Grand Passion (11 page)

“I'll see what I can do,” O'Reilly said. “I should have the info in a few days.”

Max eyed the storm that was forming out over the sea. “There's one other name I want you to check out for me, while you're at it. I want to find a young man named Benjamin Atkins.”

“Is he connected to your security problem?”

“No, I don't think so. Separate issue. He's a former employee of the inn. Left in the middle of the night with no forwarding address.”

“I get the picture. What did he take with him?”

“It's not what he took, it's what he left behind,” Max said.

“Okay, be cryptic. What do I care? Give me what you've got on Atkins.”

Max read off the few meager facts Cleo had given him. Ben's young life was all too easily summarized. Parts of it reminded Max of his own past. At least he hadn't gotten a young woman pregnant when he was barely twenty-three, Max reflected. He'd always been very careful not to get any woman pregnant.

That thought brought to mind a strangely tantalizing image of how Cleo would look ripe and round with his baby. A surge of possessiveness and wonder twisted Max's insides.
His baby
. It struck him that this was the first time he had actually thought about having a kid of his own.

“I'll get back to you as soon as I've got something,” O'Reilly said.

“Thanks.” Max hesitated. “By the way, there's no great rush on that Atkins situation.”

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

Max kneaded his left leg and studied the sea. “It means that I'm in no great rush to get answers. Take your time.” He hung up the phone.

The reason he was in no hurry to locate Atkins was because once he did he would have to carry out the mission that Cleo and the others had assigned him. It was almost certainly going to be Mission Impossible. Max was ninety-nine percent sure he wouldn't be able to talk Atkins into returning to the inn's odd family.

Hell, Max thought, he didn't have the slightest idea of how to go about convincing a young man to accept his responsibilities.

The Atkins situation was shaping up to be one of those exceedingly rare, but very memorable, occasions when Max knew he was almost bound to screw up. He hated failure, hated it with a passion. The price was too damn high.

When he failed to talk Atkins into coming back, Max knew he would not find a warm welcome waiting for him back at Robbins' Nest Inn. People treated you differently when you didn't give them what they wanted. An outsider was welcome only as long as he was useful.

It was a pragmatic issue, Max told himself, not an emotional one. Being edged out of the inn's cozy family would make it difficult to continue searching for the Luttrells. That meant he had to find the paintings before he left in search of Ben Atkins.

Max continued to massage his aching thigh. The answer was obvious. He would have to seduce Cleo That would be the fastest, easiest way to get the answers he wanted.

Cleo was the key to recovering his inheritance. She had to know more than she'd admitted. There was no reason for Jason to have lied to Max on his deathbed

Cleo knew where the paintings were, and Max knew from reading
The Mirror
that she was vulnerable to passion. Now that he had discovered the fire in her, he was almost certain he could make her want him.

Max stopped rubbing his thigh and contemplated the pot of herbal tea Andromeda had sent upstairs with him earlier.

“Cleo says you're having a bit of trouble with that leg of yours,” Andromeda had said as she'd bustled about the kitchen, preparing the concoction. “Try a cup or two of this and see if it doesn't help.”

“Does wonders for my arthritis,” Daystar had volunteered.

“Try it, Max,” Cleo had insisted. “Andromeda's teas are great for headaches and sore muscles.”

The stuff tasted like essence of weeds, as far as Max was concerned. But the novelty of having Cleo and the rest of her “family” fuss over him had proved irresistible for some reason. He'd already gotten one full cup of the stuff down. Maybe it was his imagination, but his leg did seem to feel better, just as it had last night when Cleo had massaged it. He decided to try a second cup.

Hot images of the previous night flooded back, sending another rush of desire through his veins. Max sipped the tea as he allowed himself to savor the memory of Cleo's mouth under his. Sweet, fresh, and trembling with a shy eagerness.

His instincts told him that he could satiate himself with the warmth of her body as he had never been satiated before in his life. All he had to do was unlock the flame inside the ice.

