Grand Passion (14 page)

It was another line from her book, of course. Max was apparently memorizing every chapter.

She thought about the way he had been leaning on the hawk-headed cane as he went up the stairs. Her instincts had told her from the start that the recurrent ache in Max's leg mirrored the darker, deeper wound in his soul. He was a man who had survived without much love, and he had found ways to do without. But that did not mean he wasn't hurting.

Five Amos Luttrell paintings, no matter how beautiful or how valuable, were never going to fill the empty places in Max's life. She knew what Max needed, even if he didn't. He needed a home, just as she had needed one after her family had been destroyed.

Cleo opened her fingers slowly and looked down at the key and the card he had put into her hand.

She dropped both into her pocket and went to the door. She let herself out into the hall and went downstairs.

When she reached the kitchen she found a stainless steel kettle, filled it with cold water, and set it on the stove.

A few minutes later Cleo poured the boiling water over the herbs she had placed in a ceramic pot. She put the lid on the pot and added a cup and saucer to the tray.

She carried the tray down the hall and took the small elevator to the third floor. Then she walked to the attic staircase door.

She climbed the darkened stairs to the attic and paused in front of Max's door. The floorboard in front of Max's room squeaked. She knew he could hear the sound from inside the room. Cleo put the tray on the floor and knocked hesitantly.

“Max?”

There was silence for a moment. Then Max's voice came softly from inside the room. “What is it, Cleo?”

“Open the door. I brought you some of Andromeda's tea.”

“Use the key that I gave you.”

Cleo took a step back as if the door had suddenly become red-hot. “Max, I didn't come up here to play fantasy games with you. I brought you something for your leg.”

“I don't need anything for my leg.”

“Yes, you do. Don't be so darn stubborn.” Cleo dug the key out of her pocket, shoved it into the lock, and opened the door before she lost her nerve.

The only light on in the vast room beneath the eaves was from the small lamp beside the bed. It revealed Sammy's crayon drawing neatly pinned to the wall beside the desk. It also played over Max's dark, shadowed figure near the window.

Cleo saw that he had taken off his shirt and shoes. The only clothing he had on was a pair of trousers.

There was power in the smooth, muscled contours of Max's shoulders. Cleo stared at the dark, curling hair on his chest, fascinated by the way it formed a vee that plummeted beneath the waistband of his pants.

Max's eyes met hers. “The riddle of
The Mirror
is who is the seducer and who is the seduced.”

Cleo's fingers trembled as she dropped the key back into her pocket and reached down to pick up the tray. “I didn't come up here to be seduced.”

“Did you come up here to seduce me?”

“No.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

“Drink tea. At least you are.” Cleo kicked the door shut behind her and marched into the room. She put the tea tray down on the desk and poured a cup of the herbal brew. She held the cup out to Max. “Here, have some of this. It will make you feel much better.”

“Will it?” Max's gaze was filled with a dangerously disturbing sensuality as he obediently took the cup from her hand. His fingers brushed hers.

“Yes.” Cleo rubbed her damp palms on her jeans. “At least I hope it will. You're in a strange mood tonight, aren't you?”

“Am I?” Max took a long swallow of the tea. Then he put the cup down on the desk. “The only mirror in this room is that one over there. I wonder what we'll see in it when we look into it together.”

Cleo's gaze went to the old-fashioned full-length mirror on the wooden stand. A shiver of excitement stirred the hair on her neck. As if he knew exactly what she was feeling, Max reached out and took her by the hand. He led her toward the mirror.

Cleo couldn't speak. She waited one last time for the crashing tide of uncertainty and wrongness to wash over her, but nothing happened. There was no fear with Max, no desire to pull back from the brink. She floated across the room as if she were a balloon on the end of a string that he held in his hand.

Max drew her to a halt in front of the mirror. He stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. His eyes met hers in the silvered glass.

Cleo felt the heat in him. A gathering sense of urgency welled up inside her in response. She was shaken to the core by the force of her own desire. She had not felt this way since she had written
The Mirror
.

