“Cleo's right,” Andromeda said. “Max seems very competent.”
They all watched in silence as the Jaguar disappeared from sight.
“He's gone.” Sammy came running down the hall into the lobby. He was clutching Lucky Ducky, and his eyes were huge.
Cleo and the others looked at him in concern.
“What's wrong, darling?” Sylvia asked gently.
“Max went away for good.” Tears formed in Sammy's eyes.
“No, dear, he just went to look for Benjy.” Sylvia grimaced. “I mean, Ben. He'll be back tonight.”
Sammy shook his head with solemn despair. “He went away for ever.”
Cleo went down on one knee beside him. “How do you know that, Sammy?”
“'Cause he took everything with him,” Sammy sobbed. “I went upstairs to his room, and all his stuff is gone. Even the picture I gave him.”
“You must be mistaken, honey.” Cleo stood up quickly. “I'm sure his things are all there.”
“They're gone,” Sammy whispered. “His door was unlocked, and everything's gone.”
“I'll go check,” Cleo said.
She dashed up the three flights of stairs to the third floor and paused to catch her breath before she went down the hall to the attic stairs.
Sammy had to be wrong. Max was coming back. He'd said so.
Or had he? Cleo tried to recall his exact words. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that although Max had implied he would return that evening, he hadn't actually promised to do so.
Cleo opened the narrow door at the end of the hall and took the attic stairs two at a time.
The door to Max's room was unlocked, just as Sammy had said.
Cleo opened it cautiously, aware of a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach.
The room was as neat and orderly as it had been the day Max had moved in. Cleo went through it methodically. Not a single one of Max's expensive white shirts hung in the closet. The dresser was empty. The black leather carryall was gone. So was Sammy's picture, and the copy of The Mirror that Cleo had given to Max.
It was as if Max had never been there.
Cleo sank slowly down onto the bed and clasped her hands very tightly in her lap. She remembered the question Max had asked her last night after he had seduced her.
Speaking of paintings, you really don't know where my Luttrells are, do you?
Chapter
8
He would remember her joyous laughter for the rest of his life. Max could still see Cleo clearly in his mind, shimmering first with passion and then with delight. And he had been the one responsible for giving her both.
Max savored the unfamiliar pleasure that coursed through him. Even the pouring rain that partially obscured the highway and the knowledge of what lay ahead could not dim the warmth that welled up inside. He was not accustomed to being viewed as a man who could make someone else happy. He certainly had never seen himself in such a light.
But last night he, Max Fortune, had made Cleo Robbins happy.
She said she had waited all her life for the right man, for him, and she claimed she had not been disappointed. Last night, for the first time in his entire life, he, Max Fortune, had been someone's Mr. Right.
And this morning the bizarre little circle of friends that orbited around Cleo had treated him like an important member of the family. To them he had been a hero setting forth on a quest. Everyone had fussed over him, fed him homemade buckwheat pancakes, urged him to drive carefully, told him to hurry home, reminded him that dinner would be waiting.
Dinner would be waiting.
Max contemplated that notion for a long time. He could not remember anyone ever holding dinner for him. The closest he ever came to the experience was when he ordered room service at a Curzon hotel. Max decided that room service definitely didn't count.
Too bad he would not be able to enjoy arriving late at Robbins' Nest Inn to find a hot meal and a family waiting this evening. But he had known from the start that his odds of returning to a warm welcome were vanishingly small. After all, everyone would be waiting for a hero, and Max knew he probably would not qualify for the role.
Returning to Cleo and her family as a hero tonight meant returning with Ben Atkins in tow. There was little chance of that.
He had known the quest was doomed from the start. He should have refused it. But somehow, what with everyone from Cleo to Sammy expecting him to do something, he had been unable to say no.
After a long, sleepless night he had made his decision. He would go back to Harmony Cove this evening because he had to face Cleo and the others. He had to see their faces when he acknowledged that he had failed them.
