“Have you told him that you love him?”
“No,” Cleo shook her head quickly. “I didn't want to push him. I guess I've been waiting for him to wake up one morning and realize he's in love with me. But sometimes I'm not sure he'd recognize love if it whapped him in the face. Men can be so dense sometimes.”
“You may have to make the first move, Cleo. I'm not sure Max can.” Sylvia ducked her head into the office.
Cleo stared at one of the three seascapes left on the lobby walls. The other two were now upstairs in the attic.
But she did not see Jason's foamy seascapes when she gazed at the nearest painting. Instead she looked into the phantom mirror where her deepest secrets were hidden. The figure in the silvery reflection was no longer a mysterious shadow. He was Max, the man she had been waiting for all her life. He had walked into her life and set her free.
But Cleo knew that she had not yet returned the favor. Max was still trapped in the mirror. She had not yet succeeded in freeing him.
Cleo and Max did not climb the stairs to the attic room until nearly midnight.
Cleo was exhausted. The crowd that had checked in for Valence's seminar had been more motivated to party than to study the five steps to success and prosperity. They were still making a lot of noise downstairs in the lounge, but George had assured her he could handle the situation.
“Any more groups like this one and Mr. Valence can take his show on down the road.” Cleo flopped on the edge of the bed, pulled off her silver shoes, and removed the clip from her hair.
“I think this bunch is already fairly well motivated.” Max watched her shake her hair free. He smiled the faint, enigmatic, utterly sensual smile of the man in the mirror. “And so am I.”
“You've had a hard day.”
“The hardest part is yet to come.” He made his way across the room. When he was standing directly in front of her, he set aside his cane and framed her face with his hands. “But I think I'll rise to the occasion.”
“Since when did you become the master of the double entendre?”
“Since I read chapter fifteen.” Max eased her onto her back and came down on top of her. “Funniest chapter in The Mirror.”
“I'm glad you enjoyed it.” He was warm and heavy and deliciously male. Cleo felt her tiredness slip away. It was replaced by a sense of deep anticipation.
Max looked down at her. His eyes darkened. “I enjoy everything about you, Cleo.” His mouth covered hers.
She smiled slowly beneath his kiss. Then, rousing herself slightly, she pushed him gently off of her and got to her feet. She took off her glasses and put them down on the side table. Feeling wonderfully wicked, she started to unbutton her oxford cloth shirt.
“Did you read chapter sixteen, by any chance?” she asked.
“Another one of my favorites.” Max rolled onto his back and folded his arms behind his head. The faint smile edging his mouth was full of lazy, seductive challenge. “Going to act it out for me?”
“If you like.”
“I like.” His voice was husky with desire. “Go slow. I don't want to miss a single word of the story.”
Emboldened by the sensual encouragement that she saw in his eyes, Cleo slowly finished undoing her shirt. She let the edges hang over her breasts, concealing and revealing.
“Don't forget the mirror,” Max said softly.
Cleo walked over to the mirror and looked at her slightly blurred reflection. Her hair was flowing free and wild around her shoulders. Her eyes were shadowed and mysterious. She looked intriguing and exotic, she thought.
She was the fantasy, but she was also the creator of the fantasy. She was both seducer and seduced. A sense of her own power as a woman flowed through her.
Max did not stir on the bed. Cleo knew he was watching her as she watched herself in the mirror, willing her to plunge them both deeper into the world behind the silvered glass.
Her fingers trembled a little as she undid the fastenings of her jeans. She eased the denim slowly down over her hips, leaving her filmy panties in place.
Her eyes never left the mirror as she stepped out of the jeans. Her shirttails fell to the top of her thighs, barely covering the curve of her buttocks. She could see the dark thatch of curling hair through the silk of her panties and knew that Max saw it, too. She sensed the smoldering wildfire of his desire and knew a sweet, singing joy that she could create this reaction in him. It gave her a heady sense of feminine power and at the same time made her feel infinitely generous.
“I'm on my knees,” Max assured her softly.
She met his gaze in the mirror and knew that the power she was feeling was inextricably linked to the power in him. It could not be savored to the fullest unless it was in the presence of an equal and opposite force.
Max radiated his own power, and she was as bound by it as he was by the power in her.
“So am I,” she whispered.
Max's mouth curved in a smile that made Cleo's knees weak. “That should make it even more interesting.”
It also created a bond between herself and Max that was unlike anything she had ever known. She wondered if Max felt the strength of the connection.
Cleo raised her hands and removed her shirt with a gentle shrug. It pooled on the floor at her feet. She saw the rosy crests of her own breasts in the mirror and felt the heat of Max's gaze.
“Imagine that I'm touching you,” Max said.
Cleo met his eyes in the glass. “But you aren't touching me.”
“Look into the mirror and pretend that I'm standing right behind you. My hands are on your breasts. I can feel your nipples beneath my palms. They're small and firm, like raspberries.”
“Raspberries?”
“Raspberries and cream. Very sweet,” Max said. “Very fresh. I want to taste them. Can you feel my tongue on you?”
