Grand Passion

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  The inn's lounge was quiet again that evening. The handful of guests were clustered around the hearth sipping espressos, lattes, and sherry. Cleo sat on her favorite stool and watched Max wash and dry glasses. Neither of them had referred to the small scene in the meditation center that afternoon.

  “You know, you're really good at that,” she said as Max rinsed another glass and set it on the tray. “You're good at everything around here. Remind me to have you take a look at one of the water pipes in the basement tomorrow. It's leaking.”

  “Something is always leaking around this place,” Max said. “One of these days you're going to have to put in new plumbing.”

  Cleo sighed. “That will cost a fortune.”

  “You can't run a place like this without making occasional capital investments.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she grumbled. “You're not the one who has to come up with the money. I wish Benjy would come back.”

  “Ben.”

  “Right, Ben. He had a knack for handling the plumbing.”

  Max seemed to hesitate. “Speaking of Ben—” He broke off abruptly and glanced toward the door. “Ah, I see we are about to entertain another one of your gentlemen callers.”

  “My what?” Cleo glanced around in surprise. “Oh, that's Nolan.”

  “The budding politician?”

  “Yes. I wonder what he wants.”

  Nolan walked purposefully toward the bar. He was wearing a handsome leather jacket, a discreetly striped shirt, and a pair of dark slacks. His light brown hair was attractively ruffled and slightly damp from the rain. He smiled broadly at Cleo, just as if he hadn't labeled her book pornography a few days ago.

  “Hello, Nolan.” Cleo peered at him warily. “What brings you here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.” Nolan sat down on the stool next to Cleo's. He glanced briefly at Max. “You're new here, aren't you?”

  Cleo stepped in to make introductions. “Nolan, this is Max Fortune. He's a new employee. Max, this is Nolan Hildebrand.”

  “Hildebrand.” Max inclined his head and continued drying glasses.

  “Fortune. I'll have a double decaf nonfat grande latte,” Nolan said.

  Max elevated one brow, but he did not respond. He turned to the espresso machine and went to work preparing the coffee drink.

  Cleo idly stirred her tea. “Gosh, Nolan, I hope you're not jeopardizing your chances of getting elected next fall by being seen here with me tonight. I'd really hate to have that on my conscience.”

  Nolan had the grace to look abashed. “You've got a right to be annoyed with me, Cleo. I handled that scene at the cove very badly.”

  “Was there a good way to handle it?” Cleo asked. She was aware that Max was listening to every word.

  “I shouldn't have come unglued just because you wrote that book,” Nolan muttered. “It wasn't that big a deal. I want to apologize.”

  Cleo widened her eyes in surprise. “You do?”

  Nolan nodded his head with sober humiliation. “Yeah. I behaved like an ass. Will you forgive me?”

  Cleo relented instantly. “Sure. Don't worry about it. I know it must have been a shock to find The Mirror stuffed into your mailbox along with that note.”

  “You can say that again.” Nolan gave her a rueful smile. “It's still hard for me to believe you wrote something like that. I mean, it just seemed so unlike you, Cleo. All that stuff about ribbons and mirrors and scarves and so on.”

  Max put a small paper napkin down in front of Nolan and positioned the latte glass in the center. “A fascinating tour de force in the neoromantic style, don't you think?”

  “Huh?” Nolan blinked and turned to scowl at Max.

  Max picked up another wet glass and went back to work with the dish towel. “I think The Mirror offers a unique and insightful perspective on the interior landscape of female sexuality.”

  Nolan scowled. “Who the hell did you say you were?”

  “It varies. Tonight I'm the bartender,” Max said. “But getting back to The Mirror; I have to say that I was very impressed by the intricately layered depths of many of the scenes. Weren't you?”

  Nolan stared at Cleo. “You said no one else around here knew you'd written that book.”

  “Excepting family, of course,” Max murmured.

  “Family? What family?” Nolan demanded.

  “Never mind,” Max said. “Didn't you find that there was extraordinary shape and substance to the eroticism in the book? It goes far beyond the overtly sensual and into the realm of the philosophical.”