But time was running out. O'Reilly was good. Max knew that even taking his time about it, his friend would come up with the answers he had been sent after fairly quickly. At that point Max would be forced to track down Atkins and talk to him. He had given his word.

That meant he had to find the Luttrells before he left in search of Atkins. Max knew that after he'd had his little man-to-man chat with Atkins, things would never be the same for him here at the inn. He would be an outsider once more.

No big deal, Max thought. He was used to the role of outsider. But he wanted those Luttrells.

Two days later Cleo popped into the kitchen to check on dinner preparations. She saw Daystar hovering over a large pot of what looked like Cosmic Harmony's very special bean and vegetable soup.

“Have you seen Andromeda?” Cleo asked.

“She'll be here any minute.” Daystar added fresh basil to the pot. “Got delayed at the Retreat.”

“Did something happen?” Cleo sniffed the soup appreciatively.

“Some man in a gray suit and a silk tie drove up just as we were leaving. He insisted on talking to her. Said it was important. I came on ahead to get dinner started.” Daystar ground some pepper into the soup. “Any word yet on the whereabouts of Benjy?”

Cleo arched her brows. “You mean Mr. Ben Atkins?”

Daystar chuckled. “Oh, that's right. We're supposed to start calling the boy by his new name, aren't we?”

“Max says if we don't, he won't bother to even try to bring Ben back. And, no, as far as I know, there's been no word on his whereabouts.”

“Trisha doesn't think Max can find him,” Daystar said. “Or that Ben will agree to come back even if Max does locate him.”

“We'll see.” Cleo turned her head as the back door opened and Andromeda bustled into the room. Water drops sparkled on her iridescent blue rain cape.

“It's pouring out there.” Andromeda peeled off the shimmering cape and hung it in a closet. “Thought I'd never get rid of that silly man. What a waste of time. He simply wouldn't take no for an answer.”

Daystar closed an oven door. “Salesman?”

“You could say that.” Andromeda frowned. “Except that he wanted to buy, not sell. His name was Garrison Spark.”

“Hah. I knew it,” Cleo muttered. “He was probably trying to steal you and the others for his own restaurant, wasn't he?”

“Not exactly, dear.” Andromeda tied her apron around her waist. “He said he was an art dealer. He's looking for some paintings by a man named Luttrell.”

Cleo widened her eyes. “Amos Luttrell?”

“Yes, I believe that was it. Why? Have you heard of him?”

“Uh, yes. As a matter of fact, I have.” Cleo frowned. “Max mentioned him.”

Andromeda picked up a knife and went to work slicing red peppers. “Mr. Spark claims there are five paintings by this Luttrell person floating around out here on the coast somewhere. Says they're worth a fortune.”

Daystar glanced at her. “How much is a fortune?”

Andromeda shrugged. “Fifty thousand dollars.”

Cleo's mouth dropped open. “
Fifty thousand dollars
. Are you kidding?”

The kitchen door swung open at that moment. Max loomed in the doorway. Sammy was right beside him, Lucky Ducky in hand.

“We need another tray of hors d'oeuvres in the lounge,” Max said.

“With olives,” Sammy said with an air of grave importance. “All the olives are gone.”

Max glanced down at him. “That's because you ate them.”

Sammy giggled. “Lucky Ducky ate them.”

“I've got another tray ready to go,” Daystar said. “I'll send it right out.”

Max glanced at Cleo. “Something wrong?”

“Someone named Garrison Spark is looking for those paintings you mentioned the first night you arrived.”

Max went utterly still. “Spark is here?”

“Not here,” Cleo said. “He went to Cosmic Harmony. Andromeda talked to him. Max, Mr. Spark says those paintings are worth fifty thousand dollars.”

“He lied,” Max said quietly. “They're worth a quarter of a million. In five years' time they'll be worth a million.”

“Good lord,” Daystar breathed.

Cleo was dazed. “A quarter of a million?”

