For the Love of Lilah

  "Spies," Max agreed, and ruffled the boy's dark hair. Because he had experienced the lack himself, he recognized Alex's hunger for a male bond.

  Using a teenage boy as the catalyst, he took them through Patrick Henry's stirring speeches, Samuel Adams's courageous Sons of Liberty, through the pol­itics and purpose of a rebellious young country to the Boston Tea Party.

  Then as he had the young hero heaving chests of tea into the shallow water of Boston Harbor, Max saw Lilah drifting across the lawn.

  She moved with languid ease over the grass, a graceful gypsy with her filmy chiffon skirt teased by the wind. Her hair was loose, tumbling free over the thin straps of a pale green blouse. Her feet were bare, her arms adorned with dozens of slim bracelets.

  Fred raced over to greet her, leaped and yipped and made her laugh. As she bent to pet him, one of the straps slid down her arm. Then the dog bounded off, tripping himself up, to continue his fruitless chase of butterflies.

  She straightened, lazily pushing the strap back into place as she continued across the grass. He caught her scent—wild arid free—before she spoke.

  "Is this a private party?"

  "Max is telling a story," Jenny told her, and tugged on her aunt's skirt.

  "A story?" The array of colored beads in her ears danced as she lowered to the grass. "I like stories."

  "Tell Lilah, too." Jenny shifted closer to her aunt and began to play with her bracelets.

  "Yes." There was laughter in her voice, an an­swering humor in her eyes as they met Max's. "Tell Lilah, too."

  She knew exactly what effect she had on a man, he thought. Exactly. "Ah...where was I?"

  "Jim had black cork all over his face and was toss­ing the cursed tea into the harbor," Alex reminded him. "Nobody got shot yet."

  "Right." As much for his own defense against Li­lah as for the children, Max put himself back on the frigate with the fictional Jim. He could feel the chill of the air and the heat of excitement. With a natural skill he considered a basic part of teaching,' he drew out the suspense, deftly coloring his characters, de­scribing an historical event in a way that had Lilah studying him with a new interest and respect.

  Though it ended with the rebels outwitting the Brit­ish, without firing a shot, even the bloodthirsty Alex wasn't disappointed.

  "They won!" He jumped up and gave a war hoot.

  "I'm a Son of Liberty and you're a dirty redcoat," he told his sister.

  "Uh-uh." She sprang to her feet.

  "No taxation without restoration," Alex bellowed, and went flying for the house with Jenny hot on his heels and Fred lumbering after them both.

  "Close enough," Max murmured.

  "Pretty crafty, Professor." Lilah leaned back on her elbows to watch him through half-closed eyes. "Making history entertaining."

  "It is," he told her. "It's not just dates and names, it's people."

  "The way you tell it. But when I was in school you were supposed to know what happened in 1066 in the same way you were supposed to memorize the multiplication tables." Lazily she rubbed a bare foot over her calf. "I still can't remember the twelves, or what happened in 1066—unless that was when Han­nibal took those elephants across the Alps."

  He grinned at her. "Not exactly."

  "There, you see?" She stretched, long and limber as a cat. Her head drifted back, her hair spreading over the summer grass. Her shoulders roiled so that the wayward strap slipped down again. The pleasure of the small indulgence showed on her face. "And I think I usually fell asleep by the time we got to the Continental Congress."

  When he realized he was holding his breath, he released it slowly. "I've been thinking about doing some tutoring."

  Her eyes slitted open. "You can take the boy out of the classroom," she murmured, then arched a brow. "So, what do you know about flora and fauna?"

  "Enough to know a rabbit from a petunia."

  Delighted, she sat up again to lean toward him. "That's very good, Professor. If the mood strikes, maybe we can exchange expertise."

  "Maybe."

  He looked so cute, she thought, sitting on the sunny grass in borrowed jeans and T-shirt, his hair falling over his forehead. He'd been getting some sun, so that the pallor was replaced by the beginnings of a tan. The ease she felt convinced her that she'd been fool­ish to be unsteady around him before. He was just a nice man, a bit befuddled by circumstances, who'd aroused her sympathies and her curiosity. To prove it, she laid a hand on the side of his face.

  Max saw the amusement in her eyes, the little pri­vate joke that curved her lips before she touched them to his in a light, friendly kiss. As if satisfied with the result, she smiled, leaned back and started to speak. He circled a hand around her wrist.

  "I'm not half-dead this time, Lilah."

