“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 he
r 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.
Max was making it clear that he wanted to take her to bed.
It was a subtle form of seduction. Since that one kiss in the solarium, there had been no overt moves from Max. But Cleo could feel the mesmerizing desire in him whenever he was in the same room. It flowed over her and around her, enthralling her as nothing else had ever done.
Usually Cleo sought out the calm of the meditation center after one of the unpleasant dreams, but this afternoon she had come here to think about Max.
She gazed into the large yellow crystal that was the only object in the room and knew that she had reached a turning point in her life.
The crystal caught the pale light of the cloudy day and glowed a soft, warm gold. Cleo stared into the amber depths and thought about the past and the future.
She had always been very certain that if and when the right man showed up in her life, he would fall in love with her just as she would fall in love with him. She had been sure that the bond would be there between them from the moment their eyes met.
But Max Fortune knew very little about love and probably trusted the emotion even less.
He did, however, know a great deal about desire.
Soon, Cleo knew, she would have to make a choice. She could either surrender to the powerful sensual thrall of desire that Max was forging, or she could draw back to the safe place within herself.
She could draw back and wait.
Wait for what? she wondered. There would be no other man like Max. He was the man in the mirror.
But she had created the mirror, she reminded herself. The only things she saw in the glass were the things she, herself, projected into it.
The truth was that when she looked into the mirror of her mind and heart, she never saw a clear reflection of the man for whom she waited. Yet she was sure that Max was that man.
Earlier this afternoon she had confronted the fact that she was very probably in love with him.
The incident that had triggered the knowledge was a small one, but it had had a devastating impact on Cleo. It had made her realize that she had reached a point of no return.
It had all come about innocently enough. Sylvia had been busy when the time came to pick Sammy up from kindergarten. Max had offered to fetch him. Cleo had invited herself along for the trip because she had wanted to pick up some things at the drugstore in town.
She and Max arrived at Sammy's school a few minutes early and sat in the Jaguar in the parking lot, waiting for the children to come pouring out of the gate.
“One of us is always very careful to be here when Sammy gets out of school,” Cleo had explained. “He gets very anxious if there's no one waiting.”
“I see,” Max said. He rested one arm on the wheel and watched the school entrance.
At that moment the door opened, and a dozen screaming kindergarteners dressed in rain coats and hoods raced out onto the sidewalk. Cleo spotted Sammy in his little yellow slicker. The boy was scanning the cluster of waiting vehicles, searching for his mother's car or, perhaps, Cleo's familiar red Toyota. He didn't recognize the green Jaguar immediately. His small face crumpled with alarm.
“He doesn't see us,” Cleo said. She reached for the door handle.
“I'll let him know we're here.” Max opened his door and got out.
Sammy saw him at once and broke into a happy, relieved grin. He dashed toward the Jaguar, heedless of the rain puddles. Max opened the back door.
“Hi, Max,” Sammy said as he scrambled into the back seat.
“Hi, Sammy.”
Sammy looked at Cleo. “H
i, Cleo.”
“Hi, kid.” Cleo turned in the front seat to smile at him. “How was school?”
“It was okay.” Sammy opened a folder. “We made pictures. I did one for you, Max. Here.” He removed a crayon drawing and held it out to Max.
Cleo realized that she was holding her breath. She knew in a moment of stunning clarity that if Max failed to properly appreciate Sammy's picture, he was the wrong man for her. It was that simple.
Max eased himself slowly back behind the wheel and closed his door. He took the crayon drawing without comment and examined it for a long moment.
Silence filled the Jaguar.
Then Max looked up, his gaze gravely serious. He turned in the seat to face Sammy. “This is one of the most beautiful pictures I have ever seen, Sammy. Thank you.”
Sammy glowed. “Are you going to put it on the wall in your room?”
“Yes. Just as soon as we get home,” Max said.
Cleo let out the breath she had been holding. She knew then that her fate was probably sealed. She had fallen in love with Max Fortune.
Cleo felt another presence in the meditation room at the same moment that a shadow fell on the yellow crystal. She pulled her mind back to the present and waited.
“Andromeda said I would find you here.” Max's cane thudded softly on the hardwood floor.
Cleo looked up at him. His eyes held the same shimmering intensity that she had seen in them when he had examined Sammy's drawing that afternoon. He held a single red rose in his right hand.
“Hello, Max.” Cleo did not dare look at the rose. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to give you this.” He dropped the rose lightly into her lap.
Cleo picked it up as if it might explode in her hands. Chapter five, she thought. The man had, indeed, been studying The Mirror.
The red rose in chapter five had symbolized seduction. Cleo wondered what Max would think when he got to the last chapter in the book. That chapter featured a white rose as a symbol of love.
Cleo wondered if Max could only go as far as the red rose.
“I don't know what to say,” she whispered.
Max smiled. “You don't have to say anything.”
Her eyes met his, and she knew that he spoke the truth. There was no need to say anything, because Max knew exactly how close she was to falling into his arms.