine more than one of them tried to catch your eye—and a bit more than that—but you were too buried in books to notice."

  His brows drew together. "I haven't been a monk."

  "No." She smiled. "I'm already aware of that."

  Her words reminded him vividly of what had hap­pened between them two nights before. He had touched her, tasted her, had managed, barely, to pull himself back before taking her right there on the grass. And she had rushed off, he remembered, furi­ous and hurt. Now she was taunting him, all but dar­ing him to repeat the mistake.

  "I never know what to expect from you."

  "Thank you."

  "That wasn't a compliment."

  "Even better." Her eyes slanted, half-closed now against the sun. When she spoke, her voice was al­most a purr. "But you like predictability, don't you, Professor? Knowing what happens next."

  "Probably as much as you like irritating me."

  Laughing, she held out a hand. "Sorry, Max, some­times it's irresistible. Come on, sit down. I promise to behave."

  Wary, he sat on the rock beside her. Her skirts flut­tered teasingly around her legs. In a gesture he felt was almost maternal, she patted his thigh.

  "Want to be pals?" she asked him.

  "Pals?"

  "Sure." Her eyes danced with amusement. "I like you. The serious mind, the honest soul." He shifted, making her laugh. "The way you shuffle around when you're embarrassed."

  "I do not shuffle."

  "The authoritative tone when you're annoyed.

  Now you're supposed to tell me what you like about me."

  "I'm thinking."

  "I should have added your dry wit."

  He had to smile. "You're the most self-possessed person I've ever met." He glanced at her. "And you're kind, without making a fuss about it. You're smart, but you don't make a fuss about that, either. I guess you don't make a fuss about anything."

  "Too tiring." But his words had a glow spreading around her heart. "It's safe to say we're friends then?"

  "Safe enough."

  "That's good." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I think it's important for us to be friends before we're lovers."

  He nearly fell off the rock. "Excuse me?"

  "We both know we want to make love." When he began to stammer she gave him a patient smile. She'd thought it through very carefully and was sure—well, nearly sure—this was right for both of them. "Relax, it isn't a crime in this state."

  "Lilah, I realize I've been...that is, I know I've made advances."

  "Advances." Desperately in love, she laid a hand on his cheek. "Oh, Max."

  "I'm not proud of my behavior," he said stiffly, and had her hand sliding away. "I don't want..." His tongue tied itself into knots.

  The hurt was back, a combination of rejection and defeat she detested. "You don't want to go to bed with me?"

  Now his stomach was in knots, as well. "Of course I do. Any man—"

  "I'm not talking about any man." They were the poorest two words he could have chosen. It was him, only him she cared about. She needed to hear him say he wanted her, if nothing else. "Damn it, I'm talking about you and me, right here, right now." Temper pushed her off the rock. "I want to know about your feelings. If I wanted to know how any man felt, I'd pick up the phone or drive into the village and ask any man."

  Keeping his seat, he considered her. "For someone who does most things slowly, you have a very quick temper."

  "Don't use that professorial tone on me."

  It was his turn to smile. "I thought you liked it."

  "I changed my mind." Because her own attitude confused her, she turned away to look out over the water. It was important to remain calm, she reminded herself. She was always able to remain calm effort­lessly. "I know what you think of me," she began.

  "I don't see how you can, when I'm far from sure myself." He took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Lilah, you're a beautiful woman—"

  She whirled back, eyes electric. "If you tell me that again, I swear, I'll hit you."

  "What?" Completely baffled, he threw his hands up and rose. "Why? Good God, you're frustrating."

  "That's much better. I don't want to hear that my hair's the color of sunset, or that my eyes are like sea foam. I've heard all that. I don't care about that."

  He began to think that being a monk, completely divorced from the mysterious female, had its advan­tages. "What do you want to hear?"

  "I'm pot going to tell you what I want to hear. If I do, then what's the point?"

  At wit's end, he raked both hands through his hair. "The point is, I don't know what the point is. One minute you're telling me about sandwarts—"

  "Sandwort," she said between her teeth.

  "Fine. We're talking about flowers and friendship, and the next you're asking me if I want to take you to bed. How am I supposed to react to that?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "You tell me."

  He went on a mental search for safe ground and found none. "Look, I realize you're used to having men..."

