Whirlwind (16 page)

He was trembling almost as much as she was, but he stooped over the phonograph and lifted the needle clear. Welcome silence filled the attic once more, and Liza released a shaken sigh.

“That's it,” she said, her voice quivering. “That's the sound we heard!”

“But how does the phonograph work without anybody cranking it?”

“Who knows? Probably the wind. This place is as drafty as a barn. Look, you can see those scarves moving even now.” Liza let out a nervous laugh. “You've been haunted by the wind, Forrester.”

Cliff couldn't think straight. Maybe Liza was right. But for years he'd been sure the soft sounds that emanated from
the attic hadn't been totally outside his own mind. Something
had
been haunting him—not a ghost exactly, but some kind of spirit.

For so long, he had thought it was the lost part of his own soul.

Maybe, he mused now, it had been some queer, unexplainable connection to Margaret Ingalls.

Cliff didn't believe in ghosts or reincarnation, but in Cambodia he'd seen events that couldn't be explained in terms he understood. In the mountains of that faraway land he had learned that the spiritual side of life couldn't be ignored. Maybe a part of Margaret, Liza's grandmother,
had
wanted him to come to the attic.

He couldn't help sensing that there was something in the long, dark room that could tell him what he needed to know. Cliff pushed into the jumble of furniture, brushing the cobwebs aside. What had happened to Margaret Ingalls? he wondered.

“What are you doing?” Liza asked, sounding far from her usual cocky self as she edged after him.

“Looking around.”

“Be careful!”

“I'm okay. The water damage is minimal. Joe will be glad to hear that.”

“Cliff, can't we go downstairs now?”

“Just give me a minute.”

“Aren't you convinced that the phonograph has been causing all the noise?”

“I want to see what else is here.”

She sighed as Cliff began to explore the rest of the attic. He shone the flashlight over the objects stacked around them—a lady's writing desk, a chest of drawers, some chairs with curving legs, a jewelry box with a tarnished silver clasp. Liza glanced at everything in a desultory way, no doubt because she had seen all these things before. As a child, she hadn't recognized Margaret's belongings for
what they were—a chance to get to know a woman who had disappeared long ago.

Liza asked, “Exactly what are you looking for?”

“I'll know when I find it,” Cliff said, flashing the light around. “Hey, there's a nice old rug. See it?”

Liza knelt down and uncurled the end of a rolled-up Oriental carpet. Its deep colors shone like jewels in the flashlight's beam. “Oh, it's beautiful! Maybe I should have it cleaned up, find a place for it once we finish with the lodge.”

“Good idea.”

“I'll take it downstairs tomorrow. What else can we find?”

Cliff had opened one of the drawers in Margaret's tall chest and was running his hands through the lacy garments that lay in the drawers to find what might have been hidden underneath. “Aha.”

“What is it?”

“A book, for one thing, and—”

“That's a diary!”

Cliff turned the small, leather-bound volume over in his hand, revealing the tarnished clasp. “So it is. And some other papers, too. Here's an envelope and...”

Liza reached past him and drew one of the garments from the drawer. It was mauve silk embroidered with a fine, feminine design and snippets of delicate lace. She hummed lightly and held the slip of silk against her body, turning toward the mirror to study her reflection.

“Now this is more like it! What do you think?” she asked. “Is it me?”

“It's pretty,” Cliff agreed.

“Look at the workmanship.” She held the silk out to him to display the embroidery. “Isn't it amazing?”

Cliff's voice seemed to thicken as he said, “Very nice.”

“My sister and I used to try on all kinds of things like this and play tea party.”

“That doesn't look like a tea party outfit to me.”

Liza laughed and draped the slip against her long body again, turning this way and that as she looked in the mirror. Suddenly, she was the picture of a Victorian lady with her hair tumbled around her shoulders like a golden cloud. Cliff watched her for a long while, his dark eyes flickering.

Suddenly feeling shy under his gaze, Liza let the slip slide down.

“I like it,” she said, mustering some normalcy in her voice. “What else is in that drawer? Oh, hand me that white thing!”

