For the Love of Lilah

  "Lie," she suggested, laying her cheek on his chest.

  "Will you let me take you to work?"

  She winced. "Don't say that word."

  "Go for a drive with me after?"

  She lifted her head again. "Where?"

  "Anywhere."

  Tilting her head, she smiled. "My favorite place."

  Max kept his mind off Lilah—or tried to—by fo­cusing on the multilayered task of locating people to go with the names on his list. He checked court rec­ords, police records, church records and death certif­icates. His meticulous legwork was rewarded with a handful of addresses.

  When he felt he'd exhausted all the leads for that day, he drove by C.C.'s garage. He found her buried to the waist under the hood of a black sedan.

  "I'm sorry to interrupt," he shouted over the din jingling out of a portable radio.

  "Then don't" There was a streak of grease over her brow, but her scowl disappeared when she looked lip and saw Max. "Hi."

  "I could come back."

  "Why, just because I snapped your head off?" She grinned, taking a rag out of her coveralls to wipe her hands: "Buy you a drink?" She jerked her head to­ward a soft drink machine.

  "No, thanks. I just stopped by to ask you about a car."

  "You're driving Lilah's, aren't you? Is it acting up?"

  "No. The thing is I might be doing a lot of driving in the next few days, and I don't feel right using her car. I thought you might know if there's anything for sale in the area."

  C.C. pursed her lips. "You want to buy a car?"

  "Nothing extravagant. Just some convenient trans­portation. Then when I get back to New York..." He trailed off. He didn't want to think about going back to New York. "I can always sell it later."

  "It so happens I do know somebody with a car for sale. Me."

  "You?"

  Nodding, she stuffed the rag back into her pocket. "With a baby coming, I've decided to turn in my Spitfire for a family car."

  "Spitfire?" He wasn't sure what that was, but it didn't sound like the kind of car a dignified college professor would drive.

  "I've had her for years, and I sure would feel better selling her to someone I know." She already had his hand and was pulling him outside.

  There it sat, a fire-engine red toy with a white rag top and bucket seats. "Well, I..."

  "I rebuilt the engine a couple of years ago." C.C was busy opening the hood. "She drives like a dream. There's less than ten thousand miles on the tires. I'm the original owner, so I can guarantee she's been treated like a lady. And there's..." She glanced up and grinned. "I sound like a guy in a plaid sports jacket."

  He could see his face in the shiny red paint. "I've never owned a sports car."

  The wistfulness in his voice made C.C. smile. "Tell you what, leave me Lilah's car, drive her around. See how she suits you."

  Max found himself behind the wheel, trying not to grin like a fool as the wind streamed through his hair. What would his students think, he wondered, if they could see sturdy old Dr. Quartermain tooling around in a flashy convertible? They'd probably think he'd gone around the bend. Maybe he had, but he was having the time of his life.

  It was a car that would suit Lilah, he thought. He could already see her sitting beside him, her hair dancing as she laughed and lifted her arms to the wind. Or kicked back in the seat, her eyes closed, letting the sun warm her face.

  It was a nice dream, and it could come true. At least for a while. And maybe he wouldn't sell the car when he got back to New York. There was no law that said he had to drive a practical sedan. He could keep it to remind him of a few incredible weeks that had changed his life.

  Maybe he'd never be sturdy old Dr. Quartermain again.

  He cruised up the winding mountain roads, then back down again to try out the little car in traffic.

  Delighted with the world in general, he sat at a light, tapping his fingers against the wheel to the beat of the music on the radio.

  There were people jamming the sidewalks, crowd­ing the shops. If he'd seen a parking place, he might have whipped in, strolled into a shop himself just to test his endurance. Instead, he entertained himself by watching people scout for that perfect T-shirt.

  He noticed the man with dark hair and a trim dark beard standing on the curb, staring at him. Full of himself and the spiffy car, Max grinned and waved. He was halfway down the block before it hit him. He braked, causing a bellow of bad-tempered honking. Thinking fast, he turned a sharp left, streaked down a side street and fought his way through traffic back to the intersection. The man was gone. Max searched the street but couldn't find a sign of him. He cursed low and bitterly over the lack of a parking space, over his own slow-wittedness.

  The hair had been dyed, and the beard had hid part of the face. But the eyes...Max couldn't forget the eyes. It had been Caufield standing on the crowded sidewalk, looking at Max not with admiration or ab­sent interest, but with barely controlled rage.