When he saw the disappointment and the rejection in Cleo's eyes and in the eyes of her friends, he would leave. He had learned a long time ago that people only wanted him around as long as he was useful.
He wouldn't even have to waste time packing, he thought as he glanced at a road sign. Knowing what lay ahead, he had risen at dawn this morning, folded his belongings into the carryall, and stowed the bag in the Jaguar's trunk. Being packed and ready to leave was an old habit. He had picked it up at the age of six, and he had never really lost it.
It was easier, somehow, to have one foot already out the door when someone was about to tell you that you would have to leave, anyway.
Max slowed for the exit ramp marked Garnly. According to O'Reilly there were only three gas stations in Garnly. Ben Atkins was reportedly working at one of them.
Max cruised slowly through the drab little town. The rain was still falling steadily, a wet, gray veil that managed to conceal some of Garnly's less attractive aspects. He glanced down at the address he had written on a sheet of paper.
It was the second gas station on the left. Max eased the Jaguar into the small parking area and switched off the engine. He sat quietly for a moment, staring through the rain at the figure working in the service bay.
The young man moved with a quiet certainty, as if he had been working on cars all his life. He appeared tall and thin in the stained gray coveralls. His lanky blond hair needed a trim. He seemed huddled in on himself, a man who communicated better with mechanical things than he did with human beings.
Max opened the door and got out of the Jaguar. He walked through the rain to the shelter of the service bay and waited until the mechanic noticed him.
“Be with you in a minute.” The mechanic hunched over an alternator.
“I'm looking for a man named Ben Atkins,” Max said.
“Huh?” The mechanic looked up with a wary expression. His face was like the rest of him, thin and closed in on itself.
“Ben Atkins,” Max repeated.
The mechanic frowned in confusion. “I'm Benjy. Benjy Atkins.”
“Guess I made a mistake,” Max said. He turned to walk back to the Jaguar.
“Wait.” Metal clattered on metal as Ben tossed aside his tools. “I told you, I'm Benjy Atkins. What's this all about? Who are you?”
Max halted and turned around again. “Like I said, I'm looking for a man named Ben Atkins.”
Ben stared at him as he wiped his hands on a dirty rag. “That's me. I mean, I'm Ben Atkins. But everyone calls me Benjy.”
“Not any more,” Max said. “I hear you're going to be a father. In my book that makes you Ben, not Benjy.”
Ben looked stunned. “You know Trisha?”
“Yes.”
“Is she okay?”
“No. She's scared to death.”
Ben's face tightened into a sullen mask. “Who are you, mister?”
“My name is Max Fortune.”
“Yeah, but who are you? How do you know about me? And about the baby.”
“Let's just say I'm a friend of the family.”
“I ain't got a family.”
“That's not the way I heard it.” Max glanced at his watch. “It's almost noon. You plan on eating lunch?”
Ben blinked. “Well, yeah. Sure.”
br />
“You're in luck. I'm buying.”
* * *
“He'll be back,” Cleo said with a stubborn confidence that she was not really feeling.
“If he planned on returning,” Sylvia said patiently, “why did he pack his things?”
“I don't know.” Cleo propped her silver sneakers on top of her desk and glowered down into the dregs of her coffee. “I think he's used to being packed and ready to go. I have a feeling it's second nature for him. An instinct or something.”
“Instinct?” Sylvia asked dryly.
“You saw how easy it was for him to move in here when he arrived. Max obviously travels light.”
Sylvia wrinkled her nose. “You think he just sort of instinctively put his bag in the trunk of his car this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Before anyone else was up and about?”
“Yes.”
Sylvia lounged on the edge of the desk and sipped her own coffee. “Cleo, my friend, you might as well face facts. He's gone.”
Cleo closed her eyes. “God, I hope not.”
Sylvia was silent for about three full seconds, during which she examined Cleo's face intently. “Damn,” she finally whispered.
