by Nora Roberts
"No." Her gaze still on the list, she nodded. "I like it. Even if we can't reach anyone who actually worked here then, they might have told stories to their children. It's a safe bet some of them were local––maybe still are." She looked up at him. "Good thinking, Max."
"I'd like to help you try to pin some of the names down."
"I can use all the help I can get. It's not going to be easy."
"Research is what I'm best at"
"You've got yourself a deal." She held out a hand to shake. "Why don't we split the list in half and start tomorrow? I imagine the cook, the butler, the housekeeper, Bianca's personal maid and the nanny all traveled with them from New York."
"But the day help, and the lower positions were hired locally."
"Exactly. We could divide the list in that way, then cross–reference..." She trailed off as Sloan came in through the terrace doors carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
"Leave you alone for five minutes and you start entertaining other men in your room." He set the wine aside. "And talking about cross–referencing, too. Must be serious."
"We hadn't even gotten to alphabetizing," Amanda told Sloan.
"Looks like I got here just in time." He took the pencil out of her hand before drawing her to her feet. "In another minute you might have been hip deep in correlations."
They certainly didn't need him, Max decided. By the way they were kissing each other, it was apparent they'd forgotten all about him. On his way out, he cast one envious look over his shoulder. They were just smiling at each other, saying nothing. It was obvious that they were two people who knew what they wanted. Each other.
Back in his room, Max decided he would spend the rest of the evening working on notes for his book. Or, if he could gather up the courage, he could sit in front of the old manual typewriter Coco had unearthed for him. He could take that step, that big one, and begin writing the story instead of preparing to write it.
He took one look at the battered Remington and felt his stomach clutch. He wanted to sit down, to lay his fingers on those keys, just as desperately as a man wants to hold a loved and desired woman in his arms. He was as terrified of facing the single blank sheet of paper as he would have been of a firing squad. Maybe more so.
He just needed to prepare, Max told himself. His reference books needed to be positioned better. His notes had to be more easily accessible. The light had to be adjusted.
He thought of dozens of minute details to be perfected before he could begin. Once he had accomplished that, had tried and failed to think of more, he sat.
Here he was, he realized, about to begin something he'd dreamed of doing his entire life. All he had to do was write the first sentence, and he would be committed.
His fingers curled into fists on the keys.
Why did he think he could write a book? A thesis, a lecture, yes. That's what he was trained to do. But a book, God, a novel wasn't something anyone could be taught to do. It took imagination and wit and a sense of drama. Daydreaming a story and articulating it on paper were two entirely different things.
Wasn't it foolish to begin something that was bound to lead to failure? As long as he was preparing to write the book, there was no risk and no disappointment. He could go on preparing for years without any sense of shame. If he started it, really started it, there would be no more hiding behind notes and research books. When he failed, he wouldn't even have the dream.
Wound tight, he ran his fingers over the keys while his mind jumped with dozens of excuses to postpone the moment. When the first sentence streaked from his brain to his fingers and appeared on the blank sheet of paper, he let out a long, unsteady breath.
Three hours later, he had ten full sheets. The story that had swum through his head for so long was taking shape with words. His words. He knew it was probably dreadful, but it didn't seem to matter. He was writing, actually writing. The process of it fascinated and exhilarated. The sound of it, the clatter and thud of the keys, delighted him.
He'd stripped off his shirt and shoes and sat bent over, his brows together, his eyes slightly unfocused. His fingers would race over the keys then stop while he strained to find the way to take what was in his head and put it on paper.
That was how Lilah found him. He'd left his terrace doors open for the breeze, though he'd long since stopped noticing it. The room was dark but for the slant of light from the lamp on the desk. She stood watching him, aroused by his total concentration, charmed by the way his hair fell into his eyes.
Was it any wonder she had come to him? she thought She was so completely in love with him, how could she stay away? It couldn't be wrong to want to have a night with him, to show him that love in a way he might understand and accept. She needed to belong to him, to forge a bond that would matter to both of them.
