For the Love of Lilah

  "Angry." She set her teeth as she slapped the bris­tles against her scalp. "What makes you think I'm angry? Just because you're waiting for me in my room, incensed that I had the nerve to make plans of my own when you didn't have the time or inclination to spend an hour with me. Unless it was in the sack."

  "What are you talking about?" He took her arm, then yelped when she rapped the brush hard on his knuckles.

  "I'll let you know when I want to be touched."

  He swore, grabbed the brush and tossed it across the room. Too enraged to see the surprise in her eyes, he hauled her to her feet. "I asked you a question."

  She cocked her chin. "If you've finished your tem­per tantrum—" He nearly lifted her off her feet.

  "Don't push," he said between his teeth.

  "You hurt me." The words exploded out of her.

  "Last night, even this morning, I was worth a little of your time and attention. As long as there was sex. Then this afternoon, you couldn't 'even look at me. You couldn't wait to dump me off here and get away from me."

  "That's crazy."

  "That's just what happened. Damn you, you made up lame excuses and practically patted me on the head. And tonight, you've got an itch and you're an­noyed that I wasn't here to scratch it."

  He was as pale as she now. "Is that what you think of me?"

  She sighed then, and the anger dropped out of her voice. "It's what you think of me, Max. Now let me go."

  His grip loosened so that she slipped away. "I had something on my mind this afternoon. It wasn't that I didn't want to spend time with you."

  "I don't want excuses." She went to the terrace doors to fling them open. Maybe the wind would blow the tears away. "You've made it clear how you feel."

  "Obviously I haven't. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you, Lilah." But he'd lied to her, he thought. That had been his first mistake. "Just before I came to pick you up, I saw Caufield in the village."

  She spun around. "What? You saw him? Where?"

  "I was waiting at a light, and I saw him on the sidewalk. He's dyed his hair and grown a beard. By the time I'd realized, I was caught up in traffic and had to double back. He was gone."

  "Why didn't you tell me you'd seen him?"

  "I didn't want to worry you, and I wasn't going to have you getting some lamebrained idea about hunting him up yourself. You have a habit of acting on impulse, and I—"

  "You jerk." The flush was back in her cheeks when she stepped forward to give him a shove. "That man is determined to take something from my family, and you don't have the sense to tell me you've seen him a few miles from here. If I'd known I might have been able to find him."

  "Exactly my point. I'm not having you involved any more than necessary. That's why I thought it might be best if I went back to New York. They know I'm here now, and I'm not having you caught in the middle."

  "You're not having?" She would have shoved him again, but he caught both her hands.

  "That's right. You're going to stay out of it."

  "Don't tell me—"

  "I am telling you," he interrupted,'pleased when she gaped at him. "What's more, you're not going to go wandering off at night until he's in custody. After I thought it over, I decided it was best if I stayed close and watched out for you. I'm going to take care of you whether you like it or not."

  "I don't like it, and I don't need to be taken care of"

  "Nonetheless." And he considered the argument closed.

  It was her turn to stutter. "Why, you arrogant, self-important—"

  "That's enough," he said in his best professor's voice and had her blinking. "There's no use arguing when the most intelligent decision's been made. Now, I think it's best if I take you to work every day.

  Whenever you make other plans, you'll let me know."

  Her anger turned to simple shock. "I will not"

  "Yes," he said mildly, "you will." He moved her hands behind her back to bring her closer. "About tonight," he began when their bodies brushed. "Clearly, you're laboring under a misconception con­cerning my motives, and my feelings."

  She arched back, more surprised than annoyed when he didn't release her. "I don't want to talk about it"

  "No, you prefer yelling about it, but that's uncon-structive, and not my style." Both his hands and his voice were very firm. "To be precise, I didn't come here because I had an itch, though I certainly have every intention of making love with you."

  Baffled, she stared at him. "What the devil's gotten into you?"

  "I've suddenly realized that the best way to handle you is the way I handle difficult students. It takes more than patience. It requires a firm hand and a clear-cut outline of intentions and goals."

  "A difficult—" She took a deep breath to hold on to her temper. "Max, I think you'd better go take some aspirin and lie down."

  "As I was saying." He whispered a kiss over her cheek. "It isn't just a matter of sex, despite the fact that that aspect is incredibly satisfying. It's more of a matter of my being completely bewitched by you."

  "Don't," she said weakly when he leaned close to nip at her ear.

