Grand Passion (2 page)

“Max Fortune.”

“And you were a friend of Jason's?”

“Yes.”

“A good friend?”

“Yes.”

Cleo gave him a dazzling smile. “Then that makes you practically one of the family, doesn't it?”

“I don't know,” Max said. “Does it?”

“Of course it does. Jason would never have sent you out here to meet us unless he considered you family. At times like this, family pitches in around here. Jason always did his share when he was staying with us. Do you mind?”

“I'm afraid I don't quite follow, Ms. Robbins.”

“No problem. I'm sure you'll figure it out soon enough. This way.”

“Ms. Robbins, I'm here to talk to you.”

“Later. Like I said, I'm really swamped right now.” Cleo led the way down a short hall.

A strange sense of disorientation gripped Max. “Ms. Robbins, if you don't mind, I'd rather wait out here.”

“Everyone helps,” Sammy said. He took his thumb out of his mouth again and grabbed a fistful of Max's Italian-designed, hand-tailored jacket. The fine silk-and-wool-blend fabric crumpled beneath the devastating assault of the little fingers.

Max gave up trying to argue and allowed himself to be tugged down the hall. Cleo was already well ahead of him. She had a closet door open at the end of a corridor and was peering inside.

“Aha. Here we go.” She reached into the closet, hauled out a plunger, and held it triumphantly aloft. “Trisha said it was room number two-ten. Sammy can show you the way, can't you, Sammy?”

“Okay,” Sammy said happily.

Max eyed the plunger. It dawned on him just what was expected of him. “I think there is a misunderstanding here, Ms. Robbins.”

She gave him an inquiring look. “You did say you were a friend of Jason's, didn't you?”

“That's what I said.” Max eyed the plunger grimly.

“Jason was always terrific about lending a hand when one was needed,” Cleo said encouragingly.

Max looked at her. He didn't know what to make of Jason's mistress, but he knew that until he found the five Amos Luttrell paintings, he was going to have to bide his time. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Wonderful. I really appreciate this.” Cleo thrust the plunger into his hand and gave him a smile of deep gratitude. “Run along with Sammy, now. I've got to get back to the front desk.” She turned and hurried down the hall without a backward glance.

“This way.” Sammy yanked on Max's jacket. “There's stairs in the back.”

Max set his teeth and allowed himself to be dragged off, plunger in hand, toward an unknown destiny. He felt as if he'd accidentally stepped into another world, where the laws of nature were slightly altered.
Jason, what the hell were you doing out here
, he asked silently as Sammy led him up the back stairs to the second floor.

“In here.” Sammy pushed open the door marked two-ten.

The room was empty. Max swept the frilly, fussy, overstuffed furnishings with a single glance and dismissed everything, including the picture of the spaniels that hung over the bed. It was a classic example of Victorian sentimentalism and extravagance at its worst.

Max walked across the ugly flower-pattern carpet and glanced warily into the white-tiled bath. He was willing to acknowledge that the Victorians had known how to do bathrooms. He approved of the huge, white, claw-footed tub.

He did not, however, like the way water lapped at the edge of the toilet bowl, threatening to spill over onto the floor. At least it appeared to be clean water, he thought. He supposed he should be grateful for that much.

“Lucky Ducky go swimming,” Sammy reminded him again.

Realization dawned on Max. “In this particular toilet?”

“Ducks can swim anywhere.”

Max resigned himself to the inevitable. He leaned his cane and the plunger against the wall while he shrugged out of his expensive jacket. He hung the jacket carefully on the hook behind the door. Then he unfastened his gold cuff links, put them in his pocket, and rolled up the sleeves of his handmade white silk shirt.

Family pitches in at times like this
.

It was an odd thing to say to a man who had not been part of a real family since the age of six. As far as Max was concerned, the series of foster homes he had lived in after his mother was killed in a car accident did not count.

He had never known his father, a faceless figure who had walked out of his life before he was even born. Max had never bothered to search for him. He had no interest in locating a father who did not want to claim him.

It was after he had been shunted off to the second foster home that Max had begun collecting things.
Things
didn't reject you, he had discovered.
Things
didn't walk away from you.
Things
didn't tell you in a thousand subtle ways that you weren't good enough to be a member of the family.
Things
could be taken with you when you moved on to the next temporary location.

It had been books at first. Surprisingly enough it was easy to collect books, even if you couldn't afford them. People were astonishingly eager to give them to you. Teachers, social workers, librarians, foster mothers—they had all been delighted to give books to young Max.

For a long while he had worried that someone would eventually ask for them back. But no one ever did. Not even the librarian who had given Max his very first volume of Dr. Seuss.

Most of the other children had quickly grown bored with their free books and had traded them to Max for what seemed to him like ridiculously low prices: a candy bar, a toy, a couple of quarters. Each book had been a rare bargain as far as Max was concerned. It was something that belonged to him. Something he could keep forever.

When he was young he had hoarded his treasures in his suitcase. They were always packed and ready for the next, inevitable move. He had asked his social worker for a lock and key for the dilapidated piece of luggage. She had smiled an odd, sad smile and given him one without question.

Max was sixteen when he discovered what was to become the grand passion of his life: modern art. He had skipped school one afternoon to wander through Seattle's Pioneer Square. For no particular reason he had walked into several of the galleries. In two of them he had seen paintings that had reached straight into the secret center of his being. For the first time he understood that there were others in the world who had nightmares and dreams that resembled his own. He had never forgotten the experience.