Cleo opened her eyes. “What's wrong?”
“You and Max.” Sylvia waved her hand meaningfully. “The two of you.”
“What about us?”
Sylvia groaned. “You fell for him, didn't you? I knew something was happening. I could feel it. We all felt it. Thank goodness he wasn't around long enough to seduce you.”
Cleo said nothing.
Sylvia cleared her throat. “I said, thank goodness he wasn't around long enough to seduce you.”
Cleo swallowed the last of her coffee.
“That bastard,” Sylvia muttered into the stark silence.
Cleo put her cup down on the desk. “He's not a bastard.”
“Yes, he is. This makes me so mad. I liked Max. Sammy liked him. Andromeda liked him. Trisha liked him. Even Daystar liked him. Why did he have to be such a bastard?”
“He'll be back,” Cleo said evenly. But deep inside she could feel the cold wind that was chilling her bones.
Sylvia was right. Facts were facts. Max had come to the inn in search of his precious inheritance from Jason. Last night he had at last appeared convinced that Cleo didn't know what had happened to the Luttrell paintings. This morning Max was gone. The conclusion was obvious.
But she could not quite bring herself to accept the obvious.
“Poor Trisha,” Sylvia said wearily. “I think she was really beginning to hope that Max meant it when he said he would find Benjy.”
“He did mean it,” Cleo insisted. The man who had made love to her last night was not a liar.
The inn door swung open, interrupting Sylvia's next disgusted comment. Cleo glanced through the office window and saw a tall, blond, elegantly slim woman stride into the lobby. The woman moved with the singular air of confidence and muted disdain that indicated the sort of wealth and social standing that reached back more than one or two generations.
“Uh-oh,” Cleo said. “Something tells me that, yes, indeed, once again our humble little inn has been mistaken for a five-star hotel in the south of France.”
Sylvia grinned reluctantly. “Boy, is she in for a disappointment. She looks like she just stepped out of Vogue, doesn't she? That little silk suit must have cost a bundle. I'll handle her, if you like.”
“No, that's all right.” Cleo swung her silver shoes down onto the floor and rose from the chair. “I need something to take my mind off Max.”
She put on her most polished innkeeper's smile and went out to the front desk. “May I help you?”
The woman raked Cleo with an assessing glance. She did not appear to be impressed with what she saw. “I'm looking for Max Fortune.”
Cleo sucked in a small, startled breath. “You and everyone else.” So much for distracting herself with non-Max thoughts. “I'm afraid he's not here at the moment. We're expecting him this evening.”
“I'll wait.”
“Late this evening,” Cleo said carefully. Like maybe never, she added silently.
“In that case,” the woman said, obviously annoyed, “perhaps you'd better give me a room for the night. I don't intend to sit out here in your quaint little lobby for the next few hours.”
“Certainly.” Cleo whipped out a registration card. “If you would just fill this out for me, I'll get you checked in immediately. Will you be using a credit card?”
Without a word the woman reached into a discreetly expensive black leather bag and produced a credit card that looked as if it had been stamped out of solid gold. She handed it to Cleo.
Cleo glanced at the card. Kimberly Curzon-Winston. She took another look at the middle name. “Curzon?”
“Yes.” Kimberly scrawled her name on the registration form.
Cleo swallowed. “Any relation to Jason Curzon?”
Kimberly frowned. “His niece. You knew my uncle?”
“Sort of.” Cleo smiled wryly. “But not as well as I thought, apparently. He seems to have had a much more interesting family background than we realized.”
“I can't imagine how you came to know Jason Curzon, but I suppose it doesn't really matter.” Kimberly put down the pen. “You said Max Fortune would be returning late this evening?”
“As far as we know.” Cleo crossed her fingers behind her back and smiled bravely. He would return, she told herself. He had to return.
“Would you mind telling me where he is at the moment?” Kimberly's patience was obviously wearing thin.
