by Nora Roberts
Chapter Twelve
He never let her out of his sight. Though they had given the authorities the description, Max took no chances. By the time the day was over, he knew more about the intertidal zone than anyone could want to know. He could recognize Irish moss from rock–weed–though he still grimaced at Lilah's claim that the moss made excellent ice cream.
But there hadn't been a sign of Caufield.
On the off chance that he had been speaking the truth about camping in the park, the rangers had made a quiet and thorough search but had found no trace of him.
No one had seen the bearded man watching the fruitless search through field glasses. No one had seen the rage come into his eyes when he realized his cover had been blown.
As they drove home, Lilah unwound her braid. "Feel better?" she asked Max.
"No."
She pushed her hands under her hair to let the wind catch it. "Well, you should. It was sweet of you to worry about me, though."
"It has nothing to do with sweetness."
"I think you're disappointed that you didn't get to go into hand–to–hand combat."
"Maybe I am."
"Okay." She leaned over to nip at his ear. "Want to rumble?"
"It's not a joke," he muttered. "I'm not going to feel right until he's taken care of."
Lilah snuggled back in the seat. "If he had any sense he'd give up and go away. We live in the house and we've hardly made any progress."
"That's not true. We verified the existence of the emeralds. We found a photograph of them. We located Mrs. Tobias, and have her eyewitness account of what happened the day before Bianca died. And we've identified Christian."
"We've what?" She sprang up straight. "When did we identify Christian?"
Max grimaced as he glanced over at her. "I forgot to tell you. Don't look like that. First your great–aunt invades the house and sets everyone on their ears. Then you tell me about the man in the park. I thought I had told you."
She inhaled, then exhaled deeply to keep her patience. "Why don't you tell me now?"
"It was in the library yesterday," he began, and filled her in on what he'd found.
"Christian Bradford," Lilah said, trying'out the name to see how it fit. "There's something familiar about it. I wonder if I've seen some of his paintings. It wouldn't be surprising if there were some in this area, since he lived here on and off. Died here."
"Didn't you study art in college?"
"I didn't study at all unless I was boxed in. Mostly I drifted through, and art was always more a hobby than anything else. I didn't want to work at it because I liked playing at it better. And I wanted to be a naturalist all along."
"An ambition?" He grinned. "Lilah, you'll ruin your image."
"Well, it was my only one. Everybody's entitled. Bradford, Bradford," she repeated, gnawing at the word. "I'd swear it rings a bell." She closed her eyes on it, opening them again when they pulled up at The Towers. "Got it. We knew a Bradford. He grew up on the island. Holt, Holt Bradford. The dark, broody, surly sort. He was a few years older–probably in his early thirties now. He left ten or twelve years ago, but it seems to me I heard he was back. He owns a cottage in the village. My God, Max, if he's Christian's grandson, it would be the same cottage."
"Don't get ahead of yourself. We'll look into it, one step at a time."
"If you have to be logical, I'll talk to Suzanna. She knew him a little better. I remember that she knocked him off his motorcycle the first week she had her license."
"I did not knock him off his motorcycle," Suzanna denied, and sank her aching body into a hot, frothy tub. "He fell off his motorcycle when he failed to yield. I had the right–of–way."
"Whatever." Lilah sat on the edge of the tub. "What do we know about him?"
"He has a nasty temper. I thought he was going to murder me that day. He wouldn't have scraped himself all up if he'd been wearing protective gear."
"I mean his background, not his personality."
Weary, Suzanna opened her eyes. Ordinarily the bathroom was the only place she could find true peace and privacy. Now even that had been invaded. "Why?"
"I'll tell you after. Come on, Suze."
"All right, let me think. He was ahead of me in school. Three or four years, I think. Most of the girls were crazy about him because he looked dangerous. His mother was very nice."
"I remember," Lilah murmured. "She came to the house after..."
