Page 14 of For the Love of Lilah
“Well, it’s a long story.” Lilah settled on the window seat, her chin comfortably propped on her knees, and told him.
Max listened to the tale of an unhappy wife, trapped in a loveless marriage during the heady years before the Great War. Bianca had married Fergus Calhoun, a wealthy financier, and had borne him three children. While summering on Mount Desert Island, she had met a young artist. From an old date book the Calhouns had unearthed, they knew his name had been Christian, but nothing more. The rest was legend, that had been passed down to the children from their nanny, who had been Bianca’s confidante.
The young artist and the unhappy wife had fallen in love, deeply. Torn between duty and her heart, Bianca had agonized over her choice and had ultimately decided to leave her husband. She had taken a few personal items, known now as Bianca’s treasure, and had hidden them away in preparation. Among them had been an emerald necklace, given to her on the birth of her first son and second child, Lilah’s grandfather. But rather than going to her lover, Bianca had thrown herself through the tower window. The emeralds have never been found.
“We didn’t know the story until a few months ago,” Lilah added. “Though I’d seen the emeralds.”
His mind was whirling. Nagged by the pain, he pressed his fingers to his temple. “You’ve seen them?”
She smiled. “I dreamed about them. Then during a séance—”
“A séance,” he said weakly, and sat.
“That’s right.” She laughed and patted his hand. “We were having a séance, and C.C. had a vision.” He made a strangled sound in his throat that had her laughing again. “You had to be there, Max. Anyway, C.C. saw the necklace, and that’s when Aunt Coco decided it was time to pass on the Calhoun legend. To get where we are today, Trent fell in love with C.C. and decided not to buy The Towers. We were in pretty bad shape and were on the point of being forced to sell. He came up with the idea of turning the west wing into a hotel, with the St. James’s name. You know the St. James hotels?”
Trenton St. James, Max thought. Lilah’s brother-in-law owned one of the biggest hotel corporations in the country. “By reputation.”
“Well, Trent hired Sloan to handle the renovations—and Sloan fell for Amanda. All in all, it couldn’t have worked out better. We were able to keep the house, combine it with business, and culled two romances out of the bargain.”
Annoyance flickered into her eyes, darkening them. “The downside has been that the story about the necklace leaked, and we’ve been plagued with hopeful treasure hunters and out-and-out thieves. Just a few weeks ago, some creep nearly killed Amanda and stole stacks of the papers we’d been sorting through to try to find a clue to the necklace.”
“Papers,” he repeated as a sickness welled in his stomach. It was coming back now and with such force he felt as though he were being battered on the rocks again. Calhoun, emeralds, Bianca.
“What’s wrong, Max?” Concerned, Lilah leaned over to lay a hand on his brow. “You’re white as a sheet. You’ve been up too long,” she decided. “Let me take you down so you can rest.”
“No, I’m fine. It’s nothing.” He jerked away to rise and pace the room. How was he going to tell her? How could he tell her, after she had saved his life, taken care of him? After he’d kissed her? The Calhouns had opened their home to him, without hesitation, without question. They had trusted him. How could he tell Lilah that he had, however inadvertently, been working with men who were planning to steal from her?
Yet he had to. Marrow-deep honesty wouldn’t permit anything else.
“Lilah...” He turned back to see her watching him, a combination of concern and wariness in her eyes. “The boat. I remember the boat.”
Relief had her smiling. “That’s good. I thought it would come back to you if you stopped worrying. Why don’t you sit down, Max? It’s easier on the brain.”
“No.” The refusal was sharp as he concentrated on her face. “The boat—the man who hired me. His name was Caufield. Ellis Caufield.”
She spread her hands. “And?”
“The name doesn’t mean anything?”
“No, should it?”
Maybe he was wrong, Max thought. Maybe he was letting her family story meld in his mind with his own experience. “He’s about six foot, very trim. About forty. Dark-blond hair graying at the temples.”
“Okay.”
Max let out a frustrated breath. “He contacted me at Cornell about a month ago and offered me a job. He wanted me to sort through, catalogue and research some family papers. I’d get a generous salary, and several weeks on a yacht—plus all my expenses and time to work on my book.”
“So, seeing as you’re not brain damaged, you took the job.”
“Yes, but damn it, Lilah, the papers—the receipts, the letters, the ledgers. They had your name on them.”
“Mine?”
“Calhoun.” He jammed his useless hands into his pockets. “Don’t you understand? I was hired, and worked on that boat for a week, researching your family history from the papers that were stolen from you.”
She only stared. It seemed a long time to Max before she unfolded herself from the window seat and stood. “You’re telling me that you’ve been working for the man who tried to kill my sister?”
“Yes.”