“I'm glad you used the key tonight, Cleo.” Max unfastened the clip that bound her hair.

She watched the thick mass of her hair tumble down around her shoulders. Then she felt Max's thumbs slide beneath the weight of it. His fingers touched sensitive skin at the nape of her neck.

“Max?”

“Beautiful,” he whispered. He bent his head and dropped a kiss into her hair.

Cleo looked into the mirror and saw the face of the man inside the glass. For the first time the reflection was crystal clear.

The man inside the mirror was Max.

M
ax removed Cleo's glasses and set them down on a small table. He managed to invest the small action with a startling degree of intimacy. It was as if he had just removed a protective veil. She felt naked and vulnerable.

She could still see well enough to make out her own reflection and that of Max looming behind her, but the images were gently blurred. It was like looking at figures trapped in a silvery mist.

Max's eyes met Cleo's in the mirror. His mouth curved slightly. “Who is the seducer and who is the one who is seduced?”

Cleo shivered. The reflection in the mirror allowed her to see Max's hands move on her shoulders even as she felt the weight of them. The sensual power in him captivated all her senses. “I don't know. I never knew.”

“Maybe there isn't an answer.” Max flexed his fingers gently. He watched her face. “Maybe it's supposed to be like this.”

“Like what?” Cleo could not tear her eyes away from the mirror.

“Like looking into a spectacular painting. Becoming a part of it. Seeing some of the layers and knowing that there will be no peace until you've seen them all.”

“What happens when you've seen them all?” Cleo watched his hands slip slowly down her arms. “Do you grow bored with the painting?”

“No. It's impossible to see all the layers. So you keep looking, reexamining the ones you've already seen and searching out new ones. The hunger is always there.”

Cleo touched one of his hands with her own. “Hunger?”

“You can satisfy it temporarily, but you know it will return, and you know you will need to look into the painting again. And again.” He lifted the heavy weight of her hair aside, bowed his head, and kissed the side of her throat. “And again.”

“It sounds painful.” But the urgency in her that was generated by his warm, tantalizing kiss was not painful at all. It was exquisitely exciting.

Max's eyes gleamed in the shadows. “The hunger is part of the pleasure. But you know all about that, don't you?”

“No. Yes.” She trembled as he traced the line of her jaw with his fingers. “I don't know.” The eyes of the woman in the mirror were still veiled in mystery, even though she no longer wore the protective glasses.

“You described the sensation in
The Mirror
,” Max said. He threaded his fingers through her hair as if it were so much precious silk. “There is hunger on every page. The book is filled with it. It's hunger so deep it has the power to make the reader hungry, too.”

“
The Mirror
is a fantasy,” Cleo said breathlessly.

Max reached around from behind and started to unbutton her oxford cloth shirt. “A fantasy like the fantasy we're watching in the mirror. A fantasy which is also reality.”

“No.” But she was no longer certain of that. He was right, the fantasy was rapidly becoming a reality. Max was making it happen. It was disorienting and disquieting. It was also incredibly thrilling.

“You're the woman in the book, and you're the woman we're watching in the mirror, aren't you, Cleo?”

A light-headed sensation swept through her, leaving her a little dizzy. “If I'm her, who are you?”

“You know who I am. I'm the man in the mirror. And I'm the man who's touching you. The brilliance of
The Mirror
is that in it seducer and seduced become one.”

She wanted to explain just how much of a fantasy
The Mirror
really was, but she could not find the words. He would never believe that she had an extremely limited acquaintance with the kind of sensuality she had described in her book. No man would believe that
The Mirror
had been created almost entirely from her imagination.

Cleo watched the image in the mirror as Max slowly and steadily undid the buttons of her shirt. She was riveted by the sight of his fingers as they slipped into the shadowed valley between her breasts.

The woman in the glass could not really be her, Cleo thought. She looked mysterious and exotic and sensual; she looked like a Cleopatra, not a Cleo.

