Grand Passion (17 page)

“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.”

“I was afraid of that.” Cleo took the card that Spark handed to her. It felt heavy and rich and ever so tasteful in her hand.

“I would like to talk to you about five very valuable pictures.”

“Sorry.” Cleo tossed the card into the wastebasket. “Can't help you. For the last time, I know nothing about the Luttrells.”

Spark smiled coolly. “I sincerely doubt that you know much about Max Fortune, either. If you did, you would be extremely cautious. The man is dangerous, Ms. Robbins.”

“Look, Mr. Spark, I'm getting a little bored with this hunt-the-missing-picture game. Jason Curzon did not leave those paintings here at the inn. Believe me, if he had, I would have run across them by now.”

Spark looked even more amused. “The question in my mind is not whether Curzon left those paintings here, but rather how much do you want for them?”

“What?” Cleo stared at him in amazement. “I just told you that I don't know where they are. And if I did know, I would give them to Max before I gave them to you. He's got first dibs.”

“I see the clever Mr. Fortune has charmed his way into your good graces.” Spark shook his head ruefully. “Either that or he has played on your sympathies with a hard-luck story. I fear I must tell you quite frankly that giving the pictures to Max Fortune would be an extremely foolish thing to do.”

“Why?” Cleo shot back.

“Because he has no legal or moral claim to them. He's after them simply because they are brilliant works that he wishes to add to his collection. I should warn you, Ms. Robbins, that Fortune will stop at nothing when it comes to obtaining a painting he desires for his private collection. He can be quite ruthless.”

“What about you, Mr. Spark? How far will you go?”

Spark's eyes mirrored reluctant respect. “I can be just as tenacious as Fortune, my dear, but I tend to take a rather different approach.”

“What approach?”

“I shall be quite happy to pay you a fair price for the Luttrells.”

“Really?” Cleo eyed him skeptically. “Max says they're worth a quarter of a million.”

Spark chuckled indulgently. “Fortune always did have a flair for exaggeration. Fifty thousand is a much more realistic estimate. Although I'll grant you that in five years the figure could be much higher. However, five years is a long time to wait, isn't it? I am prepared to give you twenty-five thousand for those paintings today.”

“Forget it.”

“You're a hard bargainer, Ms. Robbins. Very well, make it thirty.”

“Don't you ever give up?”

“No,” Spark said. “I don't. And neither does Max Fortune. How much has he offered?”

“He hasn't offered a cent,” Cleo said honestly.

“He will,” Spark said. “Unless, of course, he can talk you out of them for nothing. He's not above trying that tactic. Presumably you will not allow him to do so, however. Call me when he makes his final offer. I will top it.”

“There will be no final offer, Mr. Spark, because there are no Luttrells laying around Robbins' Nest Inn. In case you hadn't noticed, I prefer a different sort of art.”

Spark glanced disparagingly at Jason's seascapes. “So I see.”

“It's all in the eye of the beholder, isn't it, Mr. Spark?”

Spark turned back to Cleo. “Ms. Robbins, if you are by any chance holding out because you believe that you can sell the paintings yourself on the open market, allow me to disabuse you of that notion. It takes contacts to sell that kind of art. I have those contacts. You do not. Please keep that in mind when you make your decision.”

Spark turned on his heel and walked out.

The lights of Robbins' Nest Inn glowed with welcoming warmth through the sleeting rain. Max studied them as they drew closer. He was aware of a strange sense of unreality. If he used his imagination, he could almost make believe he really was returning home after a long, exhausting, but successful journey. Home to a hot meal, a loving family, and a woman who would fly straight into his arms the instant she realized he had arrived.

But that kind of unrealistic imagination was not his strongest suit. He was far better at envisioning the logical, pragmatic consequences of failure. And there was no getting around the fact that he was returning as a failure. Ben was not with him, and there was no guarantee that he would return on his own in the near future.

Max slowed the Jaguar as he turned into the inn's parking lot. He was not eager for what awaited him. But at least he was packed and ready to leave, as always. The difference this time was that he would be leaving something important behind him.

The inn's lot was nearly full. Max glanced curiously at the vehicles that filled it. This was Thursday. By rights it should have been a slow night, but there was a surprising flurry of activity going on in the pouring rain. Men hurried back and forth between the parked cars and the lobby entrance, transporting bags and suitcases.

Max finally found room for the Jag behind the kitchen. He parked, got out, and made his way toward the back door with a sense of bleak inevitability.

The fragrant aroma of fresh bread and a curry-spiced stew enveloped him as he opened the kitchen door. Max allowed himself a moment to savor the warmth. Almost like coming home.