  Her narrowed eyes glinted. "Having them what?"

  If he was going to sink, Max decided, he might as well go down with a flourish. "Just shut up." He grabbed her arms, dragged her hard against him and crushed his mouth to hers.

  She could taste the frustration, the temper, the edgy passion. It seemed that what he was feeling was a reflection of her own emotions. For the first time, she struggled against him, fighting to hold back her re­sponse. And for the first time, he ignored the protest and demanded one.

  His hand was in her billowing hair, pulling her head back so that he could plunder mindlessly. Her body was arched, straining away from him, but he locked her closer, so close even the wind couldn't slip between them.

  This was different, she thought. No man had ever forced her to...feel. She didn't want this ache, these needs, this desperation. Since the last time they had been together she had convinced herself that love could be painless, and simple and comfortable, if only she were clever enough.

  But there was pain. No amount of passion or desire could completely coat it.

  Furious with both of them, he tore his mouth from hers, but his hands dug into her shoulders. "Is that what you want?" he demanded. "Do you want me to forget every rule, every code of decency? You want to know how I feel? Every time I'm around you I itch to get my hands on you. And when I do I want to drag you off somewhere and make love to you until you forget that there was ever anyone else."

  "Then why don't you?"

  "Because I care about you, damn it. Enough to want to show you some respect. And too much to want to be just the next man in your bed."

  The temper faded from her eyes to be replaced by a vulnerability more poignant than tears. "You wouldn't be." She lifted a hand to his face. "You're a first for me, Max. There's never been anyone else like you." He said nothing, and the doubt in his eyes had her hand slipping to her side again. "You don't believe me."

  "I've found it difficult to think clearly since I met you." Abruptly he realized he was still gripping her shoulders, and gentled his hold. "You could say you dazzle me."

  She looked down. How close she had come, she .realized, to telling him everything
that was in her heart. And humiliating herself, embarrassing him. If it was just to be physical between them, then she would be strong enough to accept it. "Then we'll leave it at that for now." She managed a smile. "We've been taking ourselves too seriously any­way." To comfort herself, she gave him a soft, lin­gering kiss. "Friends?"

  He let out a long breath. "Sure." "Walk back with me, Max." She slipped a hand into his. "I feel like a nap."

  An hour later, he sat on the sunny terrace outside of his room, the notebook on his lap forgotten and his mind crowded with thoughts of her.

  He didn't come close to understanding her—was certain he couldn't come closer if he had several de­cades to consider the problem. But he did care, enough to add a good jolt of fear to the rest of the emotions she pulled out of him. What did he, a pain­fully middle-class college professor, have to offer a gorgeous, exotic and free-spirited woman who exuded sex like other women exuded perfume?

  He was so pitifully inept that he was stuttering around her one minute and grabbing her like a Ne­anderthal the next.

  Maybe the best thing for him was to remember that he was more comfortable and certainly more com­petent with his books than with women.

  How could he tell her that he wanted her so badly he could hardly breathe? That he was terrified to act on his needs because, once done, he knew he'd never be free of her? An easy summer romance for her, a life-altering event for him.

  He was falling in love with her, which was ridic­ulous. He couldn't have a place in her life, and hoped he was smart enough to get a grip on his emotions before they carried him too far. In a few weeks, he would go back to his nicely ordered routine. It was what he wanted. It had to be.

  And he couldn't survive it if she haunted him.

  "Max?" Trent, taking the circular route to the west wing, stopped. "Interrupting?"

  "No." Max glanced down at the blank sheet on his lap. "Nothing to interrupt."

  "You looked like you were trying to puzzle out a particularly difficult problem. Anything to do with the necklace?"

  "No." Max looked up, squinted against the sun. "Women."

  "Oh. Good luck." He lifted a brow. "Particularly if it's a Calhoun woman."

  "Lilah." Weary, Max rubbed his hands over his face. "The more I think about her, the less I under­stand."

  "A perfect start in a relationship." Because he was feeling smug about his own, Trent took a moment and sat down. "She's a fascinating woman."

  "I've decided the word's unstable."

  "Beautiful."

  "You can't tell her that. She bites your head off." Intrigued, he studied Trent. "Does C.C. threaten to hit you if you tell her she's beautiful?"

  "Not so far."