“Yes,” Max said. He looked at Andromeda. “What did you tell Spark?”

Andromeda looked surprised by the edge in his voice. “I told him I had never heard of Amos Luttrell, let alone the paintings.”

Cleo scowled at Max. “What's going on, Max? How could anyone think that Jason owned such valuable paintings?”

His eyes met hers. “I think it's time I explained a few of the facts of life as they relate to Jason Curzon. I told you he was not a poor man. That's putting it mildly. He was Jason Curzon of Curzon International.”

“The hotel chain?” Cleo was stunned. “Are you certain of that?”

“Yes,” said Max. “I should know. I used to work for him.”

S
o our Jason Curzon was really one of those Curzons? The head of the big hotel chain?” Cleo asked again later that night.

She was perched on a stool at the bar, a cup of Andromeda's herbal tea in front of her. It was a typical, slow, midweek night in winter. It was late, and the low hum of conversation in the shadowed lounge had a relaxed, sleepy quality.

Max was behind the bar, looking as professional as if he had spent his entire working life making espresso drinks and serving after-dinner sherry. He was, Cleo reflected, an amazingly adaptable man. He'd handled every task he'd been given with a calm, totally unruffled aplomb.

“That's probably the twentieth time you've asked me that question.” Max picked up a newly washed glass and dried it with a white linen towel. “For the twentieth time, the answer is yes.”

“He never said a word. Guess he didn't want us to know.” Cleo shook her head in silent amazement. “We always knew his last name was Curzon, but we never dreamed he was connected to the hotel family.”

“He obviously liked being treated as just another member of your family,” Max said quietly. “He was apparently living out a pleasant little fantasy here on the coast. There was no harm in it.”

“Of course not, it's just that it's so hard to believe that the head of one of the world's biggest hotel chains spent his weekends here at Robbins' Nest Inn. Sheesh.” Cleo made a face. “I had him unclogging toilets, too. He used to help Benjy—excuse me, I mean,
Ben
—with the plumbing all the time.”

Max slanted her a strange glance. “You really didn't know who he was, did you?”

“Never had a clue. Not even when we got the letter from a Mrs. Singleton telling us he had died.”

“Roberta Singleton was his secretary. Knowing Jason, he had probably left her a list of people to notify in the event something happened to him.”

“And we were on the list.” Cleo recalled the many long talks she'd had with Jason here in the lounge. “At least I know now why he had so many good suggestions about running this place. I nearly doubled my profit this past year, thanks to him. It was Jason's idea to put in the computerized billing system.”

“Jason knew what he was doing when it came to running hotels.” Max picked up another glass. “He was the best in the business.”

Cleo watched him closely. “No wonder you thought I was some kind of gold-digger when you first got here.”

“Let's not reopen that subject.”

“Suits me.” Cleo took a sip of her tea and frowned as she remembered another topic he had brought up that first night. “So you worked for him?”

“Yes.”

Cleo studied his expressionless face and knew intuitively that the single-word answer covered a lot of territory. “What exactly did you do for him?”

“Odd jobs. Same as I do for you.”

“Somehow I can't envision you tending bar and handling luggage for Curzon International,” Cleo said.

“Why not? I do it here.”

“You do have a knack for making yourself useful.” Cleo decided to abandon that subject. “What about those paintings you mentioned? Those Artie Lutefisks or whatever you called them.”

Max gave her a pained look. “Luttrells. Amos Luttrells.”

“Right. Luttrells. The night you arrived you seemed to think Jason might have left them here.”

“That's what he told me.” Max's eyes were completely shuttered now. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

Cleo tilted her head to one side. “Now this Garrison Spark person is looking for them. He must think they're here, too. Know anything about him?”

“He owns a gallery in Seattle. Very exclusive. I worked for him for a while.”

“Him too?” Cleo elevated one brow. “You do get around, don't you? What did you do for Mr. Spark?”