Not sex, but intimacy. It had begun the moment he had lain half–drowned on the shingle and lifted a hand to her face. There was a connection she couldn't escape. And as she had risen from her own bed to come to his, one that she no longer wanted to escape.
Her instinct had led her to his room tonight as surely as it had led her to the beach during the storm.
The decision was hers, she knew. However badly he wanted her, he wouldn't take what wasn't offered. And he would hesitate to take even that because of his rules and his codes. Perhaps if he'd loved her... But she couldn't let herself think of that. In time, he would love her. Her own feelings were too deep and too strong not to find their match.
So she would take the first step. Seduction.
His concentration was so intense that a shout wouldn't have broken it. But her scent, whispering across the room on the night breeze, shattered it. Desire pumped into his blood before he glanced up and saw her in the doorway. The white robe fluttered around her. Caught in the fanning air, her hair danced over her shoulders. Behind her the sky was a black canvas, and she had–illusion to reality–stepped out of it. She smiled and his fingers went limp on the keys.
"Lilah."
"I had a dream." It was true, and speaking the truth helped calm her nerves. "About you and me. There was moonlight. I could almost feel the light on my skin until you touched me." She stepped inside, the movement causing the silk to make a faint shushing sound, like water rippling over water. "Then I didn't feel anything but you. There were flowers, the fragrance very light, very sweet. And a nightingale, that long liquid call for a mate. It was a lovely dream, Max." She stopped beside his desk. "Then I woke up, alone."
He was certain the ball of tension in his stomach would rip free any moment and leave him helpless. She was more beautiful than any fantasy, her hair like wildfire across her shoulders, her graceful body silhouetted enticingly beneath the thin, shifting silk.
"It's late." He tried to clear the huskiness from his throat. "You shouldn't be here."
"Why?"
"Because...it's–"
"Improper?" she suggested. "Reckless?" She brushed the hair from his brow. "Dangerous?"
Max lurched to his feet to grasp the back of the chair. "Yes, all of that."
There were age–old women's secrets in her eyes. "But I feel reckless, Max. Don't you?"
Desperate was the word. Desperate for just one touch. His fingers whitened on the chair back. "There's a matter of respect."
Her smile was suddenly very warm and very sweet. "I respect you, Max."
"No, I mean..." She looked so lovely when she smiled that way, so young, so fragile. "We decided to be friends."
"We are." With her eyes on his, she lifted her hand to smooth back her hair. Her rings glittered in the lamplight.
"And this is–"
"Something we both want," she finished. When she stepped toward him, he jerked back. The chair tumbled over. Her laughter wasn't mocking, but warm and delighted. "Do I make you nervous, Max?"
"That's a mild word for it." He could barely drag air through his dry throat. At his sides his hands were fisted, twins of the fists in the pit of his stomach.
"Lilah, I don't want to ruin what we have together. Lord knows I don't want you to break my heart."
She smiled, feeling a surge of hope through her own nerves. "Could I?"
"You know you could. You've probably lost track of the hearts you've broken."
There it was again, she thought as disappointment shuddered through her. He still saw her, would likely always see her, as the careless siren who lured men, then discarded them. He didn't understand that it was her heart on the line, had been her heart on the line all along. She wouldn't let it stop her–couldn't. Tonight, being with him tonight, was meant. She felt it too strongly to be wrong.
"Tell me, Professor, do you ever dream of me?" She stepped toward him; he backed up. Now they stood in the shadows beyond the lamplight. "Do you ever lie in the dark and wonder what it would be like?"
He was losing ground fast. His mind was so full of her there wasn't room for anything but need. "You know I do."
Another step and they were caught in a slash of moonlight as white as her robe, and as seductive. "And when you dream of it, where are we?"
"It doesn't seem to matter where." He had to touch her, couldn't resist, even if it was only to brush his fingertips over her hair. "We're alone."
