Grand Passion (20 page)

Ben nodded, looking vastly relieved. “Okay.” He flashed Max a quick, searching glance. “So what do you think about being my best man or whatever it is they call it?”

Max slowly put down the screwdriver he had been examining. He looked at Ben. “I'd be honored.”

Ben turned beet red. “Yeah, well, it probably isn't that big a deal to you. But thanks.”

“You're wrong,” Max said. “It's a very big deal. I've never been anyone's best man.”

Ben smiled, and the two men returned to their shopping.

An hour later Max reluctantly walked out of the hardware store with Ben. He had a shiny new screwdriver in a paper sack.

“We didn't do too bad,” Ben said cheerfully as they strolled toward the Jaguar with their purchases. “Been needing that clamp for a long time. And you can't have too many needle-nose pliers lying around. They're always disappearing. Hell of a sale on those toilet float balls. I wonder if we should have picked up more than three.”

“Damn,” Max said, as he came to a halt beside the Jaguar. “We forgot the washers for the faucet in one-oh-three.”

Ben groaned. “I told you that hardware stores were dangerous. You wait here. I'll go back and get them.” He tossed the sack to Max and hurried back toward the store.

Max leaned against the Jaguar's fender to wait. It had finally stopped raining for a while, but a heavy fog was condensing just offshore. It would soon be moving inland. In another hour the roads would be shrouded in a heavy cloak of gray mist. Driving would be hazardous.

Max hoped Ben would not get captivated by a display of power tools. He wanted to be home by the fire when the fog settled in over Harmony Cove this evening.

Home by the fire
. Hell, he was turning into a regular home-and-hearth kind of guy. What have you done to me, Jason? Max asked silently. Did you know what would happen when you sent me out here in search of those Luttrells?

Two men got out of a nondescript Ford that was parked across the street. One was slightly taller than the other. He was also a few years older, with thinning hair and a slight paunch. The younger one wore GQ glasses and had a mouthful of very white teeth that had clearly been labored over by an orthodontist. Both men were out of place in casual Harmony Cove. Their business suits, expensive ties, and highly polished wing tips identified them as outsiders as clearly as the fact that they were coming straight toward Max.

“Max Fortune?” The older man stuck out his hand. “Phillip Sand. This is my associate, Hamilton Turner. We represent some people who would very much like to get you on our team.”

“Global Village Properties,” Max said.

Turner smiled, displaying his beautiful teeth. “How did you guess?”

“I wondered when you'd get around to talking to me.” Max glanced toward the entrance of Harmony Cove Hardware. There was no sign of Ben.

“Why don't we have a cup of coffee while you wait for your friend?” Sand suggested smoothly.

Max shrugged. “Why not?”

Cleo sat quietly, her legs folded tailor-fashion, her hands resting on her knees. She gazed into the large yellow crystal, willing her mind to focus. She was the only one in the meditation room at Cosmic Harmony this afternoon.

She was not sure why she had felt the need to seek out the refuge again today. There had been no night-mares recently. But around three o'clock, she had realized that she was feeling unsettled and restless.

The sensation had not disappeared after she had fixed herself a cup of Andromeda's tea, so Cleo had gotten into her Toyota and driven the mile and a half around the cove to the Cosmic Harmony Retreat.

Now, gazing calmly into the crystal, Cleo acknowledged to herself what she had not wanted to confront earlier. The truth was that the conversation with Kimberly had bothered her more than she had been willing to admit.

He has the finely honed instincts of an extremely selective collector
.

Max obviously has his own reasons both for working for you and for seducing you
.

Physical desire is the limit of what Max can feel for a woman
.

Cleo closed her eyes and drew a slow, deep breath into the pit of her stomach. Kimberly was wrong about Max. She had to be wrong about him. Max had been Jason's friend, and Jason had been a kind, compassionate man.

Max was patient with Sammy. Whatever he had said to Ben had been responsible for making the younger man want to come home to Trisha and the others.

And when Max made love, Cleo reminded herself, he gave as much as he took. Perhaps more. Cleo knew her experience was extremely limited, but instinct told her that Max was a very generous lover.

Her instinct also told her that in bed, at least, he needed her in a way he would probably never be able to put into words.

Cleo opened her eyes again and stared at the light inside the yellow crystal. Sex wasn't all Max needed from her. He was hungry for other things as well, the same kind of things she had grown up with and that she had deliberately set out to recreate after the death of her parents.

Max needed a family. Whether he knew it or not, he wanted one. Surely that was why he was hanging around Robbins' Nest Inn even though he knew the Luttrell paintings were not there.

He's a robot. A very clever, very brilliant, extremely useful robot, but a robot nonetheless
.

“No,” Cleo whispered. Her hands closed into small fists. Max was no robot. But she suspected Kimberly had been right when she implied that Max didn't know much about relationships.

Cleo blinked, setting herself free from the gentle thrall of meditation. She took another slow, deep breath and uncoiled from the position she had been holding for the past half hour.

As always she was a little stiff after sitting still for so long. She went to the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out, startled to see how thick the fog had become.

It was time to go home. Preparations would be starting for the evening meal, and with any luck, there would be a smattering of new guests checking in for the night. Heavy fog sometimes induced cautious travelers to spend the night at the first available inn rather than drive on to their destinations.

A woman dressed in a Cosmic Harmony gown and wearing the familiar necklace waved to Cleo as she walked up the path toward what had once been the main lodge of the old resort.