Mechanically Cliff did as he was commanded, taking a long satin gown out of the drawer. It was as light as a scarf and felt odd in his hands.

“Oh,” she cried, taking the negligee from him and spinning toward the mirror. “I have to try this on! Turn around for a minute, will you?”

He seemed to pull himself out of a daze. “I'm not going to stand here while you play dress-up.”

Liza looked in the mirror and laughed at his reflection. “What's the matter, Forrester?”

Frowning, he snapped, “I just don't want to watch you take off your clothes, that's all.”

“Then turn around!”

“I'm not doing that, either,” he said stubbornly. “I'll go downstairs if—”

“You wouldn't leave me up here alone, would you?”

No way.
Leaving her was the last thing Cliff wanted to do. She looked so innocent and so damn sexy at the same time, standing there clasping her grandmother's negligee to herself and smiling at him in a way that caused an uproar inside him. He almost didn't recognize the feeling at first, it had been so long since he'd felt genuine sexual attraction—the kind that was so powerful it made a man's throat catch.

Liza's smile was genuine—teasing and trusting. Cliff's
voice didn't work for a moment. Then quietly he said, “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“A lot of things.”

She turned around slowly, smiling. “For barging into your hideaway? For giving you a cold?”

“For other things?”

“Like what?”

“I—I—”

“Oh, never mind,” she said, letting the negligee slip from her hands and stepping toward him. Getting a grip on the front of his shirt again, she turned up her face to his and said, “Why don't you just shut up and kiss me?”

There was no stopping her, so Cliff let Liza fit herself against his frame. Automatically, he slid his hands up to grasp her shoulders. Holding her was so easy, so tantalizing. It made him want more. And she was ready to give it.

“Why now?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Her smile flashed. “Because you look like a man who needs kissing.”

He let his fingers explore the soft flesh of her arms. “Any other reason?”

Responding to his caress, she let out a slow, unsteady sigh. “Because,” she said, her smile fading, “I think we're starting to understand each other a little.”

“Liza...”

“Just kiss me. We don't have to talk anymore.”

Cliff closed his eyes, and his brows came together painfully. “Liza, it's been a long time for me.”

“A long time since you kissed anybody?”

“A long time since I did anything.”

“Shall we find out what you've forgotten?”

There was so much to tell her. So much to warn her about. Inadequately, Cliff said, “I just don't want to hurt you.”

“I know,” she murmured soothingly, lifting her mouth to meet his. “I know.”

Liza felt Cliff's hands bite into her arms, and she braced herself for a hard, powerful, passionate kiss. She could feel his heart beating in painful throbs beneath her hand and knew he was barely holding on to the threads of composure. He was very strong, and the war of his emotions played across his rugged face. She watched as his self-control began to crumble.

But Cliff didn't snatch her into a kiss that packed a wallop of sexual messages.

Instead, he hovered over her mouth for a heart-stopping moment, his dark eyes seeking hers as he gathered Liza into a firm embrace. Awkwardly at first, his hands smoothed down her body, but finally reached the most sensual curves and clung there. Almost tentatively, he drew Liza closer until the heat of his frame melded with her own. Then he lowered his head and brushed her lips as lightly as butterfly wings.

Liza clung to him, suddenly weak in the knees with the force of her own shattered emotions. She could feel Cliff check the forces inside himself, holding back, trying hard to be gentle. His kiss was sweet. It was slow. Gentle. Thorough. The care with which he held her, kissed her, caressed her, made Liza's heart turn over.

She might have whispered his name. Either that, or the word became imprinted in her mind at the exact moment his mouth caught hers, as if giving a name to the myriad sensations that washed up from inside her soul as Cliff kissed her there in the attic.

She felt a ripple of tension pass through him, too. As her senses awoke, Liza felt Cliff come alive as well—years of loneliness falling away as soundlessly as a dark shadow. The pressure of his hands, his lips, his body, grew more sure with every passing heartbeat. But Liza relaxed and
gave herself to him completely, knowing she was safe, sure she didn't want to stop what was happening.