Max's fingers touched her bare skin, and she sensed herself start to merge with the woman in the mirror. The man in the misty reflection looked at her with knowing eyes, eyes that saw the many layers waiting to be revealed. Eyes that were filled with a hunger that matched and perhaps exceeded her own. That knowledge shook her.

“Max, I think I'm getting a little scared,” Cleo said.

“Of me?”

She looked into the mirror and saw the stark need etched into every line of his face. She also saw the control and self-discipline that governed that need, and she knew that she was safe.

“No,” Cleo said softly. “I'm not frightened of you.”

“Of yourself?” He had the shirt undone now. Slowly he parted it, revealing her breasts.

“Of the unknown, I think.”

“But you know what's waiting for us, Cleo. You wrote a whole book about it.” Max eased the shirt off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He circled her waist with his hands and slid his palms upward to cup her breasts. “I'm the one who's going into the unknown.”

He meant it, Cleo thought, deeply intrigued. Not in the literal sense, of course, but she knew that in some way tonight would be a new experience for Max, too. The knowledge touched her deeply.

Wordlessly she lifted her fingertips to the side of his face. The movement caused her breast to glide upward. Max's thumb skimmed across her nipple, sending a searing jolt of sensation through her.

Cleo cried out softly and closed her eyes for a brief moment. She leaned back against Max, seeking the heat and strength of his body. He was as solid as a rock behind her. The heaviness of his arousal pressed into her buttocks.

Cleo opened her eyes when she felt Max's fingers go to the button of her jeans. He dropped soft, persuasive kisses into her hair as he slid the zipper downward. Cleo stared into the mirror as he eased the jeans and her panties down over her hips. It was like watching a dream unfold. She was part of it and yet still apart from it. The real Cleo was still hovering uncertainly between the image in the mirror and the woman who stood in front of it.

“Look at you.” There was primitive male awe in Max's voice. “You're beautiful.”

She wasn't, and she knew it, but part of the magic of the night was that Max could make her feel beautiful. Cleo smiled dreamily and put her hands on top of Max's.

He eased his fingers downward into the dark triangle of curls that concealed Cleo's most secret places. She leaned her head back against his shoulder. When he slid one finger into the liquid warmth that had gathered in the folds between her legs, she moaned.

The right man
.

Cleo turned abruptly within the circle of Max's arms and splayed her fingers across his chest. Without any hesitation she lifted her face, offering him her mouth.

Max groaned and crushed her lips beneath his. The full force of his own hunger broke over her. Cleo felt like a small, supple tree in a gale.

This kiss was not like the other one that Max had given her that night in the solarium. It was darker, more demanding, and far more blatantly erotic.

Cleo shuddered beneath the sensual onslaught, but she had no wish to pull back from it. Instead, she craved more of Max's brand of hunger. It was, in turn, making her insatiable.

Max cupped her buttocks in his hands and pressed her against his aroused body. She tasted his mouth with her tongue, and he, in turn, shuddered.

“I don't know if I'm going to live through this.” Max covered her lips once more with his own and drew her back toward the bed. “And I don't care so long as I have you tonight.”

Cleo pressed herself closer. She felt Max stagger a little as he worked to balance her weight as well as his own without the aid of his cane. Cleo heard his sudden, sharp intake of breath and knew that his leg was protesting the added burden. She started to draw back.

“No.” Max caught her hands and put them firmly around his neck. His eyes gleamed with passion. “Forget the damned leg. Hold on to me. Tight.”

She clung to him and felt the heat that was radiating from his skin. Max was burning up with desire. She wondered if she felt as warm to him.

He collapsed back onto the quilt, dragging Cleo down on top of him. Cleo sprawled across his chest and burrowed into his warmth. She couldn't seem to stop kissing him. She wanted to touch him everywhere.

