Page 13 of For the Love of Lilah
He felt something shift inside him, stretch and grow and heat until it gripped him hard by the throat.
She was outrageously sexual, unabashedly erotic, and more frightening than any woman he had known. Again he had the image of a mermaid sitting on a rock, combing her hair and luring helplessly seduced men to destruction with the promise of overwhelming pleasures.
The instinct for survival kicked in, so that he drew back. Lilah stayed as she was, eyes closed, lips parted. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized he still held her wrist and that her pulse was scrambling under his fingers.
Slowly, holding on to that drugging weightlessness a moment longer, she opened her eyes. She skimmed her tongue over her lips to capture the clinging flavor of his. Then she smiled.
“Well, Dr. Quartermain, it seems history’s not the only thing you’re good at. How about another lesson?” Wanting more, she leaned forward, but Max scrambled up. The ground, he discovered, was as unsteady as the deck of a ship.
“I think one’s enough for today.”
Curious, she swung her hair back to look up at him. “Why?”
“Because...” Because if he kissed her again, he’d have to touch her. And if he touched her—and he desperately wanted to touch her—he would have to make love with her, there on the sunny lawn in full sight of the house. “Because I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“Advantage of me?” Touched and amused, she smiled. “That’s very sweet.”
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t make me sound like a fool,” he said tightly.
“Was I?” The smile turned thoughtful. “Being a sweet man doesn’t make you a fool, Max. It’s just that most men I know would be more than happy to take advantage. Tell you what, before you take offense at that, why don’t we go inside? I’ll show you Bianca’s tower.”
He’d already taken offense and was about to say so when her last words struck a chord. “Bianca’s tower?”
“Yes. I’d like to show you.” She lifted a hand, waiting.
He was frowning at her, struggling to fit the name “Bianca” into place. Then with a shake of his head, he helped her to her feet. “Fine. Let’s go.”
He’d already explored some of the house, the maze of rooms, some empty, some crowded with furniture and boxes. From the outside, the house was part fortress, part manor, with sparkling windows, graceful porches married to jutting turrets and parapets. Inside, it was a rambling labyrinth of shadowed hallways, sun-washed rooms, scarred floors and gleaming banisters. It had already captivated him.
She took him up a set of circular stairs to a door at the top of the east wing.
“Give it a shove, will you, Max?” she asked, and he was forced to thud the wood hard with his good shoulder. “I keep meaning to ask Sloan to fix this.” Taking his hand, she walked inside.
It was a large, circular room, ringed with curving windows. A light layer of dust lay softly on the floor, but someone had tossed a few colorful pillows onto the window seat. An old floor lamp with a stained and tassled shade stood nearby.
“I imagine she had lovely things up here once,” Lilah began. “To keep her company. She used to come up here to be alone, to think.”
“Who?”
“Bianca. My great-grandmother. Come look at the view.” Feeling a need to share it with him, she drew him to the window. From there it was all water and rock. It should have seemed lonely, Max thought. Instead it was exhilarating and heartbreaking all at once. When he put a hand to the glass, Lilah glanced over in surprise. She had done the same countless times, as if wishing for something just out of reach.
“It’s... sad.” He’d meant to say beautiful or breathtaking, and frowned.
“Yes. But sometimes it’s comforting, too. I always feel close to Bianca in here.”
Bianca. The name was like an insistent buzz in his head.
“Has Aunt Coco told you the story yet?”
“No. Is there a story?”
“Of course.” She gave him a curious look. “I just wondered if she’d given you the Calhoun version rather than what’s in the press.”
A faint throbbing began in his temple where the wound was healing. “I don’t know either version.”
After a moment, she continued. “Bianca threw herself through this window on one of the last nights of summer in 1913. But her spirit stayed behind.”
“Why did she kill herself?”