A wave of heat flowed through Cleo. Her nipples became hard and full. She closed her eyes, but the sensation only intensified. “Yes. I can feel your mouth on me.”
“What does it feel like?”
Cleo concentrated. “Hot. Wet. Powerful.”
“You make me powerful, Cleopatra. Where do you want me to touch you next?”
“Lower.” Cleo opened her eyes again and stared at her slightly unfocused image. “I want your hands to go lower.”
“There, between your legs?”
“Yes.” She shuddered as she felt the coiling, tensing sensation radiating up through her.
“You feel so good, Cleo. Soft and warm.” Max paused, as if he were actually exploring her with his fingers. “You're getting wet for me, aren't you?”
“Yes.” Cleo felt the dampness between her thighs. She looked into the mirror with a knowing expression. “You're getting hard for me, aren't you?”
“I'm going out of my mind,” Max said. “Put your hands on top of my fingers.”
“Where are your fingers now?”
“Wherever you want them to be.”
“Here,” Cleo whispered. She brushed her fingers lightly over her silken panties. Then she drew them up across her belly. Slowly and deliberately she cupped her breasts and offered them to the man in the mirror.
“I think I've had about all the fantasy I can handle tonight,” Max muttered. “I don't know about you, but I need the real thing very badly.”
“So do I.” Shivering with her need and excitement, Cleo turned away from the mirror and walked over to the bed. “There's something that I've been meaning to tell you, Max.”
He looked up at her with eyes that were dark with soul-shattering desire. “What's that?”
“I love you.”
Without a word, Max reached up and pulled her down on top of him. He captured her head in his hands and crushed her mouth against his own.
Cleo awoke hours later, aware that she was alone in the bed. She turned her head on the pillow and saw Max across the room. He loomed near the window, a ghostly shadow silhouetted against the blackness of the night. She knew fr
om the angle of his body that he had both hands folded on top of the hawk on his cane.
“Max?”
“It's all right, Cleo. I'm just doing some thinking. Go back to sleep.”
“I can't sleep with you prowling around the room,” she grumbled. “Is something wrong?”
Max was silent for a moment. “I don't know.”
She had never heard that tone in his voice. Cleo sat up quickly. “What is it, Max?”
“Remember the feeling you said you had that day when someone stalked you in the fog?”
“I remember it,” she said. “I believe it's called a sense of impending disaster.”
“It's also called having the sensation that someone just walked across your grave.”
“My God, Max.” Cleo was unnerved. “Is that how you feel right now?”
“Yes.”
She wondered gloomily if her declaration of love earlier had caused this disturbing air of unease around him. He had never responded to her confession, although he had made love to her with an intensity that had shocked her senses.
It had been a risk. She had realized that at the time. Max was not accustomed to love, she reminded herself. There had been no way of knowing how he would react to being told that he was loved.
Cleo tortured herself on the altar of perhaps.
Perhaps being loved made Max feel trapped. Perhaps he did not want that kind of pressure. Perhaps he was ambivalent about being the one who was loved. Perhaps all he really wanted was to belong to the Robbins' Nest Inn family. Perhaps he only wanted Cleo because she could give him a home.
Perhaps he didn't really love her at all in the way she wanted to be loved.
Perhaps she had been the one who had screwed up tonight.
Cleo rested her chin on her updrawn knees. “What do you want to do?”
“I don't know. I've felt like this once or twice before in my life. There was trouble every time.” Max turned away from the window. “I think I'll give O'Reilly a call.”
“Now?” Cleo squinted at the clock. She was so relieved that he didn't seem to be dwelling on her unwelcome declaration of love that she had trouble following the conversation. “It's two in the morning.”
“I know.” Max reached for the phone, apparently having no trouble seeing its dark shape in the shadows. He picked up the receiver and then froze.
“Max?”
He put the receiver slowly back into the cradle and stared out across the cove. “Christ.”
“Max, what is it?” Cleo scrambled out of bed and went to stand beside him. She squinted when she saw the strange orange glow in the distance. “What on earth is that?”
“Cosmic Harmony,” Max said. “It's on fire.” He turned abruptly away from the desk.
“Oh, my God.” Panic welled up in Cleo. “Andromeda and Daystar and the others will be asleep. We've got to get to them.” She whirled around, scrabbling about frantically for her glasses.
“Calm down, Cleo.” Max was halfway across the room, heading toward the closet. “First, make sure the fire department is on its way.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Cleo grabbed the phone and realized she couldn't see well enough to punch out the emergency number. She fumbled with the light switch and finally found it. She pushed her glasses onto her nose with shaking fingers and stabbed at the phone.
“Forget it,” Max said as he pulled on his shirt. “They've already got the word. Hear the sirens?”
Cleo listened to the shrill howl in the distance. “Thank God. Max, we've got to get over there.”
“I'll go. You stay here.” Max was already dressed. He yanked up his zipper.
“No, I'll come with you.” She grabbed her jeans.
Max looked at her, eyes grim. “I want you to stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because something is wrong.”
“I know something is wrong. Cosmic Harmony is on fire.” Cleo had her jeans on and was frantically trying to button her shirt. She realized she was shaking so much that she could barely find the buttonholes.