  Surprise came first. He saw it register then fade into a careless acceptance. Damn it, he thought as he slid a hand behind her neck. She was so certain there would be nothing. With a combination of wounded pride and fluttery panic, he pressed his lips to hers.

  She enjoyed kissing—the affection of it, the ele­mental physical enjoyment. And she liked him. Be­cause of it, she leaned into the kiss, expecting a nice tingle, a comforting warmth. But she hadn't expected the jolt.

  The kiss bounced through her system, starting with her lips, zipping to her stomach, vibrating into her fingertips. His mouth was very firm, very serious— and very smooth. The texture of it had a quiet sound of pleasure escaping, like a child might make after a first taste of chocolate. Before the first sensation could be fully absorbed, others were drifting through to tangle and mix.

  Flowers and hot sun. The scent of soap and sweat. Smooth, damp lips and the light scrape of teeth. Her own sigh, a mere shifting of air, and the firm press of his fingers on the sensitive nape of her neck. There was something more than simple pleasure here, she realized. Something sweeter and far less tangible.

  Enchanted, she lifted her hand from the carpet of grass to skim it through his hair.

  He was reexperiencing the sensation of drowning, of being pulled under by something strong and dan­gerous. This time he had no urge to fight. Fascinated, he slid his tongue over hers, tasting those secret fla­vors. Rich and dark and seductive, they mirrored her scent, the scent that had already insinuated itself into his system so that he thought he would taste that as well, each time he took a breath.

  He felt something shift inside him, stretch and grow and heat until it gripped him hard by the throat.

  She was outrageously sexual, unabashedly erotic, and more frightening than any woman he had known. Again he had the image of a mermaid sitting on a rock, combing her hair and luring helplessly seduced men to destruction with the promise of overwhelming pleasures.

  The instinct for survival kicked in, so that he drew back. Lilah stayed as she was, eyes closed, lips parted. It wasn't until that moment that he realized he still held her wrist and that her pulse was scrambling un­der his fingers.

  Slowly, holding on to that drugging weightlessness a moment longer, she opened her eyes. She skimmed her tongue over her lips to capture the clinging flavor of his. Then she smiled.

  "Well, Dr. Quartermain, it seems history's not the only thing you're good at. How about another les­son?" Wanting more, she leaned forward, but Max scrambled up. The ground, he discovered, was as un­steady as the deck of a ship.

  "I think one's enough for today."

  Curious, she swung her hair back to look up at him. "Why?"

  "Because..." Because if he kissed her again, he'd have to touch her. And if he touched her—and he desperately wanted to touch her—he would have to make love with her, there on the sunny lawn in full sight of the house. "Because I don't want to take advantage of you."

  "Advantage of me?" Touched and amused, she smiled. "That's very sweet."

  "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't make me sound like a fool," he said tightly.

  "Was I?" The smile turned thoughtful. "Being a sweet man doesn't make you a fool, Max. I
t's just that most men I know would be more than happy to take advantage. Tell you what, before you take of­fense at that, why don't we go inside? I'll show you Bianca's tower."

  He'd already taken offense and was about to say so when her last words struck a chord. "Bianca's tower?"

  "Yes. I'd like to show you." She lifted a hand, waiting.

  He was frowning at her, struggling to fit the name "Bianca" into place. Then with a shake of his head, he helped her to her feet. "Fine. Let's go."

  He'd already explored some of the house, the maze of rooms, some empty, some crowded with furniture and boxes. From the outside, the house was part for­tress, part manor, with sparkling windows, graceful porches married to jutting turrets and parapets. Inside, it was a rambling labyrinth of shadowed hallways, sun-washed rooms, scarred floors and gleaming ban­isters. It had already captivated him.

  She took him up a set of circular stairs to a door at the top of the east wing.

  "Give it a shove, will you, Max?" she asked, and he was forced to thud the wood hard with his good shoulder. "I keep meaning to ask Sloan to fix this." Taking his hand, she walked inside.

  It was a large, circular room, ringed with curving windows. A light layer of dust lay softly on the floor, but someone had tossed a few colorful pillows onto the window seat. An old floor lamp with a stained and tassled shade stood nearby.

  "I imagine she had lovely things up here once," Lilah began. "To keep her company. She used to come up here to be alone, to think."

  "Who?"

  "Bianca. My great-grandmother. Come look at the view." Feeling a need to share it with him, she drew him to the window. From there it was all water and rock. It should have seemed lonely, Max thought. In­stead it was exhilarating and heartbreaking all at once. When he put a hand to the glass, Lilah glanced over in surprise. She had done the same countless times, as if wishing for something just out of reach.