"Yes, after Mom and Dad were killed. She used to do handwork. She'd done some lovely pieces for Mom. We still have some of them, I think. And her husband was a lobsterman. He was lost at sea when we were teenagers. I really don't remember that much."
"Did you ever talk to him?"
"Who, Holt? Not really. He'd sort of swagger around and glare. When we had that little accident he mostly swore at me. Then he went off somewhere– Portland. I remember because Mrs. Marsley was talking about him just the other day when I was selling her some climbing roses. He was a cop for a while, but there was some kind of incident, and he gave it up."
"What kind of incident?"
"I don't know. Whenever she starts I just let it flow in one ear and on out. I think he's repairing boats or something."
"He never talked about his family with you?"
"Why in the world should he? And why would you care?"
"Because Christian's last name was Bradford, and he had a cottage on the island."
"Oh." Suzanna let out a long breath as she absorbed the information. "Isn't that just our luck?"
Lilah left her sister to soak, and set off to find Max. Before she could go into his room, Coco waylaid her.
"Oh, there you are."
"Darling, you look frazzled." Lilah kissed her cheek.
"And who wouldn't be? That woman..." Coco took a deep calming breath. "I'm doing twenty minutes of yoga every morning just to cope. Be a dear and take this in to her."
"What is it?"
"Tonight's menu." Coco set her teeth. "She insists on treating this as though it's one of her cruises."
"As long as we don't have to play shuffleboard."
"Thank you, dear. Oh, did Max tell you his news?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes, belatedly."
"Has he decided? I know it's a wonderful opportunity, but I hate to think he'll be leaving so soon."
"Leaving?"
"If he takes the position, he'll have to go back to Cornell next week. I was going to read the cards last night, but with Aunt Colleen, I just couldn't concentrate."
"What position, Aunt Coco?"
"Head of the history department." She gave Lilah a baffled look. "I thought he'd told you."
"I was thinking of something else." She struggled to keep her voice even. "He's going to leave in a few days?"
"He'll have to decide." Coco cupped"a hand under Lilah's chin. "You'll both have to decide."
"He hasn't chosen to bring me in on this one." She stared down at the menu until the words blurred. "It's a terrific opportunity, one I'm sure he's hoped for."
"There are a lot of opportunities in life, Lilah."
She only shook her head. "I couldn't do anything to discourage him from doing something he wants. Not if I loved him. It has to be his decision."
"Who the hell is jabbering out there?" Colleen thumped her cane on the floor.
"I'd like to take that cane and–"
"More yoga," Lilah suggested, forcing a smile. "I'll deal with her."
"Good luck."
"You bellowed, Auntie," Lilah said as she breezed through the door.
"You didn't knock."
"No, I didn't. Tonight's menu, Miss Calhoun. We hope it meets with your approval."
"Little snip." Colleen snatched the paper away, then frowned up at her grand–niece. "What's wrong with you, girl? You're white as a sheet."
"Pale skin runs in the family. It's the Irish."
"It's temper that runs in the family." She'd seen eyes that had looked like that before, she thought. Hurt
, confused. But then she had been only a child, unable to understand. "Trouble with your young man."
"What makes you say so?"
"Just because I never tied myself down with a man doesn't mean I don't know them. I dallied in my day."
"Dallied. This time the smile came more easily. "A nice word. I suppose some of us are meant to dally through life." She ran a finger down the bedpost. "Just as there are some women men love but don't fall in love with."
"You're jabbering."
"No, I'm trying to be realistic. I'm not usually."
"Realism is cold comfort."
Lilah's brow lifted. "Oh, Lord, I'm afraid I'm more like you than I realized. What a scary thought."
Colleen disguised a chuckle. "Get out of here. You give me a headache. Girl," she said, and Lilah paused at the door, "any man who puts that look into your eyes is worth everything or nothing at all."
Lilah gave a short laugh. "Why, Auntie, you're absolutely right."
