Grand Passion

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “I realize that,” Cleo said earnestly, “but you're a man, and I think Benjy will feel more comfortable talking to a man at this stage.”

  “What the hell do you expect me to talk to him about?”

  “Not supposed to say hell either,” Sammy said.

  “Sorry,” Max said brusquely.

  Cleo kept what she hoped was a persuasive smile in place. “Ideally I'd like you to talk him into coming home. I want him to shoulder his responsibilities toward Trisha. But at the very least he needs to realize he has a financial obligation to her.”

  “You don't ask much, do you?” Max said grimly.

  “What's an obligation?” Sammy asked.

  “That's what people say a person has when they want that person to do something.” Max didn't take his eyes off Cleo.

  “Oh.” Sammy appeared placated by the answer.

  Max studied Cleo. “This is way outside my area of expertise. I am definitely not a social worker.”

  “But you said your friend O'Reilly was good at tracking down people,” Cleo reminded him.

  “Finding Benjy is one thing,” Max said. “Talking him into coming back here is another.”

  “We've got to try.”

  Max looked at her. “I'd rather you left me out of this.”

  Sammy took his thumb out of his mouth. “I bet you could make Benjy come home, Max.”

  Cleo gave Max a searching glance. “Would you mind if we finished this discussion in the kitchen?”

  “Something tells me I can't avoid it.” Max took his foot down off the stool.

  He started to reach for his cane, but Sammy jumped to his feet, picked it up, and handed it to him.

  “Thank you.” Max took the cane politely. He tucked The Mirror under his arm and looked at Cleo. “All right. Let's go.”

  Sammy sat down in his small fanback chair. “Are you going to come back and read some more with me, Max?”

  Max glanced down at the boy. “Maybe.”

  “Okay. I'll wait here for you.”

  Cleo smiled ruefully as she led the way out of the solarium. “Sammy has really glommed on to you, hasn't he?”

  “He does seem to be underfoot every time I turn around.”

  “I think he's trying to turn you into a sort of honorary uncle, just as he did Jason,” she explained.

  “It's okay,” Max said. “I'm getting used to it.”

  Cleo pushed open the kitchen door. Trisha, Sylvia, Andromeda, and Daystar turned to stare at them. The expressions on their faces ranged from anxious and hopeful to grim and determined.

  “Well?” Daystar beetled her brows at Max. “Are you going to help us locate Benjy?”

  Andromeda and Sylvia watched Max with an ill-concealed expression of appeal. Trisha sniffed into her napkin and gazed at him uncertainly.

  Max surveyed the group sitting in the nook. His face was unreadable. “I can probably find Benjy for you.”

  The women traded relieved glances.

  “That's wonderful,” Andromeda said. “Will you talk to him? Try to get him to come home?”

  Max's jaw tightened. “I'll talk to him for you, but I'm not making any promises.”

  “We understand,” Cleo said quickly.

  Trisha stirred uneasily. “I'm not sure this is a good idea. I mean, I don't know if Benjy can handle this kind of pressure. What will I say to him if Max does find him and bring him home?”

  “For one thing,” Max said, “you will stop calling him Benjy.”

  A startled silence fell on the group. Cleo and the others gazed at him in mute astonishment.

  Cleo got her mouth closed first. “What are you talking about? Benjy is his name. Benjy Atkins.”

  “Not if he comes back here willingly and shoulders his responsibilities,” Max said. “If you're going to ask good old Benjy to become a man, the least you can do is to treat him like one. From now on, his name is Ben.”

  “Sure, Max, I can run that list of names through the computers,” Compton O'Reilly said on the other end of the phone. “But what the hell's going on? Is it true you've left Curzon International?”

  O'Reilly sounded amused, but that was nothing new, Max thought. He always sounded that way. Max was one of the few people who understood that O'Reilly's humorous approach to life was a facade. Since the death of his beloved wife and daughter in a plane accident five years ago, O'Reilly had retreated into a place where nothing seemed to bother him. Max would have envied him if he hadn't sensed that, for O'Reilly, the relentless amusement was a way to cover up the pain that still burned hot inside him.