Cliff took his time, the kiss turning more passionate until Liza's mouth slowly parted and allowed him entry. Rhythmically, he savored the contour of her lips, the warmth of her breath as it mingled raggedly with his own. His tongue swirled gently across her lower lip—seeking, exploring, enjoying.

Stretching on tiptoe, Liza aligned their bodies, delighting in the perfect symmetry. Her breasts swelled deliciously against his chest, and her belly fit into the curve of his as perfectly as if they'd been created for each other. She loved the excitement created by his hard thighs as they rubbed her softer ones. She slid her fingers into his hair and prolonged the kiss until she was drowning in erotic sensations.

She blew a soft sigh when he drew back.

“Again,” she whispered, gazing into his desire-darkened eyes.

“You're so soft,” he murmured, delving into her lips for another kiss. “Soft and beautiful.”

She strained against him then, urging his tongue deeper into her mouth and swirling her own with playful abandon—teasing, coaxing, encouraging. He turned hot and possessive, and Liza's blood was soon thundering in her veins. If the kiss had started out in her control, he soon made it clear that they would share the dominant role.

Their play might have gone on for hours or mere minutes, but at last Cliff broke the kiss. The contact of their mouths diminished until finally the wonderful sensation was no more than an imperceptible touch.

He bumped his forehead against hers and seemed unable to catch his breath. Raggedly, he said, “I can't believe what you're doing to me.”

“I love your body, too, Forrester. It's making me wild. Can you feel my heart beating?”

She lifted his hand and placed his palm against her breast, causing Cliff to groan.

“Liza,” he said, his voice catching. “Liza, I can't do this.”

“Then you're doing a damn good imitation of it.” She arched as his fingertips caressed the curve of her breast, the touch more erotic than any she had ever known. The gentle contact had her seething inside so that she closed her eyes to enjoy it completely and sighed, “A damn good imitation.”

He stopped caressing her and traced a line up Liza's chest to her cheek before lacing his fingers in her hair. For an instant, Liza thought he meant to kiss her again.

But he said softly, “Liza, I want to make love to you.”

She opened her eyes. “Yes. I can feel how much you want me.”

She could, too. The powerful way his body rode against hers allowed no secrets. Liza felt scorched by the heat of him. He was no awkward boy anxious for quick release. Although Cliff hesitated, she could sense he was no amateur in the art of love. Lovemaking had come easily to Cliff at one time in his life, she knew. He was a powerful man—full of all the basic desires, despite his wish to keep those desires in check. His other hand moved hungrily down her back, effectively pinning Liza's body to his own.

Huskily, he said, “I do want you. So badly. But we can't do this.”

“Why not?”

“I can't explain. Not exactly.”

“Cliff, I'm practically melting!”

“I don't want to hurt you, Liza.”

She bit her lips to keep from crying out her frustration. Then she managed to say, “But I trust you. I trust you completely.”

The turbulence in Cliff's gaze pierced Liza as sharply as any knife, and the rigid control that quivered in his body
bespoke a conflict that still raged inside him. His face looked so ravaged that Liza suddenly wanted to cry.

He traced the line of her cheek gently and then released her. Standing back, Cliff said quietly, “But I don't trust myself.”

A
LTHOUGH SHE HATED
to admit it, Liza was afraid to go back to her bed for what was left of the night. She was too churned up—sexually as well as psychologically. The idea of a ghost rattling around in Margaret's attic made sleeping alone impossible. But the chances of sleeping with Cliff were even more remote. She didn't dare press him on that.

Exhausted and still drugged with cold medicine, Liza couldn't keep her eyes open, however. She crawled onto the sofa in the lounge and tried to stay awake while theorizing with Cliff about her grandmother, but it was a losing battle. At last she crept into Cliff's arms, put her head on his chest despite the immediate tension she felt in him and fell soundly asleep.

Sometime during the night she was aware of Cliff pulling something warm over both of them.

“Don't go,” she murmured. “I don't want to be alone.”