by Nora Roberts
From the waist–high terrace wall, she could see the glint of the deep blue water of the bay and the greener, less serene, surface of the Atlantic. It hardly seemed possible that she had been in the water just last night, grasping a stranger and fighting for life. But muscles, unaccustomed to the exercise, ached enough to bring the moment, and the terror, back.
She preferred concentrating on the morning, the generous laziness of it. Made tiny as a toy by the distance, one of the tourist boats streamed by, filled with people clutching cameras and children, hoping to see a whale.
It was June, and the summer people poured into Bar Harbor to sail, to shop, to sun. They would gobble up lobster rolls, haunt the ice cream and T–shirt shops and pack the streets, searching for the perfect souvenir. To them it was a resort. To Lilah, it was home.
She watched a three–masted schooner head out to sea and allowed herself to dream a little before going back inside.
He was dreaming. Part of his mind recognized it as a dream, but his stomach muscles still fisted, and his pulse rate increased. He was alone in an angry black sea, fighting to make his arms and legs swim through the rising waves. They dragged at him, pulling him under into that blind, airless world. His lungs strained. His own heartbeat roared in his head.
His disorientation was complete–black sea below, black sky above. There was a hideous throbbing in his temple, a terrifying numbness in his limbs. He sank, floating down, fathoms deep. Then she was there, her red hair flowing around her, twining around lovely white breasts, down a slender torso. Her eyes were a soft, mystical green. She spoke his name, and there was a laugh in her voice–and an invitation in the laugh. Slowly, gracefully as a dancer, she held out her arms to him, folding him in. He tasted salt and sex on her lips as she closed them over his.
With a groan, he came regretfully awake. There was pain now, ripe and throbbing in his shoulder, sharp and horrible in his head. His thought patterns skidded away from him. Concentrating, he worked his way above the pain, focusing first on a high, coffered ceiling laced with cracks. He shifted a little, acutely aware that every muscle in his body hurt.
The room was enormous–or perhaps it seemed so because it was so scantily furnished. But what furnishings. There was a huge antique armoire with intricately carved doors. The single chair was undoubtedly Louis Quinze, and the dusty nightstand Hepplewhite. The mattress he lay on sagged, but the footboard was Georgian.
Struggling up to brace on his elbows, he saw Lilah standing in the open terrace doors. The breeze was fluttering those long cables of hair. He swallowed. At least he knew she wasn't a mermaid. She had legs. Lord, she had legs–right up to her eyes. She wore flowered shorts, a plain blue T–shirt and a smile.
"So, you're awake." She came to him and, competent as a mother, laid a hand on his brow. His tongue dried up. "No fever. You're lucky."
"Yeah."
Her smile widened. "Hungry?"
There was definitely a hole in the pit of his stomach. "Yeah." He wondered if he'd ever be able to get more than one word out around her. At the moment he was lecturing himself for having imagined her naked when she'd risked her life to save his. "Your name's Lilah."
"That's right." She walked over to fetch the tray. "I wasn't sure you'd remember anything from last night."
Pain capered through him so that he gritted his teeth against it and struggled to keep his voice even. "I remember five beautiful women. I thought I was in heaven."
She laughed and, setting the tray at the foot of the bed, came to rearrange his pillows. "My three sisters and my aunt. Here, can you sit up a little?"
When her hand slid down his back to brace him, he realized he was naked. Completely. "Ah..."
"Don't worry, I won't peek. Yet." She laughed again, leaving him flustered. "Your clothes were drenched–I think the shirt's a lost cause. Relax," she told him as she set the tray on his lap. "My brother–in–law and future brother–in–law got you into bed."
"Oh." It looked as though he was back to single syllables.
"Try the tea," she suggested. "You probably swallowed a gallon of sea water, so I'll bet your throat's raw." She saw the intense concentration in his eyes and the nagging pain behind it. "Headache?"
"Vicious."
"I'll be back." She left him, trailing some potently exotic scent in her wake.