  "Maybe I've made the mistake of indicating that it's only the way you look, the way you feel under my hands, the way you taste that attracts me." He drew her bottom lip into his mouth, sucking gently until her eyes unfocused. "But it's more than that. I just don't know how to tell you." Her pulse beat fast and hard against his hands as he walked her back­ward. "There's never been anyone like you in my life. I intend to keep you there, Lilah."

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm taking you to bed."

  She struggled to clear her head as his lips skimmed down her throat. "No, you're not." She was angry with him about something. But the reason floated just out of reach as his mouth seduced her.

  "I need to show you how I feel about you." Still toying with her lips, he lowered her to the mattress.

  Her hands were free now and slipped under his shirt to run along the warm flesh beneath. She didn't want to think. There were so many feelings to be absorbed, and she drew him closer, eager.

  "I was jealous," he murmured as he slid one lacy strap from her shoulder and replaced it with his mouth. "I don't want another man touching you."

  "No." He was touching her now, long, lingering strokes up and down her trembling body. "Just you."

  He sank into a kiss, spinning it out, wallowing in the flavor, the texture, until he was drunk on it. Then, like an addict, he went back for more.

  This was comfort and care and romance, she thought hazily. To float together like this, with a sweet breeze blowing over heated bodies, soft mur­murs muffled against clinging lips. Desire so perfectly balanced with affection. Nothing mattered so much as this—holding on to the hope of love.

  She lifted his shirt over his head and let her hands roam. He was strong. It was more than the subtle ridge of muscles over his back and shoulders. It was the strength inside that aroused her. The integrity, the dedication to do what was right. He would be strong enough to be loyal and honest and gentle with those he loved.

  He shifted her so that she was cocooned by pillows. Kneeling beside her, he began to untie each tiny rib­bon down the center of the ivory silk. The contrast of patient fingers and hungry eyes left her breathless. He parted the material, caressing the newly exposed flesh with his lips. It amazed and humbled him that her skin should be as soft as the silk.

  As patiently as he, she undressed him. Though the need to hurry was clawing at both of them, they held back, the understanding spoken.

  She rose, wrapping her arms around his neck until they were torso to torso, thigh to thigh. With the bright light showering around them, they explored each other. A shudder then a sigh, a request and an answer. Questing lips sought out new secrets. Eager hands discovered new pleasures.

  When she locked herself around him, he filled her. Glorying in the sensation, she arched back, taking him deeper, gasping out his name as the first shock waves struck. He could
see her, her willowy body bowed, her skin glowing in the light while her bright hair rained down her back. As she shuddered, the stunned pleasure rushed into her face.

  Then his vision grayed, his own body trembled. His hands slid down to grip her hips. She was wrapped tight around him when they shot over the peak to­gether.

  Chapter Nine

  Max was whistling as he poured his coffee. It was the penguin's natty little tune and suited his mood. He had plans. Big ones. A drive along the coast, din­ner at some out-of-the-way spot, then a nice long walk on the beach.

  He sipped, scalded his tongue and grinned.

  He was having a romance.

  "Well, it's nice to see someone in such a bright mood so early in the morning." Coco sailed into the kitchen. She'd dyed her hair a raven black the night before, and the result had put her in a cheerful state of mind. "How about some blueberry pancakes?"

  "You look terrific."

  She beamed and reached for a frilly apron. "Why, thank you, dear. A woman needs a change now and again, I always say. Keeps men on their toes." After taking a large mixing bowl from the cupboard, she glanced back at him. "I must say, Max, you're looking rather well yourself this morning. The sea air or... something must agree with you."

  "It's wonderful here. I'll never be able to thank you enough for letting me stay."

  "Nonsense." In her haphazard way she began dumping ingredients into the bowl. It never failed to amaze Max how anyone could cook so carelessly with such exquisite results. "It was meant, you know. I knew it the moment Lilah brought you home. She was always one for bringing things home. Wounded birds, baby rabbits. Even a snake once." The memory of that made her pat her breast. "This was the first time she brought in an unconscious man. But that's Lilah," she continued, gaily mixing as she talked. "Always the unexpected. Quite talented, too. She knows all those Latin terms for weeds and the migratory habits of birds and things. When she's in the mood, she can draw beautifully."

  "I know. I saw the sketches in her room."

  She slanted him a look. "Did you?"