  “Look, I didn't come here tonight to talk about Cleo's book,” Nolan ground out through set teeth.

  “A definite sense of far-flung resonance pervades every chapter, every scene of the book,” Max continued. “The fluent narrative voice conjures up an alternative reality that takes on a life of its own. For the male reader, it creates an alien world, a distinctly female world, and yet I'm sure you found that there was a strange sense of familiarity about it.”

  “Christ, I don't believe this,” Nolan muttered. “Cleo, I wanted to talk to you about something very important.”

  Cleo gulped the last of her tea, nearly choking on her own laughter. “Sure, Nolan,” she sputtered. “What's on your mind?”

  Nolan shot a wary glance at Max and lowered his voice. “This is sort of personal.”

  “The portrayal of a female view of sexuality in The Mirror was nothing short of riveting,” Max offered as he poured more tea into Cleo's cup. “The reader has the sense that the narrator is both the seducer and the one who is seduced. It brings up several interesting questions about the matter of reader identification, as far as I'm concerned. What was your conclusion?”

  “Can't you shut him up?” Nolan asked Cleo.

  Cleo looked at Max and saw the gleam in his eyes. “Probably not.”

  “The reader must ask himself, for example,” Max said in measured, pedantic tones, “just who is the seducer in The Mirror? Is it a work of autoeroticism? Is the narrator actually seducing herself when she looks into the mirror?”

  That was certainly what the reviewers had believed, Cleo thought. She waited with a sense of impending fate to hear what Max had to say about it.

  “I'm trying to have a private conversation here,” Nolan said in a tight voice.

  Max ignored him. “Personally, I think something far more complex is going on. Women writers, after all, are interested in relationships. I believe that the figure in the mirror is the other, and that, initially, at least, he is actually the seducer. But there's another problem in the book. I think the man in the mirror is just as trapped in his world as the narrator is in hers.”

  Cleo froze. None of the reviews that had appeared on The Mirror had understood that fundamental fact. Her eyes met Max's, and she nearly fell off the bar stool when she saw the deep, sensual understanding in his gaze.

  She gripped the edge of the bar and held on for dear life. That shattering moment of silent communication did more to melt her insides than anything her imagination had conjured up when she wrote The Mirror.

  Max smiled slowly at her. Instead of giving her a fresh napkin to accompany her second cup of tea, he put a playing card down beside the saucer. He reached into his pocket, removed a small object, and set it down on top of the card.

  Cleo was afraid to glance at the face of the card. But in the end she was unable to resist.

  When she looked down her worst fears were confirmed. The card was a queen of hearts. Lying on top of the card was a small, familiar key. She knew it was the key to the attic room. Cleo jerked her eyes back up to meet Max's. What she saw there stole her breath.

  “What's going on here, Cleo?” Nolan glared at the card and the key. “What's this all about?”

  “I don't know,” Cleo admitted. But the admission was made to Max, not to Nolan. Nolan seemed to have faded somewhere into the distance. Max was the only person who mattered.

  “There's only one way to find out, is
n't there?” Max said softly. “You'll have to use the key.”

  It was a scene straight out of her book. Like the red rose, the key had been another symbol of seduction. Cleo was light-headed. It was as if she had stepped into a dream that she, herself, had fashioned but that Max now controlled. Nothing felt quite real. She wondered if Andromeda had been experimenting lately with the formulas of her herbal teas.

  Nolan was looking confused and angry. He scowled at Max. “What's with that key and the card?”

  “Cleo's been looking for them for a long time,” Max said gently. “I found them for her.”

  Nolan turned back to Cleo. “Damn it, I'm trying to talk to you about something that involves a lot of money. I don't know who this guy is”—he jerked a thumb at Max—“but I've had about enough of his interference.”

  Max smiled dangerously. His eyes gleamed.

  Cleo wrenched herself momentarily free of the silken web of sensual promise that was swirling around her. She tried to concentrate on Nolan's annoyed face. “What did you say about a great deal of money?”