When he was in the presence of paintings that touched the raw core inside himself, Max did not feel quite so alone.

Max had been twenty-three when he and Curzon had met. That had been twelve years ago. Max had just gotten out of the Army and had taken the first job he had found. It was manual labor for the most part, but Max had liked it right from the start. The work consisted primarily of crating, transporting, and hanging the paintings that an art dealer named Garrison Spark sold to his clients.

Max hadn't particularly liked Spark, whose ethics were questionable at best, but he had been transfixed by some of the art he was allowed to handle. Spark, in turn, found Max's unerring eye for art extremely useful. The two made a pact. In exchange for the job, Max promised not to voice his opinions on the authenticity of certain paintings that Spark sold unless the client asked for that opinion.

Max had delivered two paintings, both genuine, to Jason Curzon before the event occurred that had changed his life. The moment was still crystal clear in his mind.

He had just uncrated a large canvas, a dark, abstract picture purported to be the work of a new and rising artist whose paintings Jason had been eager to collect. Max had stood politely aside, allowing Jason to examine the picture in silence.

Jason had gazed into the painting for a long time before he had turned to Max with an enigmatic expression.

“What do you think?” Jason asked.

Max hid his surprise. In his experience clients never solicited the artistic opinion of the man who delivered their purchases.

Max looked at the painting. He had seen three other works that had been created by the same artist. He had been immediately compelled by the others. This one left him unmoved. He weighed his answer carefully. He knew Jason had paid a huge sum for the picture.

“I think it's a fake,” Max finally said.

Jason gave him an appraising look. “So do I.”

“A very good fake,” Max said quickly, mindful of his treasured job. “After all, it fooled Mr. Spark.”

Jason had merely arched his brows at that remark. He sent the painting back to Spark with no explanation other than that he had changed his mind. But the following month he had invited Max to view his private collection.

Max had been enthralled by the visions that hung on Jason's walls. At the end of the tour Jason had turned to him.

“You're smart and you think fast on your feet. Most important, I think you've got the inner eye,” Jason said. “You ever think of doing something a little more intellectually demanding than crating and uncrating art for Garrison Spark?”

“Like what?” Max asked.

“Like coming to work for me. I'll put you in charge of buying art for Curzon hotels. You'll report directly to me, and you'll answer only to me. It will mean travel, an excellent salary, bonuses, and mingling with the corporate hierarchy. Interested?”

“Why not?” Max said. He knew a turning point in his life when he saw one, and as usual he had nothing better waiting for him in the other direction.

Jason surveyed Max's cheap brown suit, permanent-press shirt, and frayed tie. “First we're going to have to polish you up a bit.”

Jason was as good as his word. He taught Max everything he needed to know in order to move in the rarefied circles of the international hotel business. Max learned quickly. He copied Jason's exquisitely polished manners and wore his expensive new clothes with natural ease.

After having fought his way through the foster care system and the Army, he was not intimidated by the high-powered corporate types with whom he came in contact. Jason wryly observed that the situation was just the opposite. Most people were intimidated by Max.

“An extremely useful talent,” Jason said a year after Max had been on the job. “I think we should make use of it.”

Max knew how to make himself useful when it suited him. It suited him to please Jason Curzon.

Within six months he had become much more than the curator of Curzon International's art collection. He had become Jason's right-hand man.

His responsibilities had evolved swiftly. Someone else was eventually appointed to manage the art collection. Max was put in charge of gathering intelligence on the competition and reporting on the suitability of potential hotel sites. From the beginning he made it his goal to learn in advance everything Jason needed in order to make far-reaching decisions regarding potential acquisitions: local politics in foreign locations, including the names of the specific officials who expected to be bribed before construction could begin on a new hotel; the reliability, or lack thereof, of certain members of Curzon management; sites that were ripe for development or, conversely, needed to be abandoned before they started losing money. Max had made himself an indispensable authority on all of those things.

For all intents and purposes, he had been second-in-command at Curzon.

In the process he had learned the correct way to drink tea in Japan, coffee in the Middle East, and champagne in France. He bought his shirts in London, his suits and shoes in Rome, and his ties in Paris. And he bought art and books wherever he found them.

Curzon Hotels was a family-owned business that had been bequeathed to Jason and his brother, Dennison, by their father. Jason had always held the reins of the company, not only because he was the elder brother, but because he had the savvy intelligence required to manage the business. Dennison had not liked being relegated to second place, but he had tolerated it because there was no doubt that Jason was the natural leader in the family.

Now, with Jason gone, Dennison was determined to demonstrate that he had as much business acumen as his brother.

While he was alive, Jason had given Max the illusion that he was almost a member of the Curzon family. Three years ago Max had made the mistake of thinking he was going to become a real member, but that promise had dissolved in the ruins of his relationship with Kimberly Curzon, Dennison's daughter.

Six weeks into the engagement, Kimberly had come to her senses and realized she could not marry a man with no background or family connections. She had married Roarke Winston, instead, the heir to a large industrial empire.

Max had realized then that he would never be a member of the family.

He had handed in his resignation the day after Jason had died of a massive heart attack. A week later he had set out to find the legacy Jason had spoken of on his deathbed.

“Five Amos Luttrell paintings,” Jason had whispered after ordering his brother's family from the hospital room for a few minutes. “They're yours, Max. They don't go to the museum with the others. I wanted you to have them. Your inheritance from me. You understand? It's in my Will.”