  He had himself under control by the time he picked Lilah up at the visitors' center. He had made what he considered the logical decision not to tell her. The less she knew, the less she was involved. The less she was involved, the better chance there was that she wouldn't be hurt.

  She was too impulsive, he reflected. If she knew Caufield had been in the village, she would try to hunt him down herself. And she was too clever. If she managed to find him... The idea made Max's blood run cold. No one knew better than he how ruthless the man could be.

  When he saw Lilah coming across the lot toward the car, he knew he'd risk anything, even his life, to keep her safe.

  "Well, well, what's this?" Brows lifted, she tapped a finger on the fender. "My old heap wasn't good enough, so you borrowed my sister's?"

  "What?" Foolishly he'd forgotten the car and ev­erything else since he'd recognized Caufield. "Oh, the car."

  "Yes, the car." She leaned over to kiss him, and was puzzled by his absent response and the pat on her shoulder.

  "Actually, I'm thinking of buying it. C.C.'s in the market for a family car, so..."

  "So you're going to buy yourself a snappy little toy."

  "I know it's not my usual style," he began.

  "I wasn't going to say that." Her brows drew to­gether as she studied his face. Something was going on in that complicated mind of his. "I was going to say good for you. I'm glad you're giving yourself a break." She hopped in and stretched. Her lifted hand reached for his, but he only gave it a light squeeze, then released it. Telling herself she was being over­sensitive, she fixed a smile in place. "So, how about that drive? I was thinking we could cruise down the coast."

  "I'm a little tired." He hated lying, but he needed to get back to talk to Trent and Sloan, to feed the new description to the police. "Can I have a rain check?"

  "Sure." She managed to keep her smile in place.

  He was so polite, so distant. Wanting some echo of their previous intimacy, she put a hand over his when he slipped into the car beside her. "I'm always up for a nap. Your room or mine?"

  "I'm not...I don't think that's a good idea."

  His hand was tense over the gearshift, and his fin­gers made no move to link with hers. He wouldn't even look at her, hadn't really looked at her, she re­alized, since she'd crossed the lot.

  "I see." She lifted her hand from his and let it fail in her lap. "Under the circumstances, I'm sure you're right."

  "Lilah—"

  "What?"

  No, he decided. He needed to do this his way. "Nothing." Reaching for the keys, he switched on the ignition.

  They didn't speak on the way home. Max contin­ued to convince himself that lying to her was the best way. Maybe she was miffed because he'd put.off the drive, but he'd make it up to her. He just had to keep out of her way until he'd handled a few details. In any case his mind was crowded with possibilities that he needed time and space to work through. If Caufield and Hawkins were both still on the island, both of them bold enough to stroll through
the village, did that mean they had found something useful in the papers? Were they still looking? Had they, as he had, dipped into the resources at the library to find out more?

  They knew he was alive now. Would they manage to connect him with the Calhouns? If they considered him a liability, would his relationship with Lilah put her in danger?

  That was a risk he couldn't afford to take.

  He turned up the winding road that brought the peak of The Towers into view.

  "I may have to go back to New York sooner than I expected," he said, thinking out loud.

  To keep from protesting, she pressed her lips tight. "Really?"

  He glanced over, cleared his throat. "Yes...ah, business. I could continue to do my research from there."

  "That's very considerate of you, Professor. I'm sure you'd hate to leave a job half-done. And you wouldn't have any awkward relationships to inter­fere."

  His mind was already focused on what needed to be done, and he made an absent sound of agreement.

  By the time they pulled up at The Towers, Lilah had managed to turn the hurt into anger. He didn't want to be with her, and by his attitude it was plain he regretted that they'd ever been together. Fine. She wasn't about to sit around and sulk because some highbrow college professor wasn't interested in her.

  She resisted slamming the car door, barely resisted biting his hand off at the wrist when he set it on her shoulder. "Maybe we can drive down the coast to­morrow."

  She glanced at his hand, then at his face. "Don't hold your breath."

  He jammed his hands into his pockets as she strolled up the steps. Definitely miffed, he thought.

  By the time he had relayed his information to the other men and had fought his way through the peck­ing order at the police station, he really was tired. It might have been tension or the fact that he'd only had a couple hours' sleep the night before, but he gave in, stretched across his bed and tuned out until dinner.