Max used the time alone to build back what little strength he had. He hated being weak–a leftover obsession from childhood when he'd been puny and asthmatic. His father had given up in disgust on building his only and disappointing son into a football star. Though he knew it was illogical, sickness brought back unhappy memories of childhood.
Because he'd always considered his mind stronger than his body, he used it now to block the pain.
Moments later, she was back with an aspirin and witch hazel. "Take a couple of these. After you eat, I can drive you into the hospital."
"Hospital?"
"You might want to have a doctor take a look."
"No." He swallowed the pills. "I don't think so."
"Up to you." She sat on the bed to study him, one leg lazily swinging to some inner tune.
Never in his life had he been so sexually aware of a woman–of the texture of her skin, the subtle tones of it, the shape of her body, her eyes, her mouth. The assault on his senses left him uneasy and baffled. He'd nearly drowned, he reminded himself. Now all he could think about was getting his hands on the woman who'd saved him. Saved his life, he remembered.
"I haven't even thanked you."
"I figured you'd get around to it. Try those eggs before they get any colder. You need food."
Obediently he scooped some up. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"From the time I came into it." Relaxed, she brushed her hair behind her shoulder and settled more comfortably on the bed. "I drove down to the beach. Impulse," she said with a lazy movement of her shoulders. "I'd been watching the storm build from the tower."
"The tower?"
"Here, in the house," she explained. "I got the urge to go down, watch it roll in from sea. Then I saw you." In a careless gesture, she brushed the hair back from his brow. "You were in trouble, so I went in. We sort of pulled each other to shore."
"I remember. You kissed me."
Her lips curved. "I figured we both deserved it." She touched a gentle hand to the bruise spreading on his shoulder. "You hit the rocks. What were you doing out there?"
"I..." He closed his eyes to try to clear his fuzzy brain. The effort had sweat pearling on his brow. "I'm not sure."
"Okay, why don't we start with your name?"
"My name?" He opened his eyes to give her a blank look. "Don't you know?"
"We didn't have the chance to introduce ourselves formally. Lilah Calhoun," she said, and offered a hand.
"Quartermain." He accepted her hand, relieved that much was clear. "Maxwell Quartermain."
"Drink some more tea, Max. Ginseng's good for you." Taking the witch hazel, she began to rub it gently over the bruise. "What do you do?"
"I'm, ah, a history professor at Cornell." Her fingers eased the ache in his shoulder and cajoled him into relaxing.
"Tell me about Maxwell Quartermain." She wanted to take his mind off the pain, to see him relax into sleep again. "Where are you from?"
"I grew up in Indiana..." Her fingers slid up to his neck to unknot muscles.
"Farm boy?"
"No." He sighed as the tension eased and made her smile. "My parents ran a market. I used to help out after school and over the summer."
"Did you like it?"
His eyes were growing heavy. "It was all right. It gave me plenty of time to study. Annoyed my father–always had my face in a book. He didn't understand. I skipped a couple grades and got into Cornell."
"Scholarship?" she assumed.
"Hmm. Got my doctorate," The words were slurred and weighty, "Do you know how much man accomplished between 1870 and 1970?"
"Amazing."
"Absolut
ely." He was nearly asleep, coaxed into comfort by her quiet voice and gentle hands. "I'd like to have been alive in 1910."
"Maybe you were." She smiled, amused and charmed. "Take a nap, Max."
When he awakened again, he was alone. But he had a dozen throbbing aches to keep him company. He noted that she had left the aspirin and a carafe of water beside the bed, and gratefully swallowed pills.
When that small chore exhausted him, he leaned back to catch his breath. The sunlight was bright, streaming through the open terrace doors with fresh sea air. He'd lost his sense of time, and though it was tempting just to lie back and shut his eyes again, he needed to take back some sort of control.
