Grand Passion (15 page)

“My God, Cleo.” He reached down and touched her with slow, knowing fingers.

“
Max
.” Cleo surrendered to the climax with a small, startled shriek.

“Don't be afraid. It's all right. This is how it's supposed to be.” Max surged into her one last time on a ragged groan that signaled a surrender as great as her own.

Max was silent for a long time. He lay sprawled on the pillows, his arm around Cleo.

“Why didn't you say something?” he finally asked.

“What was there to say?” Cleo snuggled closer. She was feeling incredibly content and a little sleepy. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and glue herself to Max's warm strength. Unfortunately she was going to have to get dressed and traipse back to her tower room in a few minutes.

“How about, ‘Say, Max, I've never done this before, and I'd appreciate it if you'd take your time and do it right,’” Max muttered.

Cleo smiled against his chest. “You didn't seem to need instructions or advice. You did it just right. By the book, as a matter of fact.” She paused, remembering his words the night he had put the scarlet ribbon around her and kissed her. “As promised.”

Max winced. “About that book,” he said ominously. “Do you mind telling me how someone who is, uh…”

“Handicapped by the lack of personal experience?” Cleo offered helpfully.

“Let's call it romantically challenged,” Max said diplomatically.

Cleo raised her head to look down at him. “Romantically challenged?”

“I was searching for the, uh, politically correct phrase.”

Cleo started to grin. “Romantically challenged?
Romantically challenged
?”

“If you don't like that phrase, think of another.”

“Let's see.” Cleo considered carefully. “What about
relationship deprived
?”

“All right.”

“No, no, wait. I've got a better one.” Cleo sat up, holding the sheet to her breast. “How about
sexually impoverished
?”

“Whatever. Cleo, what I'm trying to ask is…”

“Hold it.” Cleo held up a hand. “I've got a better one.
Differently experienced
.”

“Damn it, Cleo…”

“Wait, wait, I've got an even better one. How about
sensually impaired
?”

“Enough with the political correctness jokes,” Max said. “I'm trying to carry on a serious conversation here.”

“You started it.
Romantically challenged
. I love it.” Cleo started to laugh.

“So how about answering the question?”

“
Romantically challenged
.” Cleo laughed harder.

“It's not that funny,” Max said grimly.

“Yes, it is.” Cleo was giggling so much now she could barely speak. “Especially coming from you.”

Max gave her a quelling look. “Do you mind telling me how you managed to impart such an interesting note of realism to
The Mirror
?”

Cleo doubled over in another fit of giggles. “I relied entirely on my imagination.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Imagination?”

“If you think about it, you'll recall that most of
The Mirror
is taken up with the feeling of anticipation, not the actual experience.”

“The hunger,” Max said softly.

“Exactly. The hunger.” Cleo savored the rich, warm feeling that filled her. More laughter bubbled within her. “Believe me, I understood that part very well.”

Max's expression was bemused. “I won't argue with that. All the same…”

“For crying out loud, Max, you don't have to jump out of a plane to guess what it would do to your insides.”

“You said that just before your parents died there was a man,” Max said carefully.

“There was. Actually there were two or three. Not at the same time, of course. But I never went to bed with any of them.”

“Why not?” Max persisted.

Cleo shrugged. “None of them was Mr. Right, even though I have to say that numbers two and three were really terrific kissers. Then, after my parents died, my therapist said I developed that psychological block or whatever it was I told you about.”

Max stared at her and slowly shook his head. “It's incredible.”

“What is?”

“That you wrote
The Mirror
using just your imagination.”

“Talent,” Cleo said without a shred of modesty. “Pure talent.”

“I've always had a lot of respect for the creative imagination,” Max said.

“I'm not surprised. You are, after all, a connoisseur of fine art.” Cleo's joy was threatening to explode in another burst of laughter. She didn't know if she would be able to contain it. “Tell me, oh, great expert, how do I compare to the average Van Gogh?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “More colorful.”

“
Colorful
.” The laughter overcame her again. She thrashed about in the throes of it and managed to tumble over the edge of the bed. She landed softly on the carpet and burst into a fresh peal of giggles. “How about Picasso?”

“You're a little more unpredictable than Picasso.” Max propped himself on his elbow and looked over the side of the bed. His gaze was enigmatic. “You seem to be in an unusually good mood tonight.”

Cleo widened her eyes. “Gee, Max, do you really think my mood is unusual under the circumstances?”

“Let's just say I've never heard of anyone who fell out of bed laughing after having sex.”

“How many people do you know who waited this long to experience sex?” Cleo countered.

“You have a point.” Max paused. “Forget what your therapist said. Tell me what you think you were waiting for all these years.”

“The right man, of course.”

Max stilled. “The right man?”

“Uh-huh.” Cleo's giggles faded at last into a smug smile. She folded her hands behind her head and gazed happily at the ceiling. “My therapist said he'd never come along. That I was using the fantasy as an excuse not to get involved.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I sure hoped he wandered into my life sooner or later, because I didn't have any choice in the matter. I
had
to wait for him. All the others felt
wrong
. She didn't understand that, and I couldn't explain it to her. It was one of the reasons why we parted company. That and the fact that she cost a fortune.”

“Cleo,” Max asked very softly, “how did you know I was the right man?”

She looked up at him from the floor and realized that he was deadly serious. She stopped chuckling. “I don't know. The same way you know a fine painting when you see one, I guess. Some sort of inner eye.”