  Feeling better, he wandered downstairs. He thought about finding Lilah, asking her to walk in the gardens after the meal. Or maybe they'd take a drive after all, in the moonlight. It hadn't been a very big lie, and now that he'd unburdened himself to the police, he wouldn't have to dwell on it. In any case, if he de­cided it was best to leave, he might not have another evening with her.

  Yes, a drive. Maybe he could ask her if she'd con­sider visiting him in New York—or just going away for a weekend somewhere. It didn't have to end, not if he started taking those careful steps.

  He strolled into the parlor, found it empty and strolled out again. Just the two of them, watching the moon on the water, maybe pulling over to walk along the beach. He could begin to court her properly. He imagined she'd be amused by the term, but it was what he wanted to do.

  He followed the sound of a piano into the music room. Suzanna was alone, playing for herself. The music seemed to match the expression in her eyes. There was a sadness in them, too deep for anyone else to feel. But when she saw him, she stopped and smiled.

  "I didn't mean to interrupt."

  "That's all right. It's time to get back to' the real world anyway. Amanda took the kids into town so I was taking advantage of the lull."

  "I was just looking for Lilah."

  "Oh, she's gone."

  "Gone?"

  Suzanna was pushing back from the piano when Max barked the word and had her rising slowly. "Yes, she went out"

  "Where? When?"

  "Just a little while ago." Sazanna studied him as she crossed the room. "I think she had a date."

  "A—a date?" He felt as though someone had just swung a sledgehammer into his solar plexus.

  "I'm sorry, Max." Concerned, she laid a comfort­ing hand on his. She didn't think she'd ever seen a man more miserably in love. "I didn't realize. She may have just gone out to meet friends, or to be by herself."

  No, he thought, shaking his head. That would be worse. If she was alone, and Caufield was anywhere close... He shook off the panic. It wasn't Lilah the man was after, but the emeralds.

  "It's all right, I only wanted to talk to her about something."

  "Does she know how you feel?"

  "No—yes. I don't know," he said lamely. He saw his romantic dreams about moonlight and courtship go up in smoke. "It doesn't matter."

  "It would to her. Lilah doesn't take people or their feelings lightly, Max."

  No strings, he thought. No trapdoors. Well, he'd already fallen through the trapdoor, and his feelings were the noose around his neck. But that wasn't the point. "I'm just concerned about her going out alone. The police haven't caught Hawkins or Caufield yet."

  "She went out to dinner. I can't see anyone pop­ping up in a restaurant and demanding emeralds she doesn't have." Suzanna gave his hand a friendly squeeze. "Come on, you'll feel better when you've eaten. Aunt Coco's lemon chicken should be about ready."

  He sat through dinner, struggling to pretend that he had an appetite, that the empty place at the table didn't bother him. He discussed the progress of the servant's list with Amanda, dodged Coco's request to read his cards and felt generally miserable. Fred, sit­ting on his left foot, benefited from his mood by gob­bling up the morsels of chicken Max slipped to him.

  He considered driving into town, casually cruising, stopping at a few clubs and restaurants. But decided that would make him look like as a big a jerk as he felt. In the end he retreated to his room and lost him­self in his book.

  The story didn't come as easily as it had the night before. Now it was mostly fits and starts with a lot of long pauses. Still he found even the pauses con­structive as an hour passed into two, and two into three. It wasn't until he glanced at his watch and saw it was after midnight that he realized he hadn't heard Lilah come home. He'd deliberately left his door ajar so that he would know when she passed down the hall.

  There was a good chance he'd been engrossed in his work and hadn't noticed when she'd walked by to her room. If she'd gone out to dinner, surely she'd be home by now. No one could eat for five hours. But he had to know.

  He went quietly. There was a light in.Suzanna's room, but the others were dark. At Lilah's door, he hesitated, then knocked softly. Feeling awkward, he put his hand on the knob. He'd spent the night with her, he reminded himself. She could hardly be of­fended if he looked in to see if she was asleep.

  She wasn't. She wasn't even there. The bed was made; the old iron head-and footboards that had prob­ably belonged to a servant had been painted a gleam­ing white. The rest was color, so much it dazzled the eyes.

  The spread was a patchwork quilt, expertly made from scraps of fabrics. Polka dots, checks, stripes, faded reds and blues. It was piled high with pillows of varied shapes and sizes. The kind of bed, Max thought, a person could sink into and sleep the day away. It suited her.

