Cleo sighed and flopped down into a wingback chair. She stretched her legs out in front of her, shoved her hands into her pockets, and eyed Max thoughtfully. She was already regretting her impulse to confide in him.
“There's not much to it, objectively speaking,” she admitted. “All I know is that some disgruntled reader has apparently decided to punish me for writing that book. He or she sent a really nasty letter to me last month.”
“What did you do about it?” Max asked.
“Nothing. What could I do? There was no signature. It was forwarded from my publishers, so I assumed the person who wrote it didn't have my real name and address. But this morning Nolan told me that someone left a copy of my book in his mailbox.”
“Anonymously, I assume?”
“Yes. Along with the warning that I wouldn't make a good date for a politician. And tonight I walk in here and find that ribbon on my pillow.”
“You suspect you're being pestered by an outraged reader?”
“Who else could it be?” Cleo shuddered. “Some weirdo is out to harass me, I guess. And he or she was right here in my bedroom tonight. It's creepy.” It was more than that; it was frightening. But Cleo was not about to admit it. Not yet, at any rate.
“I might be able to help,” Max said quietly.
Cleo stared at him. “How?”
“I know a man who runs a firm that specializes in corporate security and investigations. If you like, I can ask him to check out a few things.”
“Forget it. I don't want to get involved with a private investigator.”
“Why not?”
Cleo set her teeth. She'd been burned once by a private investigator who had taken her money and done nothing for her. She didn't intend to get conned again. “It's not worth it. I don't want to blow this up out of all proportion. Whoever it is will get tired of the game after a while and go away.”
“You think so?”
“This sort of thing happens to writers sometimes,” Cleo said defensively. “There's not much a person can do.”
“I'm not so sure about that. Look, I can at least have O'Reilly check out the guests who are staying here this weekend. We can find out if any of them have a reputation for being rabid censors.”
“I told you, I'm not going to pay a private investigator to look into this.”
“You won't have to pay him,” Max said softly. “O'Reilly is a friend of mine. He owes me a couple of favors. He'll be glad to do this for me.”
Cleo hesitated. “You think so?”
“Yes. There's no harm in running a quick check.” Max looked thoughtful. “It will take some time, though. I doubt if I can get O'Reilly to do it in just two days.”
Cleo eyed him with instant suspicion. “Is this a pitch designed to convince me not to kick you out on Tuesday?”
“Yes.” Max shrugged. “I don't have anywhere else to go. Jobs are hard to get these days.”
She groaned. “I knew it wasn't going to be easy to get rid of you.”
Chapter
4
I recognize him even though I cannot see his face clearly in the mirror. He's a phantom in the glass, confined forever in a silvery world, but I know him instantly when he touches me.
His fingers are warm, not cold, although he is locked away in that frozen place behind the mirror. He wants me as no one else has ever wanted me. I want him. In some way I cannot explain, I know that he is a part of me. Yet he is as trapped in his prison as I am in mine.
When he comes to me tonight he will put his hands on my breasts, and I will shudder in response. The heat will rise within me. He will watch my face and see the desire in me. I do not have to hide it from him. He alone will understand the need and the longing and the passion inside me that no one else has ever seen. In his arms I will be free.
But what about him? Will I ever be able to release him from the mirror?
Max closed The Mirror and put the book down on the small nightstand beside the bed. He took a slow breath and concentrated on controlling the deep, sexual ache that had settled into his groin. He should have had enough sense to stop reading after he'd finished chapter one.
But he had been unable to resist continuing on to chapter two, even though the sensual fantasies in the book were so vibrantly female in nature that they felt alien. The fact that they were Cleo's fantasies was what had compelled him, seduced him, captivated him. In The Mirror, Max knew he had found another window through which he could view her.
The glimpses he'd gotten tonight were going to keep him awake for a long time.
He pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Old pain, familiar and unpleasant, lanced through his left thigh when he got to his feet. Automatically he glanced down at the scar. It looked as ugly as it always did, and it called up the usual memories.
Memories of one of the few times that he had screwed up royally.
Max reached for his cane to steady himself. He waited a minute, and gradually the pain eased. He made his way over to the window and looked out across the night-shrouded cove. Through the steady fall of rain he could see the lights of the Cosmic Harmony Women's Retreat winking in the distance.
Max gazed at them for a long while, and then he glanced back over his shoulder at his newest temporary home. He had stayed in a lot of places over the years, from cheap, thin-walled trailers to European castles, but this was the first time he had lived in an attic.
The large room under the eaves of the old inn was surprisingly cozy. It was also comfortable, so long as he remembered to duck the steeply sloped roof beams near the walls. Luckily there had apparently not been enough frilly Victoriana left over to waste on this portion of the inn. To his infinite relief, the furnishings up here were worn, rustic pieces that suited his taste for clean, straightforward shapes and forms.
Max envisioned Cleo asleep in her canopied bed one floor below and immediately regretted it. The image only served to intensify the heavy feeling in his lower body. It was going to be a long night.
His gaze fell on the coil of red ribbon lying on the desk, and his mouth tightened.
