Page 28 of For the Love of Lilah
She curled up into a tight, defensive ball. Oh, God, he’d hurt her. All that stuttering, apologizing, explaining. And all the time he looked so appalled.
A woman like you.The phrase played back in her head.
Couldn’t he see what he’d done to her with that careful tenderness? Hadn’t he been able to feel how deeply he’d affected her? All she had wanted was for him to touch her again, to smile in that sweet, shy way of his and tell her that he cared. About who she was, what she was, how she felt inside. She’d wanted comfort and reassurance, and he’d given her excuses. She had looked up at him, with the stab of love still streaking through her, the terror of it still trembling, and he’d jerked back as if she’d clipped him on the jaw.
She wished she had. If this was love, she didn’t want her share after all.
Because it was quiet, or perhaps because her ears were tuned for him, she heard Max come up the steps, sensed him hesitate near her doors. She stopped breathing, though her heart picked up a quick beat. Would he come in now, push those doors open and come to her, tell her what she wanted so badly to hear? She could almost see his hand reach for the knob. Then she heard his footsteps again as he moved on down the terrace to his own room.
Her breath came out in a sigh. It wouldn’t fit his principles to enter her bedroom uninvited. Outside, on the grass, he’d been following his instincts rather than his intellect, she admitted. No one was more in favor of that than Lilah. For him, it had been the moment, the moon, the mood. It was difficult to blame him, certainly impossible to expect him to feel as she felt. Want as she wanted.
She sincerely hoped he didn’t sleep a wink.
She sniffled, swallowed chocolate, then began to think. Only two months before, C.C. had come to her, hurt and infuriated because Trent had kissed her, then apologized for it.
Pursing her lips, Lilah rolled onto her back again. Maybe it was typical male stupidity. It was difficult to fault the breed for something they were born with. If Trent had apologized because he’d cared about her sister, then it could follow that Max had played the same cards.
It was an interesting theory, and one that shouldn’t be too difficult to prove. Or disprove, she thought with a sigh. Either way, it was probably best to know before she got in any deeper. All she needed was a plan.
Lilah decided to do what she did best, and slept on it.
Chapter Six
It wasn’t difficult in a house the size of The Towers to avoid someone for a day or two. Max noted that Lilah had effortlessly stayed out of his way for that amount of time. He couldn’t blame her, not after how badly he had botched things.
Still, it irked him that she wouldn’t accept a simple and sincere apology. Instead she’d turned it into... damned if he knew what she’d turned it into. The only thing he was sure of was that she’d twisted his words, and their meaning, then had stalked off in a snit.
And he missed her like crazy.
He kept busy enough, buried in his research books, poring over the old family papers that Amanda had meticulously filed according to date and content. He found what he considered the last public sighting of the necklace in a newspaper feature covering a dinner dance in Bar Harbor, August 10, 1913. Two weeks before Bianca’s death.
Though he considered it a long shot, he began a list of every servant’s name he came across who had worked at The Towers the summer of 1913. Some of them could conceivably be alive. Tracking them or their families down would be difficult but not impossible. He had interviewed the elderly before on their memories of their youth. Quite often, those memories were as clear as crystal.
The idea of talking to someone who had known Bianca, who had seen her—and the necklace—excited him. A servant would remember The Towers as it had been, would have knowledge of their employers’ habits. And, he had no doubt, would know their secrets.
Confident in the notion, Max bent over his lists.
“Hard at work, I see.”
He glanced up, blinking, to see Lilah in the doorway of the storeroom. She didn’t have to be told she’d dragged him out of the past. The blank, owlish look he gave her made her want to hug him. Instead she leaned lazily against the jamb.
“Am I interrupting?”
“Yes—no.” Damn it, his mouth was watering. “I was just, ah, making a list.”
“I have a sister with the same problem.” She was wearing a full-skirted sundress in sheer white cotton, her gypsy hair like cables of flames against it. Long chunks of malachite swung at her ears when she crossed the room.
“Amanda.” Because the pencil had gone damp in his hand, he set it aside. “She did a terrific job of cataloging all this information.”
“She’s a fiend for organization.” Casually she rested a hip on the card table he was using. “I like your shirt.”
It was the one she’d chosen for him, with the cartoon lobster. “Thanks. I thought you’d be at work.”
“It’s my day off.” She slid off the table to round it and lean over his shoulder. “Do you ever take one?”
Though he knew it was ridiculous, he felt his muscles bunch up. “Take what?”
“A day off.” Brushing her hair aside, she turned her face toward his. “To play.”
