Page 8 of For the Love of Lilah
“Hmm. Got my doctorate.” The words were slurred and weighty. “Do you know how much man accomplished between 1870 and 1970?”
“Amazing.”
“Absolutely.” He was nearly asleep, coaxed into comfort by her quiet voice and gentle hands. “I’d like to have been alive in 1910.”
“Maybe you were.” She smiled, amused and charmed. “Take a nap, Max.”
When he awakened again, he was alone. But he had a dozen throbbing aches to keep him company. He noted that she had left the aspirin and a carafe of water beside the bed, and gratefully swallowed pills.
When that small chore exhausted him, he leaned back to catch his breath. The sunlight was bright, streaming through the open terrace doors with fresh sea air. He’d lost his sense of time, and though it was tempting just to lie back and shut his eyes again, he needed to take back some sort of control.
Maybe she’d read his mind, he thought as he saw his pants and someone else’s shirt neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He rose creakily, like an old man with brittle bones and aching muscles. His body sang a melody of pain as he picked up the clothes and peeked through a side door. He eyed the claw-footed tub and chrome shower works with pleasure.
The pipes thudded when he turned on the spray, and so did his muscles as the water beat against his skin. But ten minutes later, he felt almost alive.
It wasn’t easy to dry off—even that simple task had his limbs singing. Not sure the news would be good, he wiped the mist from the mirror to study his face.
Beneath the stubble of beard, his skin was white and drawn. Flowering out from the bandage at his temple was a purpling bruise. He already knew there were plenty more blooming on his body. As a result of salt water, his eyes were a patriotic red, white and blue. Though he’d never considered himself a vain man—his looks had always struck him as dead average—he turned away from the mirror.
Wincing and groaning and swearing under his breath, he struggled into the clothes.
The shirt fit fairly well. Better, in fact, than many of his own. Shopping intimidated him—rather salesclerks intimidated him with their bright, impatient smiles. Most of the time Max shopped out of catalogues and took what came.
Glancing down at his bare feet, Max admitted that he’d have to go shopping for shoes—and soon.
Moving slowly, he walked out onto the terrace. The sunlight stung his eyes, but the breezy, moist air felt like heaven. And the view... For a moment he could only stop and stare, hardly even breathing. Water and rock and flowers. It was like being on top of the world and looking down at a small and perfect slice of the planet. The colors were vibrant—sapphire, emerald, the ruby red of roses, the pristine white of sails pregnant with wind. There was no sound but the rumble of the sea and then, far off, the musical gong of a buoy. He could smell hot summer flowers and the cool tang of the ocean.
With his hand braced on the wall, he began to walk. He didn’t know which direction he should take, so wandered aimlessly and with no little effort. Once, when dizziness overtook him, he was forced to stop, shut his eyes and breathe his way through it.
When he came to a set of stairs leading up, he opted to climb them. His legs were wobbly, and he could already feel fatigue tugging at him. It was pride as much as curiosity that had him continuing.
The house was built of granite, a sober and sturdy stone that did nothing to take away from the fancy of the architecture. Max felt as though he were exploring the circumference of a castle, some stubborn bulwark of early history that had taken its place upon the cliffs and held it for generations.
Then he heard the anachronistic buzz of a power saw and a man’s casual oath. Walking closer, he recognized the busy noises of construction in progress—the slap of hammer on wood, the tinny music from a portable radio, the whirl of drills. When his path was blocked by sawhorses, lumber and tarps, he knew he’d found the source.
A man stepped out of another set of terrace doors. Reddish-blond hair was tousled around a tanned face. He squinted at Max, then hooked his thumbs in his pockets.
“Up and around, I see.”
“More or less.”
The guy looked as if he’d been kicked by a team of mules, Sloan thought. His face was dead white, his eyes bruised, his skin sheened with the sweat of effort. He was holding himself upright through sheer stubbornness. It made it tough to hold on to suspicions.
“Sloan O’Riley,” he said, and offered a hand.
“Maxwell Quartermain.”
“So I hear. Lilah says you’re a history professor. Taking a vacation?”
“No.” Max’s brow furrowed. “No, I don’t think so.”
It wasn’t evasion Sloan saw in his eyes, but puzzlement, laced with frustration. “Guess you’re still a little rattled.”
“I guess.” Absently he reached up to touch the bandage at his temple. “I was on a boat,” he murmured, straining to visualize it. “Working.” On what? “The water was pretty rough. I wanted to go on deck, get some air...” Standing at the rail, deck heaving. Panic. “I think I fell”—jumped, was thrown—“I must have fallen overboard.”
“Funny nobody reported it.”
“Sloan, leave the man alone. Does he look like an international jewel thief?” Lilah strolled lazily up the steps, a short-haired black dog at her heels. The dog jumped at Sloan, tripped, righted himself and managed to get his front paws settled on the knees of Sloan’s jeans.