  Nolan apparently decided that he finally had her full attention. He leaned forward intently. “A man named Garrison Spark came by my office today. He's looking for some very valuable paintings that he thinks may have been left here in Harmony Cove. He says that old guy who used to stay here at the inn was actually a very wealthy member of the Curzon family.”

  “I know.”

  “Spark says Curzon owned the paintings but that he had sold them to Spark just before he died.”

  Cleo stared. “Mr. Spark told you that Jason sold him the Luttrells?”

  Nolan leaned closer. “You know about them?”

  “I know that the Luttrells, if they're ever found, belong to Max, here.”

  Nolan's knuckles were white. His eyes narrowed. “The hell they do. Spark said Fortune might try to claim them, but he says Fortune has no proof of ownership.”

  “And Spark does?” Cleo asked.

  Nolan nodded quickly. “Spark can produce a bill of sale.”

  Max set a glass down very casually and picked up another. “Spark is very good at producing forgeries of all kinds.”

  Nolan ignored him. “Cleo, the paintings belong to Spark. What's more, he's got a client who will pay fifty thousand dollars for them. Spark says he'll pay a finder's fee if we can figure out where Curzon stashed the paintings.”

  “A finder's fee?” Cleo repeated. “You mean a commission?”

  “He'll go fifty-fifty.” Nolan was barely able to contain his excitement. “Whoever finds those paintings and turns them over to Spark will collect twenty-five thousand dollars. I could really use that kind of money for my campaign fund.”

  “I could use it to fix the plumbing here at the inn,” Cleo mused.

  Nolan's smile held a hint of satisfaction. “We'll split the twenty-five grand, Cleo. Deal?”

  “Afraid not,” Cleo said. “For openers, I have no idea where the paintings are.”

  “They've got to be around here somewhere,” Nolan insisted. “Spark is convinced that Curzon hid them here in Harmony Cove. He talked to someone at Cosmic Harmony first because he'd heard that Curzon was friends with some of the women there. But I know how much Curzon liked you.”

  “Jason was my friend.”

  “Right,” Nolan agreed swiftly. “And I'll bet that if he left those paintings anywhere, he left them here at the inn. Level with me. Do you know where they are?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Because there's a lot of money involved here. I know how sentimental you are. You're the type who would hang on to those Luttrells just because they reminded you of an old friend. But they're too valuable to be kept around as mementos.”

  “I'm not keeping them around as mementos,” Cleo said patiently. “I have no idea where they are. And if they do turn up, Max has first claim to them.”

  “Not according to Garrison Spark.” Nolan shot Max a disgusted glance. “According to Spark, Fortune was just a professional gofer. He did odd jobs for Spark for a while. Then he quit without any notice to do odd jobs for Curzon International, where he apparently managed to ingratiate himself with Jason Curzon. He says Fortune is an opportunist who always has an eye out for the main chance.”

  “A man's got to make a living,” Max said.

  Cleo stirred uneasily on the bar stool. She was still feeling disoriented. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the key to the attic room glinting in the soft light. “Nolan, I don't know anything about the paintings. You're wasting your time.”

  “Okay, so maybe you don't know where they are,” Nolan said quickly. “But Spark thinks they're around here somewhere, either at the inn or at Cosmic Harmony. I propose we join forces to find them.”

  “Forget it,” Cleo said.

  “You heard the lady,” Max said.

  “Why don't you just shut up and tend bar?” Nolan muttered.

  Max's smile was dangerously benign. “If you don't want to talk business, I suppose we could go back to The Mirror. Did you notice the allusions and metaphors that permeate the book? The use of the scarlet ribbon was especially interesting. It creates both a threat and a bond. A brilliant commentary on the different ways in which men and women view sex and sensuality, don't you think?”

  “Goddammit, I've had enough of this.” Nolan got to his feet and turned to Cleo. “I'll talk to you some other time when he isn't around.”

  “I'm sorry.” Cleo felt a pang of regret. Until the other morning at the cove, Nolan had been a friend. She jumped down off the stool and took his arm. “I'll walk you out to the lobby.”