Maybe she'd read his mind, he thought as he saw his pants and someone else's shirt neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He rose creakily, like an old man with brittle bones and aching muscles. His body sang a melody of pain as he picked up the clothes and peeked through a side door. He eyed the claw–footed tub and chrome shower works with pleasure.
The pipes thudded when he turned on the spray, and so did his muscles as the water beat against his skin. But ten minutes later, he felt almost alive.
It wasn't easy to dry off–even that simple task had his limbs singing. Not sure the news would be good, he wiped the mist from the mirror to study his face.
Beneath the stubble of beard, his skin was white and drawn. Flowering out from the bandage at his temple was a purpling bruise. He already knew there were plenty more blooming on his body. As a result of salt water, his eyes were a patriotic red, white and blue. Though he'd never considered himself a vain man–his Jooks had always struck him as dead average–he turned away from the mirror.
Wincing and groaning and swearing under his breath, he struggled into the clothes.
The shirt fit fairly well. Better, in fact, than many of his own. Shopping intimidated him–rather sales–clerks intimidated him with their bright, impatient smiles. Most of the time Max shopped out of catalogues and took what came.
Glancing down at his bare feet, Max admitted that he'd have to go shopping for shoes–and soon.
Moving slowly, he walked out onto the terrace. The sunlight stung his eyes, but the breezy, moist air felt like heaven. And the view... For a moment he could only stop and stare, hardly even breathing. Water and rock and flowers. It was like being on top of the world and looking down at a small and perfect slice of the planet. The colors were vibrant–sapphire, emerald, the ruby red of roses, the pristine white of sails pregnant with wind. There was no sound but the rumble of the sea and then, far off, the musical gong of a buoy. He could smell hot summer flowers and the cool tang of the ocean.
With his hand braced on the wall, he began to walk. He didn't know which direction he should take, so wandered aimlessly and with no little effort. Once, when dizziness overtook him, he was forced to stop, shut his eyes and breathe his way through it.
When he came to a set of stairs leading up, he opted to climb them. His legs were wobbly, and he could already feel fatigue tugging at him. It was pride as much as curiosity that had him continuing.
The house was built of granite, a sober and sturdy stone that did nothing to take away from the fancy of the architecture. Max felt as though he were exploring the circumference of a castle, some stubborn bulwark of early history that had taken its place upon the cliffs and held it for generations.
Then he heard the anachronistic buzz of a power saw and a man's casual oath. Walking closer, he recognized the busy noises of construction in progress–the slap of hammer on wood, the tinny music from a portable radio, the whirl of drills. When his path was blocked by sawhorses, lumber and tarps, he knew he'd found the source.
A man stepped out of another set of terrace doors. Reddish–blond hair was tousled around a tanned face. He squinted at Max, then hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "Up and around, I see."
"More or less."
The guy looked as if he'd been kicked by a team of mules, Sloan thought. His face was dead white, his eyes bruised, his skin sheened with the sweat of effort. He was holding himself upright through sheer stubbornness. It made it tough to hold on to suspicions.
"Sloan O'Riley," he said, and offered a hand.
"Maxwell Quartermain."
"So I hear. Lilah says you're a history professor. Taking a vacation?"
"No." Max's brow furrowed. "No, I don't think so."
It wasn't evasion Sloan saw in his eyes, but puzzlement, laced with frustration. "Guess you're still a little rattled."
"I guess." Absently he reached up to touch the bandage at his temple. "I was on a boat," he murmured, straining to visualize it. "Working." On what? "The water was pretty rough. I wanted to go on deck, get some air..." Standing at the rail, deck heaving. Panic. "I think I fell–" Jumped, was thrown. "–I must have fallen overboard."
"Funny nobody reported it."
"Sloan, leave the man alone. Does he look like an international jewel thief?" Lilah strolled lazily up the steps, a short–haired black dog at her heels. The dog jumped at Sloan, tripped, righted himself and managed to get his front paws settled on the knees of Sloan's jeans.