"We're alone now." She slid her hands over his shoulders to link them behind his neck. "Kiss me. Max. The way you did the first time, when we were sitting on the grass in the sunlight."
His fingers were in her hair, taut as wires. "It won't end there, Lilah. Not this time."
Her lips curved as they lifted to his. "Just kiss me."
He fought to gentle his grip, to keep his mouth easy as it cruised over hers. Surely he was strong enough to hold back this clawing need to ravage. He wouldn't hurt her. He swore it. And clung to the dim hope that he could have this one night with her and emerge unscathed.
So sweet, she thought. So lovely. The tenderness of the kiss was all the more poignant as she could feel the tremble of repressed passion in both of them. Her heart, already brimming with love, overflowed.
When their lips parted, there were tears glittering in her eyes.
"I don't want it to end there." She touched her lips to his again. "Neither of us do."
"No."
"Make love with me, Max," she murmured. She kept her eyes on his as she stepped back, unbelting her robe. "I need you tonight." The robe slithered to the floor.
Beneath it her skin was as white and smooth as marble. Her long slender limbs might have been carved and polished by an artist's hands. She stood, cloaked only in moonlight, and waited.
He'd never seen anything more perfect, more elegant or fragile. Suddenly his hands felt big and clumsy, his fingers rough. His breath tore raggedly through his lips as he touched her. Though his fingers barely floated over her skin, he was terrified he would leave bruises behind. Fascinated, he watched his hand skim over her, tracing the slope of her shoulders, sliding down the graceful arms and back again. Carefully, very carefully, brushing over the water–soft skin of her breasts.
First her legs went weak. No one had ever touched her like this, with such drugging gentleness. It was as though she were the first woman he had ever seen and he was memorizing her face and form through his fingertips. She had come to seduce, yet her arms lay weighted at her sides. And she was seduced. Her head fell back in an involuntary gesture of surrender. He had no way of knowing that this surrender was her first.
That vulnerable column of her throat was impossible to resist He pressed his mouth against it even as his palm brushed lightly over the point of her breast.
The combination had a bolt of sensation shooting through her. Stunned by it, she jolted and gasped out his name.
He retreated instantly, cursing himself. "I'm sorry." He was half–blind with needs and shook his head to clear it. "I've always been clumsy."
"Clumsy?" In a haze of longing, she swayed toward him, running her lips over his shoulder, his throat, down his chest. "Can't you feel what you're doing to me? Don't stop." Her mouth found his and lingered. "I think I'd die if you did."
The barrage on his system nearly felled him. Her hands streaked over him, impatient and greedy. Her mouth, Lord her mouth was hot and quick, searing his skin with every breathy kiss. He couldn't think, could barely breathe. There was nothing to do but feel.
Straining for control, he lifted her face to his, calming her lips, drugging them and her as he centered all of his needs into that one endless kiss. Yes, he could feel what he was doing to her, and it amazed him. On a low, throaty groan, she went limp in a surrender more erotic than any seduction. Her body seemed to melt into his in total pliancy, total trust. When he lifted her into his arms she made a small, lazy sound of pleasure.
Her eyes were nearly closed. He could see the glint of green under the cover of her lashes. As he carried her to the bed he felt as strong as Hercules. Gently, watching her face, he laid her on the covers.
There was moonlight here, streaming through the windows like liquid silver. He could hear the wind sighing through the trees and the distant drum of water on rock. Her scent, as mysterious as Eve, reached for him as easily as her arms.
He took her hands. Struck by the romance of the night, he brought them to his lips, skimming his mouth over her knuckles, down her fingertips, over her palms. All the time, he watched her as he scraped lightly with his teeth, soothed and aroused with his tongue. He heard her breath quicken, watched her eyes cloud with dazed pleasure and confusion as he made love to her hands. He felt the thunder of her pulse when he pressed his lips to her wrist.