“Better hurry, Cleo. That fog is going to get worse before it gets better.”

Cleo lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “I'm on my way, Nebula. Don't worry about Andromeda and the others. They can stay the night at the inn if the fog doesn't clear up later.”

“Of course, dear. Have a good evening.”

Cleo nodded at a small group of women who were hurrying from the indoor pool back to the lodge. They waved back. Some were familiar faces, others were visitors who had come to spend a few days at the retreat.

By the time Cleo reached the parking lot, the fog had partially obscured the trees that lined both sides of the road. Luckily there was rarely any traffic on the narrow strip of pavement that led from the retreat back to the inn.

Cleo turned on the lights and eased the Toyota out of the small parking lot. The heavy mist ebbed and swirled in front of her, revealing and then concealing the white line. By the time Cleo was halfway back to the inn, she could barely see the road at all. The fog had not been so heavy along this stretch of coastline since mid-January. She slowed the Toyota to a snail's pace.

The Toyota began to slow still further of its own accord.

Cleo pressed her foot down on the throttle. Nothing happened. She glanced down at the gauges in concern. With a shock, she saw that she was out of gas.

But that wasn't possible, she thought, annoyed. She had filled the tank just last week. Someone else had either borrowed her car or siphoned the gas out of it.

“Damn.”

It was going to be a cold walk home.

A few minutes later, bundled up in her hunter green parka, flashlight in hand, car keys in her pocket, she got out of the Toyota and started to walk along the edge of the road. There was less than a mile to go, she assured herself.

The fog had become an icy gray shroud. It blanketed everything with an eerie stillness. Cleo kept to the far edge of the pavement and listened intently for the sounds of automobile engines. Anyone approaching in a car would be unable to see her until he was on top of her. The safest thing to do would be to get off the road entirely if she heard a car coming.

All she heard was the cold, relentless silence.

The gray mist grew heavier. The early night of a Northwest winter was closing in quickly. In another half hour it would be dark.

Cleo concentrated intently on listening for an approaching car. What she heard was the soft echo of footsteps on the pavement behind her.

She stopped and whirled around. The fog formed an impenetrable gray wall behind her.

“Is someone there?”

The footsteps stopped.

“Who is it?” Cleo dug out the small flashlight she had brought with her and aimed it into the dense mist. The beam did not penetrate more than a few feet. It revealed nothing.

Wondering if she had been mistaken, Cleo turned around and started walking more quickly down the road. She kept the flashlight on, even though it didn't do much good. Something about the light was reassuring.

She had not gone more than a few yards when she heard the ring of footsteps on pavement again. Cleo halted once more and turned around.

“Who's there?”

The footsteps ceased.

A chill that had nothing to do with the weather shot down Cleo's spine. She was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that the flashlight beam made her location more visible in the fog. She flicked the switch, dousing the light.

The dark mist closed in on her. So did the footsteps.

Cleo did not question her next move. She reacted instinctively. She started to run.

When she heard the muted thuds of her own soft-soled sneakers hitting the pavement, another wave of fear went through her.
Idiot
, she thought. Now she was announcing her location by sound.

She stopped and listened. The footsteps behind her were louder. Whoever it was would burst through the fog any minute.

She spun around and plunged into the trees beside the road. The soft, damp earth absorbed the impact of her shoes. Whoever was playing the cat-and-mouse game on the road would be unable to find her by sound alone.

Cleo worked her way carefully through the trees. She knew she had to be careful about straying too far from the road. If she lost her bearings in this gray soup, she could end up wandering around in the forest until she succumbed to hypothermia.

She stilled as the footsteps drew relentlessly closer on the road. Afraid to move farther into the under-growth, she crouched down behind a thick fir and pulled the hood of the parka down over her face. She was very glad the coat was dark green rather than a vivid orange or red.

She prayed she was overreacting.

She prayed the footsteps would continue on down the road.

The taste of panic was in her mouth. She recognized it immediately even though she had not felt anything this intense outside of her nightmares for nearly four years.

The footsteps were directly opposite to her now. They paused for a moment.

Cleo stopped breathing.

A few seconds later the stalker continued on down the road.

Cleo did not take a deep breath until she could no longer hear them.

Several minutes passed before she eased back the hood of the parka. She allowed a little more time to creep past before she risked getting to her feet.

She did not dare switch on the flashlight as she made her way back toward the road. For an instant she thought she had gone in the wrong direction. The pavement was not where it was supposed to be.

Then she felt the graveled shoulder beneath her shoes. Relief poured through her, leaving her weak and jittery.

When she reached the blacktop, Cleo stopped and listened intently again. The growling purr of a sophisticated automobile engine sounded in the distance. The driver was moving slowly along the road, either out of respect for the blinding fog or because he was searching for someone.

Cleo started to retreat back into the woods, but at the last minute she hesitated. There was something familiar about the muted roar of that particular car engine.

A few seconds later Max's green Jaguar emerged from the fog like a sleek beast of prey. The low beams of the headlights sliced through the thick mist.

Cleo switched on the flashlight and waved it about wildly. The light bounced around, dancing on the gray fog. “Max, stop,” she yelled. “It's me.”

The Jaguar halted swiftly. The door on the driver's side slammed open and Max got out, cane in hand. Cleo could not see the expression on his face, but she could hear the steel in his voice.

“Cleo. For God's sake, what do you think you're doing?”