She went to his room, but he wasn't there. She'd yet to decide whether to confront Max about his plans or to wait until he told her himself. For better or worse, she thought she would follow her instincts. Idly she picked up a shirt he'd left at the foot of his bed. It was the silly screenprint she'd talked him into on that first shopping trip. The shirt, and the memory, still made her smile. Setting it aside, she crossed to his desk.
He had it piled with books–thick volumes on World War I, a history of Maine, a treatment on the Industrial Revolution. She lifted a brow over a book on fashion in the 1900s. He'd picked up one of the pamphlets from the park that gave a detailed map of the island.
In another pile were the art books. Lilah picked up the top one and opened it to where Max had marked it. As he had, she felt the quick thrill of discovery on reading Christian Bradford's name. Lowering into the chair in front of the typewriter, she read the brief biography twice.
Fascinated, excited, she set the book down to reach for another. It was then she noticed the typed pages, neatly stacked. More reports, she thought with a faint smile. She remembered how tidily he had typed up their interview with Millie Tobias.
From the top of the high tower of rock, she faced the sea.
Curious, Lilah settled more comfortably and read on. She was midway through the second chapter when Max came in. Her emotions were so ragged she had to brace before she could speak.
"Your book. You started your book."
"Yeah." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was looking for you."
"It's Bianca, isn't it?" Lilah set down the page she was holding. "Laura–she's Bianca."
"Parts of her." He couldn't have explained how it felt to know that she had read his words–words that had come not so much from his head as from his heart.
"You've set it here, on the island."
"It seemed right." He didn't move toward her, he didn't smile, but only stood looking uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry." The apology was stiff and overly polite. "I shouldn't have read it without asking, but it caught my eye."
"It's all right." With his hands still balled in his pockets, he shrugged. She hated it, he thought. "It doesn't matter."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"There wasn't really anything to tell. I only have about fifty pages, and it's rough. I thought–"
"It's beautiful." She fought back the hurt as she rose.
"What?"
"It's beautiful," she repeated, and found that hurt turned quickly to anger. "You've got enough sense to know that. You've read thousands of books in your life, and know good work from bad. If you didn't want to share it with me, that's your business."
Still stunned, he shook his head. "It wasn't that I–"
"What was it then? I'm important enough to share your bed, but not to be in on any of the major decisions in your life."
"You're being ridiculous."
"Fine." Rolling easily with her temper, she tossed back her hair. "I'm being ridiculous. Apparently I've been ridiculous for some time now."
The tears crowding her voice confused as much as unnerved him. "Why don't we sit down and talk this through?"
She went with her instincts and shoved the chair at him. "Go ahead. Have a seat. But there's no need to talk anything through. You've started your book, but didn't think it was necessary to mention it. You've been offered a promotion, but didn't consider it worth bringing up. Not to me. You've got your life, Professor, and I've got mine. That's what we said right from the beginning. It's just my bad luck that I fell in love with you."
"If you'd just–" Her last words sank in, dazzling him, dazing him, delighting him. "Oh, God, Lilah." He started to rush forward, but she threw up both hands.
"Don't touch me," she said so fiercely, he stopped, baffled.
"What do you expect me to do?"
"I don't expect anything. If I had stuck to that from the beginning, you wouldn't have been able to hurt me like this. As it is, it's my problem. Now, if you'll excuse me."
He grabbed her arm before she reached the door. "You can't say things like this, you can't tell me you're in love with me then just walk away."
"I'll do exactly as I please." Eyes cold, she jerked her arm free. "I don't have anything more to say to you, and there's nothing you can say I want to hear right now."
She walked out of his room into her own and locked the door behind her.
Hours later, she sat in her room, cursing herself for losing her pride and her temper so completely. All she had succeeded in accomplishing was embarrassing herself and Max, and giving herself a vicious headache.
She'd slashed at him, and that had been wrong. She'd pushed him, and that had been stupid. Any hope she'd had of steering him gently into love had been smashed because she'd demanded things he hadn't wanted to give. Now, more than likely, she had ruined a friendship that had been vitally important to her.