He was bringing her something she hadn't prepared for. Total helplessness. Did he know how completely she was in his power? she wondered hazily. The drunk and weighty pleasure was flowing from her fingertips into every part of her. When his lips slid down her arm to nuzzle the inside of her elbow, a moan was wrenched from her.
She wasn't even aware that she was moving under him, inviting him to take anything, everything he wanted. When his mouth came to hers at last, his name was the only word she could form.
He fought back greed. It was impossible not to feel it, with her body so hot, so soft, so agile beneath his. But he refused to give in to it. Tonight, for there might only be tonight, would last. He wanted more than that fast and frantic union his body ached for. He wanted the dazzling pleasure of learning every inch of her, of discovering her secrets, her weaknesses. With patience he could brand in his brain what it was like to touch her and feel her tremble, what it was like to taste and hear her sigh. When her hands moved over him, he knew she was as lost in the night as he.
He slid down her slowly, searing her flesh with openmouthed kisses, whispering fingertips. With torturous patience he lingered at her breasts until they were achingly full with pleasure. Down, gradually down, while her fingers clenched and unclenched in his hair. He could hear her now, soft, incoherent pleas, gasping sighs as he trailed his mouth down her torso, nipped teasing teeth across her hip. She felt his breath flutter against her thigh and cried out, rearing up as the first hot wave slammed into her. She flew over the edge then cartwheeled down as he roamed relentlessly to her knee.
He couldn't get enough. Every taste of her was more potent than the last. He sated himself on it as the tension began to roar in his temples, burn in his blood. Grasping her flailing hands, he drove himself mad by pushing her to peak again. When her body went lax, when her breath was sobbing, he brought his mouth back to hers.
She was willing to beg, but she couldn't speak. Sensation after sensation tore through her, leaving her weak and giddy and aching for more. Desperate for him, she fumbled with the catch of his jeans. She would have screamed with frustration if his mouth hadn't seduced hers into a groan.
Tugging, gasping, she dragged the denim over his hips, too delirious to know that her urgent fingers were making him shudder. Damp flesh slid over damp flesh as they pulled the jeans aside.
"Wait." The word came harshly through his lips as he fought to hold on to the last of his co
ntrol. "Look at me." His ringers tightened in her hair as she opened her eyes. "Look at me," he repeated. "I want you to remember."
Muscles trembling with the effort to go slowly, he slipped into her. Her eyes went cloudy but remained on his as they set an easy rhythm. She knew as he filled her, with himself, with such perfect beauty, that she would always remember.
It was so sweet, so natural, the way his head rested between her breasts. Lilah smiled at the sensation as she stroked his hair. One hand was still linked with his as it had been when they'd slid over the crest together. Half–dreaming now, she imagined what it would be like to fall asleep together, just like this, night after night.
He could feel her relax beneath him, her body warm and pliant, her skin still sheened with the dew of passion. Her heartbeat was slowing gradually. For a moment he could pretend that this was one night among many. That she could belong to him in that complex and intimate way a woman belonged to a 'man.
He knew he'd given her pleasure, and that for a time they had been as bound together as two people could be. But now, he hadn't an idea what he should say–because all he wanted to say was that he loved her.
"What are you thinking?" she murmured.
He steadied himself. "My brain's not working yet."
Her laugh was low and warm. She shifted, wriggling down until they were face–to–face. "Then I'll tell you what I'm thinking." She brought her mouth to his in a languid, lingering kiss. "I like your lips."
Teasingly she nipped the lower one. "And your hands. Your shoulders, your eyes." As she spoke, she trailed a fingertip up and down his spine. "In fact, at the moment I can't think of anything I don't like about you."
"I'll remind you of that the next time I irritate you." He combed her hair back because he enjoyed seeing it spread over his sheets. "I can't believe I'm here with you, like this."
"Didn't you feel it, Max, almost from the beginning?"