She showered him with kisses as he lay beneath her. His throat, his chest, his belly; she savored every inch of him. He was so beautifully, powerfully, inexpressibly
male
. The potential they shared was so vast that it almost frightened her. He was the exciting
other
, the one who would set her free and whom she, in turn, would free.

Max sucked in his breath again, but this time, Cleo knew, it wasn't because of the pain in his leg. He wrapped one hand around her head and gently pushed her mouth against the skin of his flat stomach. “Yes,” he muttered. “So good.”

He reached out, captured her hand in his, and settled her palm over the fierce bulge in his trousers.

Cleo stilled as she cautiously explored the size of his erection. She forced her head up against the weight of his hand. “Max?”

His fingers trembled as he touched her breast. His eyes were shadowed with dark excitement. “I want you.”

Cleo smiled tremulously. “I want you, too.”

“Then there isn't any reason to stop now, is there?” He searched her face.

Cleo took a deep breath. “No. There isn't any reason to stop.”

Max moved, turning onto his side and easing Cleo onto her back. He covered her body with his own and kissed her.

Cleo speared her fingers through his hair and arched herself against him. The reality of what she was experiencing transcended everything she had imagined when she wrote
The Mirror
.

Max tore his mouth free from hers and sat up reluctantly. He unfastened his pants and worked them off. Then he leaned over to open the small drawer in the nightstand. Cleo heard the rustle of a foil wrapper. When he was finished, he turned out the lamp and came back to Cleo.

“You're more beautiful than I had imagined,” Cleo whispered. “And bigger.” She blushed furiously. “I mean all over. What I meant to say was…”

Max smiled slightly as he fitted himself between her legs. “Yes? What did you mean to say?”

Cleo saw the humor in his gaze and shook her head impatiently. She reached up and caught his face between her palms. “Max, what I'm trying to say is that although in some ways you're different than what I expected, in other ways I know you in a way I can't explain. It was you I fantasized about when I wrote
The Mirror
. I don't understand it. How could I have known about you?”

“There's no need to understand it.” He brushed his mouth across hers. “You seduced me the first time I saw you. Open for me, Cleo. God knows I need you.”

She felt him probing gently, dampening himself in the moisture between her legs. She gripped his shoulders very tightly and braced herself. She was not quite certain what to expect, but the anticipation was threatening to overwhelm her.

Max raised his brows as her nails bit into his skin. “Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere tonight.”

“I know.” Cleo tried to unlock her fingers. “I'm sorry, I can't help it.”

His soft laugh held a world of masculine satisfaction. It also held a tenderness that made Cleo feel safer than she had at any point since the death of her parents. She was in good hands, she told herself.

“It's all right,” Max said. “I'm not complaining. It's just that no one's ever held on to me the way you're holding on to me.”

“How am I holding you?”

“As if you'll never let go.” Max took her mouth again. At the same moment he drove into her swiftly, filling her completely with one long, powerful stroke.

Cleo closed her eyes and gasped in astonishment.

Max went completely still, his entire body suddenly rigid.

Cleo cautiously opened her eyes and found him staring down at her with an expression of stunned shock on his face. Neither of them moved.

Max recovered first. “Don't tell me this was—” He broke off, struggling for words. “Was this your first…?”

“Yes.” She smiled up at him, aware that her body was rapidly adjusting to the strangeness of having him lodged within her. “Remind me to drop a note to my therapist in the morning. I want to tell her that it was worth waiting for. I think she thought I was just being picky.”

“Damn.” Max rested his damp forehead on hers. “I didn't realize.”

“I know.” Cleo tightened her already fierce grip on his shoulders. She was acutely aware of the aching fullness inside her. “Do you think we could get on with it now?”

“I don't think we could stop it now.”

“Good.”

Max started to move within her. He was slow and careful and very, very thorough. He made love to her until his back was slick with sweat and his muscles trembled beneath his skin. Cleo felt her body clench around his with each stroke. She could not seem to get enough of the hot, thick feel of him inside her. She lifted her hips off the bed.