  "It's...sad." He'd meant to say beautiful or breathtaking, and frowned.

  "Yes. But sometimes it's comforting, too. I always feel close to Bianca in here."

  Bianca. The name was like an insistent buzz in his head.

  "Has Aunt Coco told you the story yet?"

  "No. Is there a story?"

  "Of course." She gave him a curious look. "I just wondered if she'd given you the Calhoun version rather than what's in the press."

  A faint throbbing began in his temple wheje the wound was healing. "I don't know either version."

  After a moment, she continued. "Bianca threw her­self through this window on one of the last nights of summer in 1913. But her spirit stayed behind."

  "Why did she kill herself?"

  "Well, it's a long story." Lilah settled on the win­dow seat, her chin comfortably propped on her knees, and told him.

  Max listened to the tale of an unhappy wife, trapped in a loveless marriage during the heady years before the Great War. Bianca had married Fergus Cal­houn, a wealthy financier, and had borne him three children. While summering on Mount Desert Island, she had met a young artist. From an old date book the Calhouns had unearthed, they knew his name had been Christian, but nothing more. The rest was leg­end, that had been passed down to the children from their nanny who had been Bianca's confidante.

  The young artist and the unhappy wife had fallen in love, deeply. Torn between duty and her heart, Bianca had agonized over her choice and had ulti­mately decided to leave her husband. She had taken a few personal items, known now as Bianca's trea­sure, and had hidden them away in preparation. Among them had been an emerald necklace, given to her on the birth of her first son and second child, Lilah's grandfather. But rather than going to her lover, Bianca had thrown herself through the tower window. The emeralds have never been found.

  "We didn't know the story until a few months ago," Lilah added. "Though I'd seen the emeralds."

  His mind was whirling. Nagged by the pain, he pressed his fingers to his temple. "You've seen them?"

  She smiled. "I dreamed about them. Then during a séance—"

  "A séance," he said weakly, and sat.

  "That's right." She laughed and patted his hand. "We were having a séance, and C.C. had a vision." He made a strangled sound in his throat that had her laughing again. "You had to be there. Max. Anyway, C.C. saw the necklace, and that's when Aunt Coco decided it was time to pass on the Calhoun legend. To get where we are today, Trent fell in love with C.C. and decided not to buy The Towers. We were in pretty bad shape and were on the point of being forced to sell. He came up with the idea of turning the west wing into a hotel, with the St. James's name. You know the St. James hotels?"

  Trenton St. James, Max thought. Lilah's brother-in-law owned one of the biggest hotel corporations in the country. "By reputation."

  "Well, Trent hired Sloan to handle the renova­tions—and Sloan fell for Amanda. All in all, it couldn't have worked out better. We were able to keep the house, combine it with business, and culled two romances out of the bargain."

  Annoyance nickered into her eyes, darkening them. "The downside has been that the story about the necklace leaked, and we've been plagued with hope­ful treasure hunters and out-and-out thieves. Just a few weeks ago, some creep nearly killed Amanda and stole stacks of the papers we'd been sorting through to try to find a clue to the necklace."

  "Papers," he repeated as a sickness welled in his stomach. It was coming back now and with such force he felt as though he were being battered on the rocks again. Calhoun, emeralds, Bianca.

  "What's wrong, Max?" Concerned, Lilah leaned over to lay a hand on his brow. "You're white as a sheet. You've been up too long," she decided. "Let me take you down so you can rest."

  "No, I'm fine. It's nothing." He jerked away to rise and pace the room. How was he going to tell her? How could he tell her, after she had saved his life, taken care of him? After he'd kissed her? The Calhouns had opened their home to him, without hesi­tation, without question. They had trusted him. How could he tell Lilah that he had, however inadvertently, been working with men who were planning to steal from her?

  Yet he had to. Marrow-deep honesty wouldn't per­mit anything else.

  "Lilah..." He turned back to see her watching him, a combination of concern and wariness in her eyes. "The boat. I remember the boat."

  Relief had her smiling. "That's good. I thought it would come back to you if you stopped worrying.

  Why don't you sit down, Max? It's easier on the brain."

  "No." The refusal was sharp as he concentrated on her face. "The boat—the man who hired me. His name was Caufield. EHis Caufield."

  She spread her hands. "And?"

  "The name doesn't mean anything?"

  "No, should it?"

