Page 54 of For the Love of Lilah
“No.” He stroked his knuckles over her cheek. “But we can’t change what happened. We can’t help her now.”
“But we can, don’t you see? By finding the necklace, and the journal. She must have written everything she felt in that book. Everything she wanted, and feared. She wouldn’t have left it where Fergus would find it. If she hid the emeralds, she hid the book, too.”
“Then we’ll find them. If we follow Mrs. Tobias’s account, Fergus came back before Bianca expected him. She didn’t have the opportunity to get the emeralds out of the house. They’re still there, so it’s only a matter of time before we find them.”
“But—”
He shook his head, cupping his hands around her face. “Aren’t you the one who says to trust your feelings? Think about it. Trent comes to The Towers and falls in love with C.C. Because of his idea to renovate and turn part of the house into a retreat, the old legend comes out. Once it’s made public, Livingston or Caufield or whatever we choose to call him develops an obsession. He makes a play for Amanda, but she’s already hooked on Sloan—who’s also there because of the house. Caufield’s impatient, so he steals some of the papers. That brings me into it. You fish me out of the water, take me into your home. Since then we’ve been able to piece more together. We’ve found a photograph of the emeralds. We’ve located a woman who actually knew Bianca, and who’s corroborated the fact that she hid the necklace in the house. It’s all connected, every step. Do you think we’d have gotten this far if we weren’t meant to find them?”
Her eyes softened as she linked her hands over his wrists. “You’re awfully good for me, Professor. A little optimistic logic’s just what I need right now.”
“Then I’ll give you some more. I think the next step is to start tracking down the artist.”
“Christian? But how?”
“You leave it to me.”
“All right.” Wanting his arms around her, she laid her head on his shoulder. “There’s another connection. You might think it’s out of left field, but I can’t help thinking about it.”
“Tell me.”
“A couple of months ago, Trent was walking the cliffs. He found Fred. We’ve never been able to figure out what the puppy was doing out there all alone. It made me think of the little dog Bianca brought to her children, the one she and Fergus argued about so bitterly only a day before she died. I wonder what happened to that dog, Max.” She let out a long sigh. “Then I think about those children. It’s difficult to imagine one’s grandfather as a little boy. I never even knew him because he died before I was born. But I can see him, standing outside of his mother’s door, grieving. And it breaks my heart.”
“Shh.” He tightened his arms around her. “It’s better to think that Bianca had some happiness with her artist. Can’t you see her running to him on the cliffs, stealing a few hours in the sun, or finding some quiet place where they could be alone?”
“Yes.” Her lips curved against his throat. “Yes, I can. Maybe that’s why I love sitting in the tower. She wasn’t always unhappy there, not when she thought of him.”
“And if there’s any justice, they’re together now.”
Lilah tilted her head back to look at him. “Yes, you are awfully good for me. Tell you what, why don’t we take advantage of that pool down there? I’d like to swim with you when it wasn’t a matter of life or death.”
He kissed her forehead. “You’ve got a deal.”
She did more floating than swimming. Max had never seen anyone who could actually sleep on the water. But Lilah could—her eyes comfortably closed behind tinted glasses, her body totally relaxed. She wore two tiny scraps of leopard-print cloth that raised Max’s blood pressure—and that of every other male within a hundred yards. But she drifted, hands moving gently in the water. Occasionally she would kick into a lazy sidestroke, her hair flowing out around her. Now and again, she would reach out to link her hand with his, or twine her arms around his neck, trusting him to keep her buoyant.
Then she kissed him, her lips wet and cool, her body as fluid as the water around them.
“Time for a nap,” she said, and left him in the pool to stretch out on a chaise under an umbrella.
When she awoke, the shadows were long and only a few diehards were left in the water. She looked around for Max, vaguely disappointed that he hadn’t stayed with her. Gathering up her wrap, she went back inside to find him.
The room was empty, but there was a note on the bed in his careful handwriting.
Had a couple of things to see to. Be back soon.
With a shrug, she tuned the radio to a classical station and went in to take a long, steamy shower.
Revived and relaxed, she toweled off, then began to cream her skin in long, lazy strokes. Maybe they could find some cozy little restaurant for dinner, she mused. Someplace where there were dim corners and music. They could linger over the meal while the candles burned down, and drink cool, sparkling wine.
Then they would come back, draw the drapes on the balcony, close themselves in. He would kiss her in that thorough, drugging way until they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. She picked up her bottle of scent, spritzing it onto her softened skin. They would make love slowly or frantically, gently or desperately, until, tangled together, they slept.
They wouldn’t think about Bianca or tragedies, about emeralds or thieves. Tonight they would only think about each other.
Dreaming of him, she stepped out into the bedroom.
He was waiting for her. It seemed he’d been waiting for her all of his life. She paused, her eyes darkened by the candles he’d lit, her damp hair gleaming with the delicate light. Her scent wafted into the room, mysterious, seductive, to tangle with the fragrance of the clutch of freesias he’d bought her.
Like her, he had imagined a perfect night and had tried to bring it to her.