He'd made a tactical error this morning when he had confronted Cleo with his assumptions about her role in Jason's life. He was rarely so clumsy.
Having neatly wrecked his chances for insinuating himself easily into her odd household, Max had realized immediately that he'd needed a new pressure point. He'd had to find a way to convince Cleo to let him stay on at the inn. The incident with the red ribbon had provided him with a perfect excuse for hanging around.
He had told her he'd have O'Reilly check out the guests who were staying at the inn, and he fully intended to do just that. But he was going to tell O'Reilly not to rush the check. Max needed time to search for the Luttrells.
He scooped up the scarlet satin ribbon and let the ends trail through his fingers. The realization that someone had invaded Cleo's bedroom in order to deliberately frighten her sent a frisson of cold anger through him. Literary criticism had its place, but this particular critic had gone too far.
He was definitely not in a mood to sleep, Max decided. It sounded quiet downstairs. This would be a good opportunity to take a look around the inn's basement. He'd already prowled through several upstairs rooms and found nothing. The basement was the sort of place someone like Cleo might have chosen to conceal five valuable paintings.
Max shook his head in disgust at the thought of the magnificent Luttrells stashed in a damp basement.
He crossed the room to the closet. As usual, he had brought a fully packed carryall with him. The habit of being ready to leave at a moment's notice had been formed when he was a boy and was too well entrenched to be broken now.
Max tugged on a pair of dark trousers and one of the new white shirts he had recently received from his London tailor. For no good reason that he could think of, he stuffed the scarlet ribbon into his pocket. Then he headed downstairs.
The inn was quiet. Each floor was well lighted, but no one was
about. Herbert T. Valence's intensive training in motivational techniques had apparently exhausted the seminar attendees.
Max saw the light on in the small office behind the front desk as soon as he walked into the lobby. He paused, listening intently for a moment. Then he went forward soundlessly, careful to keep the tip of the cane on the carpet so that it would not announce his arrival. He expected to find George, the inn's night desk man, at work.
A loud snore rumbled through the lobby. It emanated from the inner office. Max's brows rose. He took another few steps and glanced through the open doorway of the inner office. A thin, bald man somewhere in his mid-sixties was seated in Cleo's chair. He was fast asleep, his head down on his folded arms.
So much for night security at Robbins' Nest Inn.
But what was bad for security created a convenient situation for Max. He could take his time exploring the basement. He started down the hall that led to the basement stairs.
When he went past the glass-walled solarium, a tingle of awareness made him hesitate. He stopped in the doorway. The lights were off inside the room, but there was enough of a glow from the hall to reveal a familiar, graceful figure lounging in one of the regal fanback wicker chairs.
She sat alone in the shadows, gazing pensively out into the rain-soaked darkness. Cleopatra contemplating the fate of Egypt.
The throbbing sense of urgency that still swirled deep within Max flared back into life once more. Instinctively he brushed his hand across the pocket that contained the length of red satin.
“Hello,” Max said quietly. “I take it you couldn't sleep either?”
Cleo's head came around very swiftly. She blinked at Max's backlit figure, as if trying to make out who had invaded her private realm. He could see that the soft, dark cloud of her hair had worked its way free of the clip that was supposed to keep it in place. She was wearing her usual uniform of snug, faded jeans and an oxford cloth button-down shirt. Her gold sneakers gleamed in the shadows.
The faint hall light revealed Cleo's wary, shuttered expression. An emotion other than desire stirred inside of Max. He recognized it vaguely as concern. He had not seen that particular look on Cleo's face before, not even when they had discussed the significance of the red ribbon on her pillow.
“I had an unpleasant dream,” Cleo said quietly. “I get them sometimes. I thought I'd come down here for a few minutes to get rid of the cobwebs. What are you doing up?”
Max wondered what sort of dreams it took to awaken Cleo and cause her to seek refuge in the solarium.
He walked into the darkened room and sat down in the wicker chair across from her. For a moment he said nothing. He could hear the burbling of the water in the shallow, tiled fountain that was the centerpiece of the room.
“I had nothing better to do, so I decided I'd come down and see how easy it was to get hold of a master key or the key to your room,” Max improvised carefully.
“The key to my room?” Cleo looked briefly startled.
“Someone must have used one or the other to open your door earlier tonight.”
“Oh, I see.” Her fingers clenched around the arms of the wicker chair. “It wouldn't have been that hard to get hold of a key, I'm afraid. I suppose you saw George?”
“He's asleep.”
Cleo wrinkled her nose. “He usually is. The thing is, we've never had much of a security problem here at the inn.”
“I noticed that the front desk is frequently unattended for several minutes at a time during the day, too,” Max pointed out.
“Yes. We're always a little short of staff. Everyone pitches in when we're full. Sometimes that means whoever is at the front desk has to help out in the kitchen or check on a problem in one of the rooms.”
Max gingerly stretched out his leg and absently massaged his aching thigh. “The bottom line here is that almost anyone could have entered the inn sometime today, swiped a key for a few minutes, used it to unlock your door, and left the ribbon on your pillow.”