  “I'm through with Curzon.” Max cradled the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he reached for a pen. “I've got a new position.”

  “No kidding?” O'Reilly said. “There've been some rumors, but I didn't believe them. Thought sure the Curzons would make you an offer you couldn't refuse after the old man died.”

  “I'm not open to offers from Curzon.” Max winced as he leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his leg and gazed out the window of his room. It occurred to him that he was starting to enjoy the view from the attic.

  “I can't say I'm totally surprised to hear that some other big chain got you. Was it Global Village Properties? They've been after you for a long time.”

  “I didn't go with Global Village or any of the other big chains.” Max tapped the pen idly against the pad of yellow paper sitting on the desk. The names of all the guests who had stayed at the inn that weekend were listed alphabetically on the first page of the pad. He had noted addresses and phone numbers beside each name.

  “Picked a small independent, huh?” O'Reilly sounded briefly thoughtful. “What's up? Looking for a challenge? Going to buy out a small operation and start your own hotel chain? I can see you doing that. You're the one person who could give the Curzons a run for their money. Should be fun to watch.”

  “It's just a small inn on the coast, and I don't have any plans to buy it out and turn it into a chain.”

  O'Reilly chuckled. “Come off it, Max, I can't see you running a folksy little bed-and-breakfast place on the coast.”

  “You don't understand. I'm not running the place at all. I'm working for the owner.”

  “Doing what?” O'Reilly demanded.

  “Odd jobs. Unclogging toilets, hauling firewood, tending bar. At the moment I'm trying to handle a small security problem,” Max said. “Do you think you can stop laughing long enough to check out that list of names I just gave you, or shall I call Brindle Investigations?”

  “Hey, no need to call the competition. I can handle this. Who do I bill?”

  “Send the bill to me.”

  “Something I don't understand here,” O'Reilly said. “You've already got the addresses for those people. What, exactly, do you want me to look for?”

  “I'm not sure.” Max scanned the page of names. “See if anyone on that list has connections with ultraconservative groups or off-the-wall religious organizations. You might also check on whether or not any of them have a record for getting arrested for making right-wing social protests or causing disturbances over First Amendment issues. That kind of thing.”

  “You think you're dealing with some morally outraged fanatic?”

  “It feels like that,” Max said. “My employer wrote a book that's just been published. I think what we've got here is a self-appointed censor who's decided to mete out his own brand of literary criticism to an author.”

  “Sounds like a guy who's got a couple of screws loose, is that it?”

  “Whoever he is, he's the type who would go out of his way to frighten an innocent writer.”

  “There's no shortage of people who feel called upon to censor what other people read, Max, you know that.”

  “I know, but I'm hoping that the number of people who would take the trouble to track down an anonymous author and leave weird warnings around will make a much shorter list.”

  “I'll see what I can do,” O'Reilly said. “I should have the info in
a few days.”

  Max eyed the storm that was forming out over the sea. “There's one other name I want you to check out for me, while you're at it. I want to find a young man named Benjamin Atkins.”

  “Is he connected to your security problem?”

  “No, I don't think so. Separate issue. He's a former employee of the inn. Left in the middle of the night with no forwarding address.”

  “I get the picture. What did he take with him?”

  “It's not what he took, it's what he left behind,” Max said.

  “Okay, be cryptic. What do I care? Give me what you've got on Atkins.”

  Max read off the few meager facts Cleo had given him. Ben's young life was all too easily summarized. Parts of it reminded Max of his own past. At least he hadn't gotten a young woman pregnant when he was barely twenty-three, Max reflected. He'd always been very careful not to get any woman pregnant.

  That thought brought to mind a strangely tantalizing image of how Cleo would look ripe and round with his baby. A surge of possessiveness and wonder twisted Max's insides. His baby. It struck him that this was the first time he had actually thought about having a kid of his own.

  “I'll get back to you as soon as I've got something,” O'Reilly said.