Andromeda, intent on a pan full of steaming vegetables, looked up as the back door opened. A welcoming smile lit her eyes.

“Max, you're home. Thank goodness. We're in a real panic here. A bunch of men who are supposed to be engaging in something called a Warriors' Journey on the beach got rained out. They all showed up here about an hour ago.”

“Hi, Max.” Daystar brushed flour from her fingers. “How was the drive?”

Trisha walked into the kitchen through the swinging door that opened onto the dining room. Max steeled himself against the hope in her eyes. Better to get this over with quickly, he decided.

“I'm sorry, Trisha,” he said into the thick silence that had suddenly descended on the kitchen. “Ben's not with me.”

Trisha's eyes glistened with tears. She nodded, as if she had already guessed the truth. “You saw him? He's okay?”

“Yes. He's fine.” Max sought for something more to say. “He was worried about you.”

“But not worried enough to come home.”

“Cleo's right.” Max gripped the handle of his cane. “He's scared.”

Trisha's smile was watery but real. “He's not the only one, but I'm luckier than he is. At least I've got family around me. He's all alone out there.”

“Yes.” Max waited for her to blame him for his failure.

“Thanks for driving all that way to talk to him.” Trisha crossed the room and put her arms briefly around Max. “If anyone could have talked him into coming home, it was you.” She hugged him quickly and stepped back. “You're a good friend, Max.”

He searched her eyes and found no sign of rejection. “I don't know what Ben's going to do,” he warned, just in case Trisha had not fully understood that he had screwed up.

“Well, it's up to Ben, isn't it?” Andromeda said calmly. “You spoke to him and let him know that his family wants him to come back. Now we'll just have to wait and see what he decides to do. In the meantime, we've got an inn to run.”

“Max needs a cup of tea to warm him up before he leaps into the fray,” Daystar declared. “He must be chilled to the bone after that drive.”

“I'll get you a cup, Max,” Trisha said. “Sit down.”

Max glanced back toward the door. The Jaguar with his packed carryall in the trunk was waiting outside.

Sylvia pushed open the kitchen door. “Everything okay in here? Looks like we're going to need dinner for twenty tonight. Mr. Quinton, the chief honcho of this bunch, said all his guys want red meat, can you believe it? I told him we don't serve red meat.” She stopped short when she saw Max. Her slow smile was filled with satisfaction. “Well, I'll be darned. You did come back. How was the drive?”

“Wet. What made you think I wasn't coming back?” Max asked.

“Sammy came rushing downstairs right after you left this morning and informed us that all your things were gone,” Sylvia said dryly. “Some of us naturally assumed that you had no intention of returning.”

“I'm here.” Max started toward the kitchen nook where Trisha had set a cup of tea for him. “But I didn't bring Ben with me.”

Sylvia sighed. “Can't say I'm surprised. But it was worth a shot. Thanks, Max. You went above and beyond the call of duty on this one. I'll bet you could use a shot of whiskey rather than a cup of tea. George keeps a bottle behind the front desk.”

Max looked at Trisha. “Tea will do fine.”

The kitchen door banged open again, and Sammy dashed into the room. He skidded to a halt, his eyes widening when he saw Max. “Hi, Max.” He dashed forward and seized Max's leg in a quick hug. “I was afraid you wouldn't come back.”

Cleo appeared in the open doorway. “What's going on? I could use a little help with this crowd of manly males out here. They're milling around like so many bulls in a china shop. I think one of them is toting a spear—” She broke off when she saw Max. Her eyes glowed with sudden joy. “
Max
. You're home.”

He stopped beside the nook and folded both hands over the hawk on his cane. “Hello, Cleo. I couldn't talk Ben into returning with me.”

“Oh, Max.” Cleo flew across the room toward him. “I was so afraid you weren't coming back.”

At the last instant Max realized she intended to throw herself into his arms. He hastily put the cane aside and braced himself.

Cleo landed squarely against his chest. His arms closed around her as she burrowed against him. She was warm and soft, and the scent of her filled his head. Memories of the previous night flared in his mind, sending waves of heat through his body.

“Let's save the mush for later,” Sylvia said, sounding amused. “We've got twenty hungry warriors to feed and shelter.”

“Right.” Cleo raised her head. The laughter faded from her eyes. “Good heavens, I almost forgot. There's someone here to see you, Max.”

He released her reluctantly, still struggling to shift gears in his mind. He had spent the past few hours convinced that he would not be staying at the inn any longer than it took to announce his failure. Now he was having to adjust to the notion that no one was blaming him or rejecting him for the fact that Ben had not returned.

Max frowned at Cleo. “Who wants to see me?”