“Yes.” Cleo's brows drew together. “Believe me, from here on out, we'll make certain we keep a much closer eye on the keys.”
“I think that would be a good idea,” Max said dryly. “For openers, the keys should be kept inside the office at all times, not left on the hooks behind the front desk. No one but members of your staff should be allowed into the office, and the door should be locked if the front desk is unattended, even for five minutes.”
“I'd already figured that out for myself,” Cleo muttered.
“Tomorrow morning you can get me a complete list of everyone who is staying at the inn this weekend,” Max continued.
Cleo leaned back in her chair, rested her elbows on the arms, and steepled her fingers. She gazed at him, brooding. “You're serious about having your friend O'Reilly check out my guests, aren't you?”
He was surprised by the question. “Did you get the impression that I wasn't serious about it?”
“Not exactly. You look like the type who takes most things seriously.”
“In my experience it's the things which don't get taken seriously that cause the most problems,” he said.
“So you take everything seriously,” Cleo concluded. “Sounds like a rather grim way to go through life.”
“It's the way I am.”
“I'll bet you're a real fun date.”
The flash of humor in her eyes disconcerted him. Max forgot about his aching leg for a moment as it struck him that she was laughing at him. It was an odd experience. People reacted to him in a variety of ways, but virtually no one found him amusing. “I've never had anyone comment on that.”
“You're a strange man.” The amusement faded from Cleo's eyes. “I don't know what to make of you, Max. I thought I did when you arrived, but now I'm not so sure.”
“I can prove that I was a friend of Jason's, if that will make you feel more comfortable around me.”
Her eyes widened. “I believe you were Jason's friend.”
“And I apologized for thinking you were Jason's mistress.”
“Yes, I know.” She waved a hand in a magnanimous gesture. “I've decided not to hold that against you any longer, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Max said humbly.
“I mean, I can sort of see where you might have gotten the impression that Jason and I were…well, never mind.” Cleo blushed. “I can see where you got the idea.”
“When you decide what it is that's still bothering you about me,” Max said gently, “let me know.”
“I'll do that.” She watched intently as he rubbed his thigh. “What's wrong with your leg?”
“It aches a little sometimes. Especially after a long day.”
“How did you hurt it?” Cleo asked. “Were you in an accident?”
“You could say that.”
“How long ago did it happen?”
He was amused by her sudden fascination with the topic. “Three years ago.”
“It looks painful.”
“Occasionally it is.”
She bit her lip. “I suppose it's bothering you tonight because of all that firewood you lugged into the lobby this afternoon. You should have said something when I asked you to do that.”
“It's got nothing to do with hauling firewood around. Sometimes it just aches, that's all.”
“Does massage help?”
Max shrugged. “I don't know. I've never tried professional massage.”
“I give a good therapeutic massage.” Cleo's smile was tentative. “I learned how to do it when Andromeda hired a massage therapist to teach the women of Cosmic Harmony. Andromeda's into holistic medicine, you know.”
“I'm not surprised.”
“Want me to work on that leg?”
Max abruptly stopped rubbing his thigh. He flexed his fingers slowly as he imagined what it would feel like to have Cleo's hands on his leg.
“All right,” Max said. He was going to regret this, he was certain of it. But he seemed to be lacking in willpower tonight.<
br />
Cleo got slowly to her feet. She took two steps to close the distance between them and knelt on the floor beside his chair. Her eyes were huge and luminous behind the lenses of her glasses.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” she whispered.
“I will.” Max took a deep breath and waited for the exquisite torture to begin.
Cleo put her hands on his thigh. For a while she did not move at all. She simply let the warmth of her palms soak through his trousers into his skin.
Max was startled by the amount of soothing heat she was generating. He looked down at Cleo's bent head. She was concentrating intently on her task. The delicate, sensual curve of her neck was within reach. All he had to do was move his hand a scant six inches or so, and he would be touching her. Max gripped the arms of the chair.
“You're very tense.” Cleo frowned as she pressed her fingertips gently into his hard, muscled flesh. “Try to relax. According to the massage therapist who taught me how to do this, the chief cause of soreness in the muscles is tension.”
“I'll try to remember that.”
She began to knead his thigh with long, smooth strokes. “How does that feel?”
“Good.” It was true, Max realized, surprised. No one had ever offered to massage his leg for him since his “accident.” He hadn't realized how soothing it would feel to have someone else work on the knotted muscles of his thigh.
“Andromeda is very good with herbs. I'll ask her to mix up something you can use as a muscle relaxant,” Cleo said.
Max winced at the thought. “Never mind. I generally use brandy when things get bad.”
“I think you'll find one of Cosmic Harmony's herbal teas will work just as well. The guests love them.”
Max didn't feel like arguing. He closed his eyes and focused on the sensual touch of Cleo's hands. Another window, he thought. Another glimpse into the intriguing depths of Cleopatra Robbins.
Long minutes passed during which Max's leg began to feel infinitely better. But the massage did nothing to diminish the driving need inside him. The sense of urgency was growing beyond control.
Grand Passion Page 7