  Nolan was immediately mollified. “This business with the Luttrells is important, Cleo. There's a lot of money involved.”

  “I understand.” Cleo refused to look back at Max as she guided Nolan out of the lounge. “But I really don't know where the paintings are. Jason never said a word to me about them.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “They've got to be around here somewhere. Spark is sure of it.” Nolan's mouth thinned in frustration. “Listen, Cleo, Spark says Fortune is a two-bit con man. He says the guy has no legal claim to those paintings.”

  “I think Max does have a claim to them,” Cleo said quietly.

  “Don't be a fool. Spark has a bill of sale. Damn it, it's obvious Fortune is trying to charm you into telling him where the paintings are. I don't want to see you get hurt, Cleo.”

  “Thoughtful of you.”

  “I mean it,” Nolan said. “Cleo, in spite of what happened, we're old friends. I only want what's best for you.”

  “Thanks for coming by, Nolan.” Cleo opened the front door. “I accept your apology. I'm glad we're still friends.”

  “Sure.” Nolan came to a halt at the door. His brows drew together in a frown. “Why the hell did you let Fortune read your book? You said you didn't want anyone to know you'd written it.”

  “It's okay, Nolan. Max is one of the family.” Cleo shut the door gently in his face and leaned back against it with a long sigh.

  Max had behaved outrageously. She would have to speak to him. The trouble was, she wasn't sure quite what to say. All she could think about was the key to the attic room that he had given to her.

  Cleo took a moment to regroup her forces. Then she straightened away from the door and stalked back into the lounge. The last of the guests were leaving to go upstairs to their rooms. Max was busy closing down the bar.

  “I want to talk to you,” Cleo said.

  “Watch out for Hildebrand,” Max said coolly as he shut off the lights behind the bar. “Spark has obviously gotten to him.”

  Cleo frowned, distracted. “What are you talking about?”

  “You heard me.” Max came around from behind the bar. He was leaning more heavily than usual on his cane. “Spark has convinced Hildebrand that it will be worth his while to find the paintings. Hildebrand has decided you can help him collect the twenty-five g
rand. That's the only reason he showed up here tonight.”

  “It wasn't the only reason. Nolan apologized to me,” Cleo said stubbornly.

  “Don't be a fool, Cleo.”

  “Funny, that's what Nolan just said. I'm getting all kinds of good advice tonight.”

  Max gave her a strange look. “Maybe you ought to take some of it.”

  Cleo took a deep breath. “Max, I'd like to talk to you about something important.”

  “I've got something I want to talk to you about, too,” Max said. “O'Reilly phoned this afternoon. None of the guests who stayed here at the inn the night the ribbon was left on your pillow checks out as obviously weird.”

  Cleo was disconcerted. “I'd almost forgotten that your friend was running a check on those people.”

  “It doesn't mean one of them didn't do it, only that there's no obvious suspect.”

  “I see.”

  Max slanted her a brooding glance. “O'Reilly thinks the best way to handle the situation is to ignore it. He says whoever is behind the incidents will grow bored with them if you don't give him the response he wants.”

  Cleo thought about it. “Do you agree with Mr. O'Reilly?”

  Max shrugged. “I'm not sure. But he's the expert on this kind of thing, not me. He says that, based on his experience, he thinks it's most likely someone from the local area who found out about The Mirror has decided to play some bad practical jokes on you.”

  “Some sour-minded malcontent who has nothing better to do, I suppose.”

  “His advice is to go to your local police chief if there are any more incidents.”

  “All right.” Cleo made a face. “I told you private investigators weren't very useful.”

  Max paused. “I wouldn't say that. O'Reilly also told me that he found Ben Atkins for you.”

  That stopped Cleo in her tracks. She smiled at Max in delight. “He did? Where is Benjy? I mean, where is Ben? Is he all right?”

  “As far as I know. According to O'Reilly, Atkins is working at a gas station in a little town south of here.” Max walked toward the door.