“Crated paintings. Transported them. Delivered them to their owners. Strictly manual labor. I didn't work for Spark very long.” Max studied the reflection in the glass he was polishing. “He and I had a few differences of opinion on a couple of matters.”

“What matters?”

Max looked at her, his gaze steady. “Spark is very smart, and he knows a great deal about contemporary art. But he's not bothered by pesky little nuisances such as honesty and integrity. If he thinks he can pass off a fake to a client and get away with it, he'll do it.”

“Really?” Cleo was fascinated. “I've never met a crooked art dealer. He sounds kind of exotic.”

“He's got all the ethics of a snake.” There was a rough edge to Max's voice. “You heard what Andromeda said. He claimed the Luttrells were only worth fifty thousand.”

“You're sure they're worth more?”

Max's mouth tightened. “A lot more.”

“And you're sure they belong to you?”

“I'm damn sure they belong to me,” Max said very softly.

“Did Jason actually
give
them to you?”

“Yes.”

“He just up and gave you a bunch of very valuable paintings?” Cleo persisted.

“Yes.”

“The two of you must have been awfully good friends,” she observed.

“You could say that.” Max stacked the dried glasses in precise rows on the counter. “On his deathbed he said—” Max broke off abruptly and concentrated on arranging the glasses. “Forget it.”

Cleo nearly lost her balance on the stool as the deep emotions emanating from Max washed over her. She could also feel the equally powerful waves of the self-control he was exerting.

“Max?” she prodded gently. “What did he say to you?”

Max's eyes were stark when they met hers, but his voice was perfectly neutral. “He said something about me being the son he'd never had.”

Cleo looked at him and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jason's dying words constituted the most important words Max had ever heard in his life. “Oh, Max….”

Max's mouth curved with cool self-mockery, but his eyes did not change. “I knew at the time that Jason was exaggerating. Hell, I was his employee, not blood kin. Nobody knew that better than me.”

“Yes, but if he called you his son he must have cared for you a great deal.”

Max's smile vanished. He concentrated on polishing another glass. “He was dying. Deathbed conversations are probably always a little melodramatic. I'm sure he didn't expect me to take him literally.” He paused briefly, his gaze hardening. “But he did give me the Luttrells. There was no mistake about that.”

She knew then that it had been a very, very long time since anyone other than Jason had told Max even indirectly that he was loved. She thought about the great love of her parents, which had bonded her small family together, and knew a searing sense of sorrow for all that Max had missed.

“Those Luttrell paintings are more than just a valuable gift, aren't they? They're your inheritance from Jason,” Cleo said. “He wanted you to have them.”

“He sent me out here to find them,” Max said in the same dangerously neutral tone. “He said he'd left them in your care.”

“Hmm. I wonder what he meant by that.” Cleo glanced at the paintings of English hunt scenes that decorated the walls of the lounge. “Jason never even mentioned them to me.”

“Is that right?”

Cleo glowered at him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Max smiled coolly, his expression speculative. “I'm just wondering what he meant, that's all.”

“Well, I haven't got the foggiest idea,” Cleo said. She was about to pursue the point when she realized that Max's attention had shifted to the door of the lounge. Cleo turned her head to see what he was looking at.

A man with the sharp, angular features of a tormented poet sauntered into the room. He was wearing a black pullover, black jeans, and black boots. His dark brown hair was swept straight back from his forehead and hung down to his shoulders. There was a distinctly smoldering quality to his heavy-lidded gaze.

Cleo smiled at him.

“Friend of yours?” Max asked softly.

She leaned slightly across the bar. “That's Adrian Forrester. Harmony Cove's great unpublished writer. He arrived in town a year ago and told everyone he was an author, but so far he hasn't made a single sale. He comes in here once or twice a week.”

Max's brows rose. “I take it you haven't told him about your success?”

“Are you kidding? I seriously doubt that he would want to hear about it. I think it would depress him.” She sat back as Adrian approached.

