Nora Roberts - For The Love Of Lilah

Each time they thought they were sated, they would turn to each other once more to arouse or to soothe, to cling or to stroke, until the candles gutted out and the gray light of dawn crept into the room.

Hawkins was sick and tired of waiting around. As far as he was concerned every day on the island was a day wasted. Worse, he'd given up a tidy little job in New York that would have earned him at least ten grand. Instead, he'd invested half that much in a heist that looked more and more like a bust.

He knew Caufield was good. The fact was, there were few better at lifting locks and dancing around the police. In the ten years of their association, they had pulled off some very smooth operations. Which was why he was worried.

There was nothing smooth about this job. Damn college boy had messed things up good and proper. Hawkins resented the fact that Caufield wouldn't let him take care of Quartermain. He knew Caufield didn't think he had any finesse, but he could have arranged a nice, quiet accident.

The real problem was that Caufield was obsessed with the emeralds. He talked about them day and night–and he talked as though they were living things rather than some pretty sparklers that would bring in some good, crisp cash.

Hawkins was beginning to believe that Caufield didn't intend to fence the emeralds after all. He smelled the double cross and had been watching his partner like a hawk. Every time Caufield went out, Hawkins would pace the empty house, looking for some clue to his partner's true intentions.

Then there were the rages. Caufield was well–known for his unstable temper, but those ugly tantrums were becoming more frequent. The day before, he had stormed into the house, white–faced and wild–eyed, his body trembling with fury because the Calhoun woman hadn't been at her station in the park. He'd trashed one of the rooms, hacking away at furniture with a kitchen knife until he'd come to himself again.

Hawkins was afraid of him. Though he was a stocky man with ready fists, he had no desire to match Caufield physically. Not when the man got that gleam in his eyes.

His only hope now, if he wanted his rightful share and a clean escape, was to outwit his partner.

With Caufield out of the house again, haunting the park, Hawkins began a slow, methodical search. Though he was a big man, often considered dull wit–ted by his associates, he could toss a room and hardly raise the dust. He sifted through the stolen papers, then turned away in disgust. There was nothing of use there. If Caufield had found anything, he would never have left it in plain view. He decided to start with the obvious, his partner's bedroom.

He shook out the books first. He knew Caufield liked to pretend he was educated, even erudite, though he'd had no more schooling than Hawkins himself. There was nothing in the volumes of Shakespeare and Steinbeck but words.

Hawkins searched under the mattress, through the drawers in the bureau. Since Caufield's pistol wasn't around, he decided the man had tucked it into his knapsack before setting off to find Lilah. Patient, Hawkins looked behind the mirrors, behind drawers, beneath the rug. He was beginning to think he had misjudged his partner when he turned to the closet.

There, in the pocket of a pair of jeans, he found the map.

It was crudely drawn on yellowed paper. For Hawkins, there was no mistaking its meaning. The Towers was clearly depicted, along with direction and distance and a few out–of–proportion landmarks.

The map to the emeralds, Hawkins thought as he smoothed out the creases. A bitter fury filled him while he studied each line and marker. The double–dealing Caufield had found it among the stolen papers and hidden it away for himself. Well, two could play that game, he thought. He slipped out of the room as he tucked the paper into his own pocket. Wouldn't Caufield have a fine rage when he discovered his partner had snatched the emeralds out from under his nose. Hawkins thought it was almost a pity that he wouldn't be around to see it.

He found Christian. It was so much easier than Max had supposed that he could only sit and stare at the book in his hand. In less than a half day in the library, he'd stumbled across the name in a dusty volume titled Artists and Their Art: 1900–1950. He had patiently dug away through the A's, was meticulously slogging through the B's, when there it was. Christian Bradford, 1884–1976. Though the given name had caused Max to perk up, he hadn't expected it to be so easy. But it all fell into place.

Though Bradford did not come to enjoy any real success until his last years, his early work has become valuable since his death.

Max skimmed over the treatise on the artist's style.

Considered a gypsy in his day, due to his habit of moving from one location to another, Bradford often sold his work for room and board. A prolific artist, he would often complete a painting in a matter of days. It is said he would work for twenty hours straight when the mood was on him. It remains a mystery why he produced nothing during the years between 1914 and 1916.

Oh God, Max thought, and rubbed his damp palms on his slacks.

Married in 1925 to Margaret Doogan, Bradford had one child, a son. Little more is known about his personal life, as he remained an obsessively private man until his death. He suffered a debilitating heart attack in the late sixties, but continued to paint. He died in Bar Harbor, Maine, where he had kept a cottage for more than a half century. He was survived by his son and a grandson.

"I've found you," Max murmured. Turning the page, he studied the reproduction of one of Bradford's works. It was a storm, fighting its way in from the sea. Passionate, violent, frenzied. It was a view Max knew–the view from the cliffs beneath The Towers.

An hour later, a half–dozen books under his arm, he arrived home. There was still an hour before he could pick up Lilah at the park, an hour before he could tell her they had jumped the next hurdle. Giddy with success, he greeted Fred so exuberantly that the dog raced up and down the hall, running into walls and tripping on his tail.

"Goodness." Coco trotted down the stairs. "What a commotion."

"Sorry."

"No need to apologize, I wouldn't know what to do if a day went by without a commotion. Why, Max, you look positively delighted with yourself."

"Well, as it happens, I–"

He broke off when Alex and Jenny came bounding down, firing invisible laser pistols. "Dead meat!" Alex shouted. "Dead meat!"

"If you must kill something," Coco said, "please do it outside. Fred needs an airing anyway."

"Death to the invaders," Alex announced. "We'll fry them like bacon."

In total agreement, Jenny aimed her laser at Fred and sent the dog scampering down the hall again. Deciding he made a handy invader, they raced after him. Even with the distance, the sound of the back door slamming boomed through the house.

"I don't know where they get those violent imaginations," Coco commented with a relieved sigh. "Suzanna's so mild tempered, and their father..."

Something dark came into her eyes when she trailed off. "Well, that's another story. So tell me, what has you so happy?"

"I was just in the library, and I–"

This time it was the phone that interrupted. Coco slipped off an earring as she picked up the receiver. "Hello. Yes. Oh, yes, he's right here." She cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. "It's your dean, dear. He'd like to speak to you."

Max set the books on the telephone stand as Coco began to straighten pictures a few discreet feet away. "Dean Hodgins? Yes, I am, thank you. It's a beautiful spot. Well, I haven't really decided when I'm coming back...Professor Blake?"

Coco glanced back at the alarm in his voice.