Page 7 of For the Love of Lilah
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 in to 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.