  The room was huge, as most were in The Towers, but she'd cluttered it and made it cozy. On the walls that were painted a dramatic teal were sketches of wildflowers. The bold signature in the corners told him she'd done them herself. He hadn't even known she could draw. It made him realize there was quite a bit he didn't know about the woman he was in love with.

  After closing the door behind him, he wandered the room, looking for pieces of her.

  A baker's rack was packed with books. Keats and Byron jumbled with grisly murder mysteries and con­temporary romances. A little sitting area was grouped in front of one of her windows, a blouse tossed care­lessly over the back of a Queen Anne chair, earrings and glittering bracelets scattered over a Hepplewhite table. There was a bowl of smooth gemstones beside a china penguin. When he picked the bird up, it played a jazzy rendition of "That's Entertainment."

  She had candles everywhere, in everything from elegant Meissen to a tacky reproduction of a unicorn.

  Dozens of pictures of her family were scattered throughout. He picked up one framed snapshot of a couple, arms around each other's waists as they laughed into the camera. Her parents, he thought. Lilah's resemblance to the man, Suzanna'
s to the woman were strong enough to make him certain of it.

  When the cuckoo in the clock on the wall jumped out, he jolted and realized it was twelve-thirty. Where the hell was she?

  Now he paced, from the window where she'd hung faceted crystals to the brass urn filled with dried flow­ers, from bookcase to bureau. Nerves humming, he picked up an ornate cobalt bottle to sniff. And smelted her. He set it down hastily when the door opened.

  She looked...incredible. Her hair windblown, her face flushed. She wore some sheer drapey dress that swirled around her legs in bleeding colors. Long multicolored columns of beads danced at her ears. She lifted a brow and closed the door.

  "Well," she said. "Make yourself at home."

  "Where the hell have you been?" The demand shot out, edged with frustration and worry.

  "Did I miss curfew, Daddy?'-' She tossed a beaded bag onto the bureau. She'd lifted a hand to remove an earring when he whirled her around.

  "Don't get cute with me. I've been worried sick. You've been out for hours. No one knew where you were." Or who you were with, he thought, but man­aged to bite that one back.

  She jerked her arm free. He saw the temper flash hot into her eyes, but her voice was cool and slow and unmoved. "It may surprise you, Professor, but I've been going out on my own for a long time."

  "It's different now."

  "Oh?" Deliberately she turned back to the bureau. Taking her time, she unfastened an earring. "Why?"

  "Because we..." Because we're lovers. "Because we don't know where Caufield is," he said with more control. "Or how dangerous he might be."

  "I've also been looking out for myself for a long time." Deceptively sleepy, her eyes met his in the mirror. "Is the lecture over?"

  'it's not a lecture, Lilah, I was worried. I have a right to know your plans."

  Still watching him, she slid bracelets from her arms. "Just how do you figure that?"

  "We're—friends."

  The smile didn't reach her eyes. "Are we?"

  He jammed impotent hands into his pockets. "I care about you. And after what happened last night, I thought we...I thought we meant something to each other. Now, twenty-four hours later you're out with someone else. Looking like that."

  She stepped out of her shoes. "We went to bed last night, and enjoyed it." She nearly choked over the bitterness lodged in her throat. "As I recall we agreed there'd be no complications." Tilting her head, she studied him. Her easy shrug masked the fact that her hands were balled tight. "Since you're here, I sup­pose we could arrange a repeat performance." Her voice a purr, she stepped closer to run a finger down the front of his shirt. "That's what you want from me, isn't it, Max?"

  Furious, he pushed her hand aside. "I don't care to be the second act of the evening."

  The flush vanished, leaving her cheeks pale before she turned away. "Congratulations," she whispered. "Direct hit."

  "What do you want me to say? That you can come and go as you please, with whomever you please, and I'll sit up and beg for the scraps from the table?"

  "I don't want you to say anything. I just want you to leave me alone."

  "I'm not going anywhere until we've straightened this out."

  "Fine." The cuckoo chirped out again as she un­zipped her dress. "Stay as long as you like. I'm get­ting ready for bed."

  She stepped out of the dress, tossed it aside, then walked over to her vanity in a lacy, beribboned che­mise. Sitting, she picked up her brush to drag it through her hair.

  "What are you so angry about?"