Max unlocked his leather carryall and removed an object from inside. Cleo froze when she saw that it was a revolver.
“Where did you get that?” she whispered as she watched him load it.
“I've been keeping it handy since that day someone stalked you in the fog.” Max looked up. “Don't worry, I'll get rid of it when this is all over. I don't want to keep a gun in the house any more than you do.”
“Oh, Max.” Cleo shivered.
He moved to stand in front of her. He caught hold of her shoulder with one hand. “Listen to me, Cleo. I want you to stay here at the inn. Do you understand me? You'll be safe here. There are people downstairs. George is here. Sylvia is in her room. There are plenty of lights on in the place. I want you here.”
She stared at him, momentarily stunned by the implications of what he was saying. “You're worried about me? But it's Cosmic Harmony that's in trouble.”
“I don't like this, Cleo. A fire at Cosmic Harmony at this particular time is too damn weird. I want you where I know you'll be safe while I check out what's happening on the other side of the cove.” He released her and went to the door.
“But, Max…” Cleo raced after him.
“Stay here, Cleo.” Max opened the door.
She instinctively reacted to the command in his voice. For an instant she was immobilized. By the time she could move a few seconds later, Max was already out in the hall. He closed the door in her face.
She heard the familiar squeak of the hall floorboard, and then he was gone.
Cleo made up her mind. She would go downstairs and awaken Sylvia. Together they could discuss the wisdom of going to Cosmic Harmony.
The phone rang on the desk.
Cleo jumped. She paused, her hand on the doorknob, and glanced at the instrument as if it had come alive. It rang again, an urgent summons that sent a thrill of fear down her spine. Reluctantly she went toward it and picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Cleo? It's O'Reilly. I'm on the car phone. I'm on my way to the inn.”
“O'Reilly.” Cleo felt weak with relief. “Max was just about to call you.”
“That doesn't surprise me. Sometimes that guy is downright psychic when it comes to trouble. Is he there?”
“No, he just left. He's on his way to Cosmic Harmony. There's a fire over there.”
“Damn it to hell,” O'Reilly muttered. “You sure?”
“We can see the flames from here.”
“Cleo, listen to me.” O'Reilly's voice was suddenly cold and tense. “You stay put, do you hear me?”
Cleo grimaced. “That's what Max just said. Give me one good reason.”
“Because something has finally turned up, and I don't like it at all.”
“What is this all about, O'Reilly? I'm already scared enough tonight.”
“Cleo, did you know your father was a witness at a murder trial two years before he died?”
“Sure, I knew about it.” Cleo's fingers clenched around the phone. “He saw a man leaving a building where the police said a murder had been committed. He identified the man on the stand. What has that got to do with anything?”
“That man's name was Emile Wynn. He was a professional hit man. A couple of small-time hoods gave evidence against him, but it was your father's testimony linking him to the scene of the crime that tipped the case in the prosecution's favor. Wynn went to prison.”
“I know. O'Reilly, what is this all about? Please hurry. I want to go see what's happening at Cosmic Harmony.”
“Three months before your father and mother died, Wynn was released on a technicality.”
“What?” Cleo stared at the flames on the other side of the cove. “We were never told about that.”
“It wasn't exactly news. Happens every day. At any rate, Wynn disappeared almost immediately. The authorities believed that he had left the country. It was a logical assumption. But I'm beginning to think that Wynn
may have changed his identity instead.”
Cleo sank down onto the chair. “You think he may have killed my parents out of revenge?”
“It's a real possibility. Cleo, there were a couple of things about Wynn that were noted at the trial. The first was that he had a reputation, and that reputation meant everything to him. He was a fanatic about it.”
Cleo rubbed her temple, trying to think. “What sort of reputation?”
“He never failed, and he never left any evidence. He was a professional, and he was obsessive about it.”
“Sort of like Max,” Cleo whispered.
“Max? What the hell are you talking about?”
“He never screws up.”
“Yeah, well, Wynn screwed up that last time, and your father saw him. Now your father is dead. It's possible that Wynn killed him and then murdered your mother simply because she was on the scene at the time.”
Cleo squeezed her eyes shut. She felt sick to her stomach. “No witnesses.”
“Right. Wynn never left witnesses. Listen, Cleo, this is all conjecture at this point, but I think you may have triggered Wynn back into action when you hired Eberson last summer.”
“No,” Cleo said softly. “Oh, no.”
“I think Eberson did some digging around and came up with some of the same conclusions that I've come up with. He may have been careless and accidentally alerted Wynn to the fact that someone was looking into the case again. Wynn may have decided that his new identity was at risk.”
“You think Wynn killed Mr. Eberson, too?”
“I think it's a real possibility. Cleo, do you understand what I'm saying here?” O'Reilly asked tightly. “If I'm right, then you're Wynn's target now. Don't leave the inn.”
“But what has all this got to do with the threats I've received concerning my book?”
“Wynn was noted for being very thorough. He did his research carefully. He preferred to make his jobs look like accidents or, as in the case of your father, suicide. He had a reputation for going to a lot of trouble to set up the scene of the hit.”