Page 37 of For the Love of Lilah
They certainly didn’t need him, Max decided. By the way they were kissing each other, it was apparent they’d forgotten all about him. On his way out, he cast one envious look over his shoulder. They were just smiling at each other, saying nothing. It was obvious that they were two people who knew what they wanted. Each other.
Back in his room, Max decided he would spend the rest of the evening working on notes for his book. Or, if he could gather up the courage, he could sit in front of the old manual typewriter Coco had unearthed for him. He could take that step, that big one, and begin writing the story instead of preparing to write it.
He took one look at the battered Remington and felt his stomach clutch. He wanted to sit down, to lay his fingers on those keys, just as desperately as a man wants to hold a loved and desired woman in his arms. He was as terrified of facing the single blank sheet of paper as he would have been of a firing squad. Maybe more so.
He just needed to prepare, Max told himself. His reference books needed to be positioned better. His notes had to be more easily accessible. The light had to be adjusted.
He thought of dozens of minute details to be perfected before he could begin. Once he had accomplished that, had tried and failed to think of more, he sat.
Here he was, he realized, about to begin something he’d dreamed of doing his entire life. All he had to do was write the first sentence, and he would be committed.
His fingers curled into fists on the keys.
Why did he think he could write a book? A thesis, a lecture, yes. That’s what he was trained to do. But a book, God, a novel wasn’t something anyone could be taught to do. It took imagination and wit and a sense of drama. Daydreaming a story and articulating it on paper were two entirely different things.
Wasn’t it foolish to begin something that was bound to lead to failure? As long as he was preparing to write the book, there was no risk and no disappointment. He could go on preparing for years without any sense of shame. If he started it, really started it, there would be no more hiding behind notes and research books. When he failed, he wouldn’t even have the dream.
Wound tight, he ran his fingers over the keys while his mind jumped with dozens of excuses to postpone the moment. When the first sentence streaked from his brain to his fingers and appeared on the blank sheet of paper, he let out a long, unsteady breath.
Three hours later, he had ten full sheets. The story that had swum through his head for so long was taking shape with words. His words. He knew it was probably dreadful, but it didn’t seem to matter. He was writing, actually writing. The process of it fascinated and exhilarated. The sound of it, the clatter and thud of the keys, delighted him.
He’d stripped off his shirt and shoes and sat bent over, his brows together, his eyes slightly unfocused. His fingers would race over the keys then stop while he strained to find the way to take what was in his head and put it on paper.
That was how Lilah found him. He’d left his terrace doors open for the breeze, though he’d long since stopped noticing it. The room was dark but for the slant of light from the lamp on the desk. She stood watching him, aroused by his total concentration, charmed by the way his hair fell into his eyes.
Was it any wonder she had come to him? she thought. She was so completely in love with him, how could she stay away? It couldn’t be wrong to want to have a night with him, to show him that love in a way he might understand and accept. She needed to belong to him, to forge a bond that would matter to both of them.
Not sex, but intimacy. It had begun the moment he had lain half-drowned on the shingle and lifted a hand to her face. There was a connection she couldn’t escape. And as she had risen from her own bed to come to his, one that she no longer wanted to escape.
Her instinct had led her to his room tonight as surely as it had led her to the beach during the storm.
The decision was hers, she knew. However badly he wanted her, he wouldn’t take what wasn’t offered. And he would hesitate to take even that because of his rules and his codes. Perhaps if he’d loved her... But she couldn’t let herself think of that. In time, he would love her. Her own feelings were too deep and too strong not to find their match.
So she would take the first step. Seduction.
His concentration was so intense that a shout wouldn’t have broken it. But her scent, whispering across the room on the night breeze, shattered it. Desire pumped into his blood before he glanced up and saw her in the doorway. The white robe fluttered around her. Caught in the fanning air, her hair danced over her shoulders. Behind her the sky was a black canvas, and she had—illusion to reality—stepped out of it. She smiled and his fingers went limp on the keys.
“Lilah.”
“I had a dream.” It was true, and speaking the truth helped calm her nerves. “About you and me. There was moonlight. I could almost feel the light on my skin until you touched me.” She stepped inside, the movement causing the silk to make a faint shushing sound, like water rippling over water. “Then I didn’t feel anything but you. There were flowers, the fragrance very light, very sweet. And a nightingale, that long liquid call for a mate. It was a lovely dream, Max.” She stopped beside his desk. “Then I woke up, alone.”
He was certain the ball of tension in his stomach would rip free any moment and leave him helpless. She was more beautiful than any fantasy, her hair like wildfire across her shoulders, her graceful body silhouetted enticingly beneath the thin, shifting silk.
“It’s late.” He tried to clear the huskiness from his throat. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why?”
“Because... it’s—”
“Improper?” she suggested. “Reckless?” She brushed the hair from his brow. “Dangerous?”
Max lurched to his feet to grasp the back of the chair. “Yes, all of that.”
There were age-old women’s secrets in her eyes. “But I feel reckless, Max. Don’t you?”
Desperatewas the word. Desperate for just one touch. His fingers whitened on the chair back. “There’s a matter of respect.”
Her smile was suddenly very warm and very sweet. “I respect you, Max.”