  "I..." He took a quick gulp of coffee., "Yes. Do you want a cup?"

  "No, I'll have my coffee when this is done." Oh, my, my, she thought, things were moving along just beautifully. The cards didn't lie. "Yes, our Lilah's quite a fascinating girl. Headstrong like the others, but in such a casual, deceptively amiable sort of way. I've always said that the right sort of man would rec­ognize how special she is." Keeping an eye on Max, she rinsed and drained blueberries. "He'd need to be patient, but not malleable. Strong enough to keep her from veering off course too far, and wise enough not to try to change her." Gently folding the berries into the batter she smiled. "But then, if you love someone why would you want to change her?"

  "Aunt Coco, are you pumping poor Max?" Lilah strolled in, yawning.

  "What a thing to say." Coco heated the griddle and clucked her tongue. "Max and I were having a nice conversation. Weren't we, Max?"

  "It certainly was a fascinating one."

  "Really?" Lilah took the cup from him, and since he didn't make the move, leaned over to kiss him good morning. Watching, Coco all but rubbed her hands together. "I'll take that as a compliment, and since I see blueberry pancakes on the horizon, I won't complain."

  Because the kiss had delighted her, Coco hummed as she got out dishes. "You're up early."

  "It's becoming a habit of mine." Sipping Max's coffee, Lilah sent him a lazy smile. "I'll have to break it soon."

  "The rest of the brood will be trooping down any minute." And Coco liked nothing better than to have all of her chicks in one place. "Lilah, why don't you set the table?"

  "I'll definitely have to break it." With a sigh, she handed Max back his coffee. But she kissed Coco's cheek. "I like your hair. Very French."

  With what sounded almost like a giggle, Coco be­gan to spoon up batter. "Use the good china, dear. I feel like celebrating."

  Caufield hung up the phone and went into a small, nasty rage. He pounded the desk with his fists,.tore a few pamphlets to bits and ended by smashing a crystal bud vase against the wail. Because he/d seen the mood before, Hawkins hung back until it passed.

  After three calming breaths, Caufield sat back. The glaze of blank violence faded from his eyes as he steepled his fingers. "We seem to be victims of fate, Hawkins. The car our good professor was driving is registered to Catherine Calhoun St. James."

  On an oath, Hawkins heaved his bulk away from the wall. "I told you this job stinks. By rights he should be dead. Instead he plops right down in their laps. He'll have told them everything by now."

  Caufield tapped the tips of his fingers together. "Oh, assuredly."

  "And if he recognized you—"

  "He didn't." Exercising control, Caufield laced his fingers then laid them on the desk. “He never would have waved in my direction. He doesn't have the wit for it." Feeling his fingers tighten, he deliberately re­laxed them. "The man's a fool. I learned more in one year on the streets than he in all of his years in higher institutions. After all, we're here, not on the boat."

  "But he knows," Hawkins insisted, viciously cracking his knuckles. "Now they all know. They'll take precautions."

  "Which only adds spice to the game and it's time to begin playing. Since Dr. Quartermain has joined the Calhouns, I believe I'll pay one of the ladies a call."

  "You're out of your mind."

  "Have a care, old friend," Caufield said mildly. "If you don't like my rules, there's nothing holding you here."

  "I'm the one who paid for the damn boat." Haw­kins dragged a hand through his short wiry hair. "I've put over a month in this job already. I've got an in­vestment."

  "Then leave it to me to make it pay off." Think­ing, Caufield rose to go to the window. There were pretty summer flowers in neat borders just outside. It reminded him that he'd come a long way from the tenements of south Chicago. With the emeralds, he'd go even further.

  Perhaps a nice villa in the South Seas where he could relax and refresh himself while Interpol ran in circles looking for him. He already had a new pass­port, a new background, a new name in reserve—and a tidy sum gathering interest in a discreet Swiss ac­count.

  He'd been in the business most of his life, quite successfully. He didn't need the emeralds for the per­centage of their value he'd cull by fencing them. But he wanted them. He intended to have them.

  As Hawkins paced and abused his knuckles, Cau­field continued to gaze out of the window. "Now, as I recall, during my brief friendship with the lovely Amanda, she mentioned that her sister Lilah knew the most about Bianca. Perhaps she knows the most about the emeralds, as well."

  This, at least, made some sense to Hawkins. "Are you going to grab her?"