There could be no apologizing. No matter how miserable she felt, she couldn't apologize for speaking the truth. And she could never claim to be sorry to have fallen in love.
Restless, she walked out on the terrace. There were clouds over the moon. The wind shoved them across the sky so that the light glimmered for a moment then was smothered. The heat of the day was trapped; the night almost sultry. Fireflies danced over the black carpet of lawn like sparks from a dying fire.
In the distance thunder rumbled, but there was no freshening scent of rain. The storm was out at sea, and even if the capricious wind blew it to land, it might be hours before it hit and relieved the hazy heat. She could smell the flowers, hot and heady, and glanced toward the garden. Her thoughts were so involved that she stared at the glimmer of light for a full minute before it registered.
Not again, she thought, and was almost depressed enough to let the amateur treasure hunters have their thrill. But Suzanna worked too hard on the gardens to have some idiot with a map dig up her perennials. In any case, at least chasing off a trespasser was constructive.
She moved quietly down the steps and into the deeper gloom of the garden. It was simple enough to follow the beam of light. As she walked toward it, Lilah debated whether to use the Calhoun curse or the old The Police Are On Their Way. Both were reliable ways of sending trespassers scurrying. Any other time the prospect might have amused her.
When the light blinked out, she stopped, frowning, to listen. There was only the sound of her own breathing. Not a leaf stirred, and no bird sang in the brush. With a shrug, she moved on. Perhaps they had heard her and had already retreated, but she wanted to be certain.
In the dark, she nearly fell over the pile of dirt. AH amusement vanished when her eyes adjusted and she saw the destruction of Suzanna's lovely bed of dahlias.
"Jerks," she muttered, and kicked at the dirt with a sandaled foot. "What the hell is wrong with them?" On a little moan, she bent down to pick up a trampled bloom. Her fingers clenched over it when a hand slapped against her mouth.
"Not a sound." The voice hissed at her ear. Reacting to it,
she started to struggle, then froze when she felt the point of the knife at her throat. "Do exactly what I say, and I won't cut you. Try to yell, and I'll slice this across your throat. Understand?"
She nodded and let out a long careful breath when his hand slid away from her mouth. It would have been foolish to ask what he wanted. She knew the answer. But this wasn't some adventure–seeking tourist out for a late–night lark.
"You're wasting your time. The emeralds aren't here."
"Don't play games with me. I've got a map."
Lilah closed her eyes and bit back a hysterical and dangerous laugh.
Max paced his room, scowled at the floor and wished he had something handy to kick. He'd messed things up beautifully. He wasn't exactly sure how he'd managed it, but he'd hurt Lilah, infuriated her and alienated her all in one swoop. He'd never seen a woman go through so many emotions in such a short time. From unhappiness to fury, from fury to frost–hardly letting him get in a single word.
He could have defended himself–if he'd been totally certain of the offense. How could he have known that she'd be offended he hadn't mentioned the book? He hadn't wanted to bore her. No, that was a lie, he admitted. He hadn't told her because he'd been afraid. Plain and simple.
As far as the promotion went, he'd meant to tell her, but it had slipped his mind. How could she believe that he'd have accepted the position and left without telling her?
"What the hell was she supposed to think, you jerk?" he muttered, and plopped down into a chair.
So much for all his careful plans, his step–by–step courtship. His tidy little itinerary for making her fall in love with him had blown up in his face. She'd been in love with him all along.
She loved him. He dragged a hand through his hair. Lilah Calhoun was in love with him, and he hadn't had to wave a magic wand or implement any complicated plan. All he'd had to do was be himself.
She'd been in love with him all along, but he'd been too stupid to believe it even when she'd tried to tell him. Now she'd locked herself in her room and wouldn't listen to him.
As far as he could see, he had two choices. He could sit here and wait until she cooled off, then he could beg. Or he could get up right now, beat down her door and demand that she hear him out.