Max gazed down at her for a long while. Then his mouth quirked in a strange fashion. “Speaking of paintings, you really don't know where my Luttrells are, do you?”

“Nope.” Cleo sat up. “I'm sorry, Max, but Jason never said a word about them to me.”

“I believe you.”

“Good, because it's the truth.” Cleo smiled as she got to her feet. She found her glasses and pushed them onto her nose. “Holy cow, look at the time. I'd better get dressed and get to my room.”

“Stay here with me tonight.”

She gave him a wistful look as she pulled on her shirt. “I wish I could, but I can't. George might need to get in touch with me for some reason. He'd call my room, not yours.”

“Call him now and let him know you're here with me.”

Cleo blushed as she tugged on her jeans. “That would be a little awkward, don't you think?”

“No,” Max said. “It would be honest.”

“It isn't a matter of honesty, it's matter of privacy.” Cleo stepped into her silver sneakers and leaned down to tie the laces. “And it isn't just him. Anyone else who needs me would look for me in my own room, too. People would worry if they couldn't find me.”

Max sat up slowly. “If that's the way you want it, I'll walk you to your room.”

“You don't have to do that.” Cleo glanced up as Max shoved the sheet aside. The light of the bedside lamp revealed the jagged white scar on his thigh. “Oh, Max,” she whispered.

He looked at her and saw the expression on her face. His eyes hardened as he reached for his trousers. “Sorry. I know it's not a pretty sight.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Cleo hastened over to him and knelt beside the bed. She touched his leg with light, questing fingers. “No wonder it bothers you so much of the time. Does Andromeda's tea help?”

Max looked at her hands on his thigh. “Surprisingly enough, it does. But not as much as your massage technique.”

Cleo stroked and squeezed gently. “My God, when I think about how much it must have hurt….”

“Don't think about it,” Max said dryly. “I don't.”

“It must have been a terrible accident.”

“It was my fault,” Max said. “I screwed up.”

Cleo studied the odd, puckered scar. “Were you driving?”

He smiled faintly. “Yes.” He pulled on his trousers and levered himself to his feet. “Sure you don't want to stay?”

Cleo stood. “I'd love to stay. But I don't think it would be a good idea.” She glanced at the tea tray. “Promise me you'll drink the tea before you go to bed.”

“It'll be cold.”

“It doesn't matter,” Cleo insisted. “Drink it anyway.”

“All right.” He traced the outline of her mouth with his finger. “I promise. Come on. We'd better get you to your room. You've got an inn to run, and I've got a long drive ahead of me in the morning. We both need some rest.”

She closed her fingers around his wrist. “Thank you for finding Ben for us.”

Max's jaw tightened. “You're welcome. But you do understand that I can't guarantee I'll be able to talk him into returning, Cleo.”

“I know.” She smiled. “But somehow I think it will all work out. I'm sure that deep down Ben wants to come back to Trisha and the baby.”

“I wish you and the others weren't so damn optimistic about it.” Max picked up his cane and started for the door. His hand closed almost violently around the knob. “What happens if I can't convince him to come back here?”

“He'll come back with you,” Cleo said, feeling extraordinarily confident.

Max said nothing in response. He walked her down the attic stairs and along the corridor to the tower room. When they reached her door he stopped and turned to face her. He tipped her chin up with his finger.

“Cleo,” he said slowly, “about tonight. I'm not quite sure what to say.”

“It's all right, Max.” Cleo stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips across his cheek. “You don't have to say anything.” She opened the door to her room and stepped inside. “Good night.”

Max examined her in silence for a long moment, as if memorizing every detail of her face. “Good night, Cleo.”

He turned and went down the hall to the attic stairs.

Cleo closed the door and leaned back against it. The glorious euphoria was still flowing in her veins. The whole world looked warm and rosy tonight. The future had never seemed so bright and full of promise.

She raised her eyes heavenward and smiled. “Jason Curzon, I don't know what you did with those paintings Max wants so badly, but thanks for sending him out here to look for them.”

Everyone gathered in the kitchen the next morning to say good-bye to Max.

“Another stack of buckwheat pancakes?” Daystar asked when she saw that Max's plate was empty.

“No, thank you.” Max folded his napkin with great precision and placed it on the table beside the plate.

“More coffee?” Sylvia hovered over him with the pot. “You've got a long drive ahead of you.”

“I think I've had enough.” Max glanced at his watch. “I'd better be on my way.”

Cleo smiled at him from the other side of the table. “Promise you'll drive carefully.”

He looked at her with the same unreadable expression that had been in his eyes last night. “I promise.”

“We'll be waiting for you,” Cleo said softly.

“Will you?” he asked.

Before Cleo could respond, Sammy darted forward and grabbed a fistful of Max's trousers. He tugged on the expensive fabric to get his attention. “Remember to fasten your seatbelt,” he said earnestly.

Max glanced down at him. “I'll remember.”

Sammy was clearly delighted that his instructions would be followed. He giggled, turned, and dashed out of the kitchen.

Sylvia smiled as the door swung shut behind her son. “You've been good for him, Max.”

“We have mutual interests in common,” Max said. “We both like books and fine art.”

“Take your time driving back tonight,” Andromeda advised. “There's another storm on the way. We'll hold dinner for you.”

Max looked at her. “I might be very late.”

Andromeda smiled serenely. “That doesn't matter. Dinner will be waiting.”