  Caufield winced. "That's your style, Hawkins. Credit me with a little more finesse. I believe I'll pay a visit to Acadia. They say the naturalist tours are very informative."

  Lilah had always preferred the long, sunny days of summer. Though she felt there was something to be said for the long stormy nights of winter, as well. In truth, it was time she preferred. She didn't wear a watch. Time was something to be appreciated just for its existence, not as something to keep track of. But for the first time in her memory, she wished time would hurry.

  She missed him.

  It didn't matter how foolish it made her feel. She was in love and giddy with it. When the feeling was so strong, she resented every hour they weren't to­gether.

  It was stronger. She had fallen in love with his sweetness, his basic goodness. She had recognized his insecurity and, as she had with broken wings and damaged paws, had wanted to fix it.

  She still loved all of those things, but now she had seen a different side of him. He'd been—masterful. She cringed at the term that entered her head and would have sworn she found it offensive. But it hadn't been offensive, not in Max. It had been illu­minating.

  He had taken charge. He had taken her, she thought with a quick flash of excitement. Though she sti
ll re­sented being compared to a difficult student, she had to admire his technique. He'd simply stated his inten­tions and moved on them.

  She'd be the first to admit that she'd have frozen another man in his tracks with a few well-chosen words if he'd attempted the same thing. But Max wasn't any other man.

  She hoped he was beginning to believe it.

  While her mind wandered, she kept an eye on her group. Jordan Pond was a favored spot and she had a full load.

  "Please, don't disturb the plant life. I know the flowers are tempting, but we have thousands of visi­tors who'll want to enjoy them, in their natural set­ting. The bottle-shaped flower you see in the pond is yellow cow lily, or spatterdock. The leaves floating on the surface are bladderwort, and common to most Acadia ponds. It is their tiny bladders that help the plant float, and that trap small insects."

  In his ripped jeans and tattered backpack, Caufield listened to her lecture. Behind his dark glasses, his eyes were watchful. He paid attention, though the talk of bog and pond plants meant nothing to him. He held back a sneer when the group gasped as a heron glided overhead to wade in the shallows several yards away.

  As if fascinated, he lifted the camera strapped around his neck and snapped pictures of the bird, the wild orchards, even of a bullfrog who had come out to bask on a floating leaf.

  Most of all, he bided his time.

  She continued to lecture, tirelessly answering ques­tions as they moved along the trail beside the glassy water. She spelled a weary mother by hitching a tod­dler on her hip and pointing out a family of black ducks.

  When the lecture was over, the group was free to follow the circular trail around the pond or retreat to their cars.

  "Miss Calhoun?"

  Lilah glanced around. She'd noticed the bearded hiker in the group, though he hadn't asked any ques­tions during the lecture. There was a hint of the South in his voice.

  "Yes?"

  "I wanted to tell you how terrific your talk was. I teach high school geography and reward myself every summer with a trip through a national park. You're really one of the best guides I've come across."

  "Thank you." She smiled, and though it was a natural gesture for her, felt reluctant to offer her hand. She didn't recognize the sweaty, bearded hiker, but she picked up something disturbing. "You'll have to visit the Nature Center while you're here. Enjoy your stay."

  He put a hand on her arm. It was a casual move, far from demanding, but she disliked it intensely.

  "I was hoping you could give me a little one-on-one, if you've got a minute. I like to give the kids a full-scale report when school starts in the fall. A lot of them never see the inside of a park."

  She forced herself to shake off the mood. It was her job, she reminded herself, and she appreciated talking to someone with a genuine interest. "I'd be happy to answer any questions."

  "Great." He pulled out a notebook he'd been care­ful to scribble in.

  She relaxed a little, giving him a more in-depth talk than the average group required.

  "This is so kind of you. I wonder, could I buy you some coffee, or a sandwich?"

  "That isn't necessary."

  "But it would be a pleasure."

  "I have plans, but thanks."

  He kept his smile in place. "Well, I'll be around for a few more weeks. Maybe some other time. I know this is going to sound strange, but I'd swear I'd seen you before. Have you ever been to Raleigh?"

  Her instincts were humming, and she wanted to get away from him. "No, I hayen't."

  "It's the darnedest thing." As if puzzled, he shook his head. "You seem so familiar. Well, thanks again. I'd better start back to camp." He turned, then stopped. "I know. The papers. I've seen your picture. You're the woman with the emeralds."