  Maybe he was wrong, Max thought. Maybe he was letting her family story meld in his mind with his own experience. "He's about six foot, very trim. About forty. Dark-blond hair graying at the temples."

  "Okay."

  Max let out a frustrated breath. "He contacted me at Cornell about a month ago and offered me a job. He wanted me to sort through, catalogue and research some family papers. I'd get a generous salary, and several weeks on a yacht—plus all my expenses and time to work on my book."

  "So, seeing as you're not brain damaged, you took the job."

  "Yes, but damn it, Lilah, the papers—the receipts, the letters the ledgers. They had your name on them."

  "Mine?"

  "Calhoun." He jammed his useless hands into his pockets. "Don't you understand? I was hired, and worked on that boat for a week, researching your fam­ily history from the papers that were stolen from you."

  She only stared. It seemed a long time to Max be­fore she unfolded herself from the window seat and stood. "You're telling me that you've been working for the man who tried to kill my sister?"

  "Yes."

  She never took her eyes from his. He could almost feel her trying to get into his thoughts, but when she spoke, her voice was very cool. "Why are you telling me this now?"

 
Frazzled, he dragged a hand through his hair. "I didn't remember it all until now, until you told me about the emeralds."

  "That's odd, isn't it?"

  He watched the shutter come down over her eyes and nodded. "I don't expect you to believe me, but I didn't remember. And when I took the job, I didn't know."

  She continued to watch him carefully, measuring every word, every gesture, every expression. "You know, it seemed strange to me that you hadn't heard about the necklace, or the robbery. It's been in the press for weeks. You'd have to be living in a cave not to have heard."

  "Or a classroom," he murmured. Caufield's mock­ing words about having more intelligence than wit came back to him and made him wince. "Look, I'll tell you whatever I can before I leave."

  "Leave?"

  "I can't imagine any of you will want me to stay after mis."

  She considered him, instinct warring against com­mon sense. With a long sigh, she lifted a hand. "I think you'd better tell the whole story to the whole family, all at once. Then we'll decide what to do about it."

  It was Max's first family meeting. He hadn't grown up in a democracy, but under his father's uncompro­mising dictatorship. The Calhouns did things different. They gathered around the big mahogany dining room table, so completely united that Max felt like an intruder for the first time since he'd awakened up­stairs. They listened, occasionally asking questions as he repeated what he had told Lilah in the tower.

  "You didn't check his references?" Trent asked. "You just contracted to do a job with a man you'd never met, and knew nothing about?"

  "There didn't seem to be any reason to. I'm not a businessman," he said wearily. "I'm a teacher."

  "Then you won't object if we check yours." This from Sloan.

  Max met the suspicious eyes levelly. "No."

  "I already have," Amanda put in. Her fingers were tapping against the wood of the table as all eyes turned to her. "It seemed the logical step, so I made a couple of calls."

  "Leave it to Mandy," Lilah muttered. "I guess it never occurred to you to discuss it with the rest of us."

  "No."

  "Girls," Coco said from the head of the table. "Don't start."

  "I think Amanda should have talked about this." The Calhoun temper edged Lilah's voice. "It con­cerns all of us. Besides, what business does she have poking into Max's life?"

  They began to argue heatedly, all four sisters toss­ing in opinions and objections. Sloan kicked back to let it run its course. Trent closed his eyes. Max merely stared. They were discussing him. Didn't they realize they were arguing about him, tossing him back and forth across the table like a Ping-Pong ball?

  "Excuse me," he began, and was totally ignored.

  He tried again and earned his first smile from Sloan. "Damn it, knock it off!" It was his annoyed profes­sor's voice and did the trick. All of the women stopped to turn on him with irritated eyes.

  "Look, buster," C.C. began, but he cut her off.

  "You look. In the first place, why would I be tell­ing you everything if I had some ulterior motive? And since you want to corroborate who I am and what I do, why don't you stop pecking at each other long enough to find out?"

  "Because we like to peck at each other," Lilah told him grandly. "And we don't like anyone getting in the way while we're at it."

  "That'll do." Coco took advantage of the lull. "Since Amanda's already checked on Max—though it was a bit impolite—"

  "Sensible," Amanda objected.

  "Rude," Lilah corrected.

  They might have been off and running again, but Suzanna held up a hand. "Whatever it was, it's done. I think we should hear what Amanda found out."

  "As I was saying." Amanda flicked a glance over Lilah. "I made a couple of calls. The dean of Cornell speaks very highly of Max. As I recall the terms were