Cleo glanced at the tall clock. “Right at this moment he's probably in a little town called Garnly.”
Kimberly looked startled. “Why on earth did he go there?”
“A family matter,” Cleo said smoothly.
“That's nonsense.” Kimberly's eyes were cold. “I've known Max for several years. He doesn't have any family.”
“He does now,” Cleo said, “although I'm not sure he realizes it. Look, Ms. Winston…”
“Curzon-Winston.”
“Ms. Curzon-Winston,” Cleo repeated obediently, “perhaps I can help you.”
“I doubt it.”
“The thing is,” Cleo said politely, “Max works for me. If something is wrong, I should know about it.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, Max works for me.”
A strange expression appeared in Kimberly's blue eyes. “We are talking about the same Max Fortune, aren't we? Tall. Black hair. Rather fierce-looking. Uses a cane?”
“That's our Max,” Cleo agreed.
“Then he couldn't possibly work for you. He's a vice president with Curzon International.” Kimberly's smile was glacial. “Max Fortune works for me.”
“I didn't know what to do.” Ben gazed despondently down at his half-finished burger. “It really took me by surprise, you know? I screwed up one time, and Trisha got pregnant.”
“It happens,” Max said. “Only takes once.”
“Shit, you ever had a woman tell you that she's pregnant and you're the father?”
“No.” Max reflected briefly again on how he would feel if Cleo told him she was pregnant with his baby. But that would never happen. He had been careful last night. He was always careful about such matters. After all, he had a reputation for not screwing up. “I can see that it would be something of a shock.”
“You can say that again. I told Trisha I needed a little time to think things through.” Ben ran his fingers through his hair. “I got to figure out what to do, you know?”
“Yes.”
Ben raised haunted eyes and gazed helplessly at Max. “I don't remember anything about my own dad. He left when I was a baby. How am I supposed to know what to do with a kid? I don't know anything about being a father.”
“You remember Jason Curzon?”
Ben frowned. “Sure. He was a neat old guy. Helped me out with the plumbing at
the inn. I liked Jason.”
“So did I,” Max said quietly. “Jason used to say that a man learns most things by doing them. When it comes to figuring out how to be a father, men like you and me have to depend upon on-the-job training.”
Ben's expression was bleak. “I already made enough mistakes in my life.”
“You know how to hold down a job, don't you? Everyone at the inn says you're a hard worker.”
“Well, sure. Work's one thing. Raisin' a kid is another.”
“The way I look at it,” Max said, “a lot of the same rules apply.”
Ben stared at him. “You think so?”
“Yes.” Max looked out the window and wondered when the rain would stop. “Look, the most important thing about holding down a job is to show up for work on a regular basis. Seems to me the same thing applies to being a father. You get points for just being around.”
“Yeah?” Ben slitted his eyes. “What do you know about being a father?”
“Not much,” Max admitted.
“So maybe you shouldn't be giving me advice,” Ben said belligerently.
“Maybe not.”
A long silence descended on the booth.
Ben scowled. “Is that all you got to say?”
“No,” Max said. “There was one other thing I wanted to discuss.”
“What's that?”
“I was wondering if you could give me a couple of hints on how to handle the leaking pipe in room two-fifteen. I've tried everything I can think of, and the sucker just keeps on dripping on the floor of the sink cabinet. It's getting worse.”
Ben blinked in obvious alarm. “Those pipes under the sink in two-fifteen are just about rusted out. You got to treat 'em with kid gloves. One wrong move, and the whole dang thing is gonna go.”
“Ms. Robbins?” The urbane man on the other side of the front desk smiled aloofly. His hair was a distinguished silver-gray, and his gray suit was the last word in sophisticated tailoring. His eyes were ice cold.
Cleo eyed him warily. “I'm Cleo Robbins. Can I help you?”
“I sincerely hope so,” the man said in a smooth tone that held just the barest hint of condescending amusement. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Garrison Spark.”