  “Thanks.” Max hesitated. “By the way, there's no great rush on that Atkins situation.”

  “What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

  Max kneaded his left leg and studied the sea. “It means that I'm in no great rush to get answers. Take your time.” He hung up the phone.

  The reason he was in no hurry to locate Atkins was because once he did he would have to carry out the mission that Cleo and the others had assigned him. It was almost certainly going to be Mission Impossible. Max was ninety-nine percent sure he wouldn't be able to talk Atkins into returning to the inn's odd family.

  Hell, Max thought, he didn't have the slightest idea of how to go about convincing a young man to accept his responsibilities.

  The Atkins situation was shaping up to be one of those exceedingly rare, but very memorable, occasions when Max knew he was almost bound to screw up. He hated failure, hated it with a passion. The price was too damn high.

  When he failed to talk Atkins into coming back, Max knew he would not find a warm welcome waiting for him back at Robbins' Nest Inn. People treated you differently when you didn't give them what they wanted. An outsider was welcome only as long as he was useful.

  It was a pragmatic issue, Max told himself, not an emotional one. Being edged out of the inn's cozy family would make it difficult to continue searching for the Luttrells. That meant he had to find the paintings before he left in search of Ben Atkins.

  Max continued to massage his aching thigh. The answer was obvious. He would have to seduce Cleo That would be the fastest, easiest way to get the answers he wanted.

  Cleo was the key to recovering his inheritance. She had to know more than she'd admitted. There was no reason for Jason to have lied to Max on his deathbed

  Cleo knew where the paintings were, and Max knew from reading The Mirror that she was vulnerable to passion. Now that he had discovered the fire in her, he was almost certain he could make her want him.

  Max stopped rubbing his thigh and contemplated the pot of herbal tea Andromeda had sent upstairs with him earlier.

  “Cleo says you're having a bit of trouble with that leg of yours,” Andromeda had said as she'd bustled about the kitchen, preparing the concoction. “Try a cup or two of this and see if it doesn't help.”

  “Does wonders for my arthritis,” Daystar had volunteered.

  “Try it, Max,” Cleo had insisted. “Andromeda's teas are great for headaches and sore muscles.”

  The stuff tasted like essence of weeds, as far as Max was concerned. But the novelty of having Cleo and the rest of her “family” fuss over him had proved irresistible for some reason. He'd already gotten one full cup of the stuff down. Maybe it was his imagination, but his leg did seem to feel better, just as it had last night when Cleo had massaged it. He decided to try a second cup.

  Hot images of the previous night flooded back, sending another rush of desire through his veins. Max sipped the tea as he allowed himself to savor the memory of Cleo's mouth under his. Sweet, fresh, and trembling with a shy eagerness.

  His instincts told him that he could satiate himself with the warmth of her body as he had never been satiated before in his life. All he had to do was unlock the flame inside the ice.

  But time was running out. O'Reilly was good. Max knew that even taking his time about it, his friend would come up with the answers he had been sent after fairly quickly. At that point Max would be forced to track down Atkins and talk to him. He had given his word.

  That meant he had to find the Luttrells before he left in search of Atkins. Max knew that after he'd had his little man-to-man chat with Atkins, things would never be the same for him here at the inn. He would be an outsider once more.

  No big deal, Max thought. He was used to the role of outsider. But he wanted those Luttrells.

  Two days later Cleo popped into the kitchen to check on dinner preparations. She saw Daystar hovering over a large pot of what looked like Cosmic Harmony's very special bean and vegetable soup.

  “Have you seen Andromeda?” Cleo asked.

  “She'll be here any minute.” Daystar added fresh basil to the pot. “Got delayed at the Retreat.”

  “Did something happen?” Cleo sniffed the soup appreciatively.

  “Some man in a gray suit and a silk tie drove up just as we were leaving. He insisted on talking to her. Said it was important. I came on ahead to get dinner started.” Daystar ground some pepper into the soup. “Any word yet on the whereabouts of Benjy?”

  Cleo arched her brows. “You mean Mr. Ben Atkins?”