Adrian reached the bar and took the stool next to Cleo's with languid grace. He gave her the world-weary smile he had practiced to the point of perfection. A jaded Lord Byron consumed by ennui.

“I thought I'd drop in for an espresso,” Adrian drawled. “I've been doing battle with a crucial scene in my book all day. Can't seem to get it the way I want it. Thought some caffeine and a change of atmosphere would help.”

Cleo smiled consolingly. “Sure. Max, here, makes great espresso.”

Adrian flicked Max a brief, dismissive glance. “Make it a double, pal. I need a jolt.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Max said. “But I'm warning you, if you say ‘Play it again, Sam,’ I won't be responsible for the results.”

“Huh?” Adrian's brow furrowed in confusion.

“Forget it.” Max went to work at the gleaming espresso machine. Steam hissed.

Adrian swung around on his stool to face Cleo. He nodded toward Max without much interest. “Someone new on staff?”

“Yes,” Cleo said. She knew from experience that the only thing Adrian really liked to talk about was himself, so she changed the topic. “How's the writing going?”

Adrian gave an eloquent shrug. “I've got a proposal out to a couple of major publishers. I'm expecting to hear from one of them soon. They're going to go wild for it. I'll probably find myself in the middle of an auction. I suppose I'll have to see about getting an agent one of these days.”

“Another mystery?”

“Yeah. It's called
Dead End
. Classic, hard-boiled detective fiction. It's the purest form of the genre, you know. Very few people are doing it these days.” Adrian's mouth twisted in disgust. “Too many women writers out there doing romantic suspense.”

“Is that right?” Cleo asked.

“Yeah. They're ruining the genre with a bunch of female detectives. Even in the books where the protagonist is a man, they give him a female companion.” Adrian grimaced. “Everybody's doing
relationships
.”

“What's wrong with that?” Cleo asked, thinking about the very romantic relationship she had put into
A Fine Vengeance
. “I like some romance in a story.”

“Give me a break, Cleo. Romance is women's stuff. I'm writing real books.”

“Are you implying there's something wrong with what women like to read?” Cleo asked very politely. She tried to be patient with Adrian, but there was no getting around the fact that he could be a real pain.

“I'm saying that the modern mystery novel has been ruined by female writers who have insisted on making the relationships in the story more important than solving the crime,” Adrian stated grandly. “Who the hell wants a relationship in a mystery?”

“Women readers, maybe?” Cleo suggested.

“Who cares about them?” Adrian gave her a dark, brooding look. “I'm writing classic mystery. Lean and mean. The tough stuff. My work is pared down to the essentials.”

“The essentials, hmm?”

“I'm creating something important, something that will endure, something that the critics will love. I'll be damned if I'll cater to a bunch of women readers who are looking for
relationships
in a story.”

Max set the espresso down in front of him. “I'm not so sure that's a smart move, Forrester. People have always read for character rather than plot. And good characterization requires a relationship of some kind.”

Cleo smiled approvingly.

Adrian gave Max an annoyed look. “What are you? Some kind of literary critic?”

“Not tonight. Tonight I'm a bartender.”

“Take some advice and stick with that job. Something tells me you aren't going to make it in a more demanding field.” Adrian picked up the small cup of espresso, took a deep swallow, and promptly choked.

“Aaargh!” He sputtered wildly and grabbed a napkin.

Alarmed, Cleo reached over to pound him on the back. “Are you all right, Adrian?”

Adrian glowered furiously at Max. “What the hell did you put in this espresso?”

“I used French roast and doubled the shot.” Max looked innocent. “You said you wanted it strong.”

“Damn it to hell, that's downright lethal,” Adrian growled.

Max smiled politely. “I make coffee the way you write mysteries. Lean and mean. The tough stuff.”

Max was deliberately seducing her.

The day after the scene with Adrian, Cleo sat quietly on the mat in Cosmic Harmony's spare, tranquil meditation center and absorbed the full impact of what was happening.