For The Love Of Lilah tcw-3

by Nora Roberts

  He couldn't take his eyes off her mouth. It was full, unpainted and curved teasingly. Kissing her would be like sinking into a dream–the dark and erotic kind. And if a man survived it, he would pray never to wake up.

  She felt something creep in over her amusement. Something unexpected and arousing. It was the way he looked at her, she thought. With such complete absorption. As though she were the only woman in the world–certainly the only one who mattered.

  There couldn't be a female alive who wouldn't weaken a bit under that look.

  For the first time in her life she felt off balance with a man. She was used to having the controls, of setting the tone in her own unstudied way. From the time she'd understood that boys were different from girls, she had used the power she'd been born with to guide members of the opposite sex down a path of her own choosing.

  Yet he was throwing her off with a look.

  Struggling for a casualness that had always come easily, she started to release his hand. Max surprised them both by turning his over to grip hers.

  "You are," he said slowly, "the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

  It was a standard line, even a cliche, and shouldn't have had her heart leaping. She made herself smile as she drew away. "Don't get out much, do you, Professor?"

  There was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes before he made himself settle back. It was as much with himself as with her. He'd never been the hand–holding Casanova type. Nor had he ever been put so neatly back in his place.

  "No, but that was a simple statement of fact. Now, I guess I'm supposed to cross your palm with silver, but I'm fresh out."

  "Palm reading's on the house." Because she was sorry she'd been so glib and abrupt, she smiled again. "When you're feeling better, I'll take you up for a tour of the haunted tower."

  "I can't wait."

  His dry response had her laughing. "I have a feeling about you, Max. I think you could be a lot of fun when you forget to be intense and thoughtful. Now I'm going downstairs so you can have some quiet. Be a good boy and get some more rest."

  He might have been weak, but he wasn't a boy. Max rose as she did. Though the move surprised her, she gave him one of her slow, languid smiles. His color was coming back, she noted. His eyes were clear and, because he was only an inch or so taller than she, nearly on level with hers.

  "Is there something else I can get you, Max?"

  He felt steadier and took a moment to be grateful. "Just an answer. Are you involved with anyone?"

  Her brow lifted as she swept her hair over her shoulder. "In what way?"

  "It's a simple question, Lilah, and deserves a simple answer."

  The lecturing quality of his tone had her frowning at him. "If you mean am I emotionally or sexually involved with a man, the answer is no. At the moment."

  "Good." The vague irritation in her eyes pleased him. He'd wanted a response, and he'd gotten one.

  "Look, Professor, I pulled you out of the drink. You strike me as being too intelligent a man to fall for that gratitude transference."

  This time he smiled. "Transference to what?"

  "Lust seems appropriate."

  "You're right. I know the difference–especially when I'm feeling both at the same time." His own words surprised him. Maybe the near–death experience had rattled his brains. For a moment she looked as though she would swipe at him. Then abruptly, and beautifully, she laughed.

  "I guess that was another simple statement of fact. You're an interesting man, Max."

  And, she told herself as she carried the tray inside, harmless.

  She hoped.

  Chapter Three

  Even after he'd arranged to have funds wired from his account in Ithaca, the Calhouns wouldn't consider Max's suggestion that he move to a hotel. In truth, he didn't put up much of a fight. He'd never been pampered before, or fussed over. More, he'd never been made to feel part of a big, boisterous family. They took him in with a casual kind of hospitality that was both irresistible and gracious.

  He was coming to know them and appreciate them for their varied personalities and family unity. It was a house where something always seemed to be happening and where everyone always had something to say. For someone who had grown up an only child, in a home where his bookishness had been considered a flaw, it was a revelation to be among people who celebrated their own, and each other’s, interests.

  C.C. was an auto mechanic who talked about engine blocks and carried the mysterious glow of a new bride. Amanda, brisk and organized, held the assistant manager's position at a nearby hotel. Suzanna ran a gardening business and devoted herself to her children. No one mentioned their father. Coco ran the house, cooked lavish meals and appreciated male company. She'd only made Max nervous when she'd threatened to read his tea leaves.

  Then there was Lilah. He discovered she worked as a naturalist at Acadia National Park. She liked long naps, classical music and her aunt's elaborate desserts. When the mood struck her, she could sit, sprawled in a chair, prodding little details of his life from him. Or she could curl up in a sunbeam like a cat, blocking him and everything else around her out of her thoughts while she drifted into one of her private daydreams. Then she would stretch and smile and let them all in again.

  She remained a mystery to him, a combination of smoldering sensuality and untouched innocence–of staggering openness and unreachable solitude.

  Within three days, his strength had returned and his stay at the The Towers was open–ended. He knew the sensible thing to do was leave, use his funds to purchase a one–way ticket back to New York and see if he could pick up a few summer tutoring jobs.

  But he didn't feel sensible.

  It was his first vacation and, however he had been thrust into it, he wanted to enjoy it. He liked waking up in the morning to the sound of the sea and the smell of it. It relieved him that his accident hadn't caused him to fear or dislike the water. There was something incredibly relaxing about standing on the terrace, looking across indigo or emerald water and seeing the distant clumps of islands.

  And if his shoulder still troubled him from time to time, he could sit out and let the afternoon sun bake the ache away. There was time for books. An hour, even two, sitting in the shade gobbling up a novel or biography from the Calhoun library.

  His life had been full of time tables, never timelessness. Here, in The Towers, with its whispers of the past, momentum of the present and hope for the future, he could indulge in it.

  Underneath the simple pleasure of having no schedule to meet, no demands to answer, was his growing fascination with Lilah.

  She glided in and out of the house. Leaving in the morning, she was neat and tidy in her park service uniform, her fabulous hair wound in a neat braid. Drifting home later, she would change into one of her flowing skirts or a pair of sexy shorts. She smiled at him, spoke to him, and kept a friendly but tangible distance.

  He contented himself with scribbling in a notebook or entertaining Suzanna's two children, Alex and Jenny, who were already showing signs of summer boredom. He could walk in the gardens or along the cliffs, keep Coco company in the kitchen or watch the workmen in the west wing.

  The wonder of it was, he could do as he chose.

  He sat on the lawn, Alex and Jenny hunched on either side of him like eager frogs. The sun was a hazy silver disk behind a sheet of clouds. Playful and brisk, the breeze carried the scent of lavender and rosemary from a nearby rockery. There were butterflies dancing in the grass, easily eluding Fred's pursuits. Nearby a bird trilled insistently from the branch of a wind–gnarled oak.

  Max was spinning a tale of a young boy caught up in the terrors and excitement of the revolutionary war. In weaving fact with fiction, he was keeping the children entertained and indulging in his love of storytelling.

  "I bet he killed whole packs of dirty redcoats," Alex said gleefully. At six, he had a vivid and violent imagination.

  "Packs of them," Jenny agreed. She was a year younger than her brother
and only too glad to keep pace. "Single–handed."

  "The Revolution wasn't all guns and bayonets, you know." It amused Max to see the young mouths pout at the lack of mayhem. "A lot of battles were won through intrigue and espionage."

  Alex struggled with the words a moment then brightened. "Spies?"

  "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 adv
antage 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. It'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.