"I wondered where you'd wandered off to," Lilah continued, and cupped a hand under Max's chin to examine his face. "You look a little better," she decided as the dog started to sniff at Max's bare toes. "That's Fred," she told him. "He only bites criminals."
"Oh. Good."
"Since you have his seal of approval, why don't you come down? You can sit in the sun and have some lunch."
He would dearly love to sit, he realized and let Lilah lead him away. "Is this really your house?"
"Hearth and home. My great–grandfather built it just after the turn of the century. Look out for Fred." The dog dashed between them, stepped on his own ear and yelped. Max, who'd gone through a long clumsy stage himself, felt immediate sympathy. "We're thinking of giving him ballet lessons," she said as the dog struggled back to his feet. Noting the blank look on Max's face, she patted his cheek. "I think you could use some of Aunt Coco's chicken soup."
She made him sit and kept an eye on him while he ate. Her protective instincts were usually reserved for family or small, wounded birds. But something about the man tugged at her. He seemed so out of his element, she thought. And helpless with it.
Something was going on behind those big blue eyes, she thought. Something beyond the fatigue. She could almost see him struggle to put one mental foot in front of the other.
He began to think that the soup had saved his life as surely as Lilah had. It slid warm and vital into his system. "I fell out of a boat," he said abruptly.
"That would explain it."
"I don't know what I was doing on a boat, exactly."
In the chair beside him she brought up her limber legs to settle in the lotus position. "Taking a vacation?"
"No." His brow furrowed. "No, I don't take vacations."
"Why not?" She reached over to take one of the crackers from his plate. She wore a trio of glittering rings on her hand.
"Work."
"School's out," she said with a lazy stretch.
"I always teach summer courses. Except..." Something was tapping at the edges of his brain, tauntingly. "I was going to do something else this summer. A research project. And I was going to start a book."
"A book, really?" She savored the cracker as if it were laced with caviar. He had to admire her basic, sensual enjoyment. "What kind?"
Her words jerked him back. He'd never told anyone about his plans to write. No one who knew him would have believed that studious, steady–as–she–goes Quartermain dreamed of being a novelist. "It's just something I've been thinking of for a while, but I had a chance to work on this project...a family history."
"Well, that would suit you. I was a terrible student. azy," she said with a smile in her eyes. "I can't imagine anyone wanting to make a career out of a classroom. Do you like it?"
It wasn't a matter of liking it. It was what he did. "I'm good at it." Yes, he
realized, he was good at it. His students learned–some more than thers. His lectures were well attended and well received.
"That's not the same thing. Can I see your hand?"
"My what?"
"Your hand," she repeated, and took it, turning it palm up. "Hmm."
"What are you doing?" For a heady moment, he thought she would press her lips to it.
"Looking at your palm. More intelligence than intuitiveness. Or maybe you just trust your brains more than your instincts."
Staring at the top of her bent head, he gave a nervous laugh. "You don't really believe in that sort of thing. Palm reading."
"Of course–but it's not just the lines, it's the feeling." She glanced up briefly with a smile that was at once languid and electric. "You have very nice hands. Look here." She skimmed a finger along his palm and had him swallowing. "You've got a long life ahead of you, but see this break? Near–death experience."
"You're making it up."
"They're your lines," she reminded him. "A good imagination. I think you'll write that book–but you'll have to work on that self–confidence."
She looked up again, a trace of sympathy on her face. "Rough childhood?"
"Yes–no." Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. "No more than anyone's, I imagine."
She lifted a brow, but let it pass. "Well, you're a big boy now." In one of her casual moves, she slid her hair back then studied his hand again. "Yes, see, this represents careers, and there's a branch off this way. Things have been very comfortable for you professionally–you've hoed yourself a nice little rut– but this other line spears off. Could be that literary effort. You'll have to make the choice."
"I really don't think–"
"Sure you do. You've been thinking about it for years. Now here's the Mound of Venus. Hmm. You're a very sensual man." Her gaze flicked up to his again. "And a very thorough lover."