  Daystar chuckled. “Oh, that's right. We're supposed to start calling the boy by his new name, aren't we?”

  “Max says if we don't, he won't bother to even try to bring Ben back. And, no, as far as I know, there's been no word on his whereabouts.”

  “Trisha doesn't think Max can find him,” Daystar said. “Or that Ben will agree to come back even if Max does locate him.”

  “We'll see.” Cleo turned her head as the back door opened and Andromeda bustled into the room. Water drops sparkled on her iridescent blue rain cape.

  “It's pouring out there.” Andromeda peeled off the shimmering cape and hung it in a closet. “Thought I'd never get rid of that silly man. What a waste of time. He simply wouldn't take no for an answer.”

  Daystar closed an oven door. “Salesman?”

  “You could say that.” Andromeda frowned. “Except that he wanted to buy, not sell. His name was Garrison Spark.”

  “Hah. I knew it,” Cleo muttered. “He was probably trying to steal you and the others for his own restaurant, wasn't he?”

  “Not exactly, dear.” Andromeda tied her apron around her waist. “He said he was an art dealer. He's looking for some paintings by a man named Luttrell.”

  Cleo widened her eyes. “Amos Luttrell?”

  “Yes, I believe that was it. Why? Have you heard of him?”

  “Uh, yes. As a matter of fact, I have.” Cleo frowned. “Max mentioned him.”

  Andromeda picked up a knife and went to work slicing red peppers. “Mr. Spark claims there are five paintings by this Luttrell person floating around out here on the coast somewhere. Says they're worth a fortune.”

  Daystar glanced at her. “How much is a fortune?”

  Andromeda shrugged. “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  Cleo's mouth dropped open. “Fifty thousand dollars. Are you kidding?”

  The kitchen door swung open at that moment. Max loomed in the doorway. Sammy was right beside him, Lucky Ducky in hand.

  “We need another tray of hors d'oeuvres in the lounge,” Max said.

  “With olives,” Sammy said with an air of grave importance. “All the olives are gone.”

  Max glanced down at hi
m. “That's because you ate them.”

  Sammy giggled. “Lucky Ducky ate them.”

  “I've got another tray ready to go,” Daystar said. “I'll send it right out.”

  Max glanced at Cleo. “Something wrong?”

  “Someone named Garrison Spark is looking for those paintings you mentioned the first night you arrived.”

  Max went utterly still. “Spark is here?”

  “Not here,” Cleo said. “He went to Cosmic Harmony. Andromeda talked to him. Max, Mr. Spark says those paintings are worth fifty thousand dollars.”

  “He lied,” Max said quietly. “They're worth a quarter of a million. In five years' time they'll be worth a million.”

  “Good lord,” Daystar breathed.

  Cleo was dazed. “A quarter of a million?”

  “Yes,” Max said. He looked at Andromeda. “What did you tell Spark?”

  Andromeda looked surprised by the edge in his voice. “I told him I had never heard of Amos Luttrell, let alone the paintings.”

  Cleo scowled at Max. “What's going on, Max? How could anyone think that Jason owned such valuable paintings?”

  His eyes met hers. “I think it's time I explained a few of the facts of life as they relate to Jason Curzon. I told you he was not a poor man. That's putting it mildly. He was Jason Curzon of Curzon International.”

  “The hotel chain?” Cleo was stunned. “Are you certain of that?”

  “Yes,” said Max. “I should know. I used to work for him.”

  Chapter

  6

  So our Jason Curzon was really one of those Curzons? The head of the big hotel chain?” Cleo asked again later that night.

  She was perched on a stool at the bar, a cup of Andromeda's herbal tea in front of her. It was a typical, slow, midweek night in winter. It was late, and the low hum of conversation in the shadowed lounge had a relaxed, sleepy quality.

  Max was behind the bar, looking as professional as if he had spent his entire working life making espresso drinks and serving after-dinner sherry. He was, Cleo reflected, an amazingly adaptable man. He'd handled every task he'd been given with a calm, totally unruffled aplomb.