Grand Passion (26 page)

“I meant what I said, Cleo.” Max's fingers closed gently but very firmly around her wrist. He brought her palm to his mouth and kissed it. “I want us to be married as soon as possible.”

She touched his cheek lightly with her fingertips. She knew he was thinking of how Kimberly had reneged on the engagement six weeks after Max had asked her to marry him.

“It's all right, Max. I'm not going to change my mind.”

He veiled his glittering eyes with his lashes. “Word of honor?”

“Word of honor.”

* * *

Cleo waited until after dinner to call home. Max lounged beside her on the sofa, his eyes on the night-shrouded city, as she dialed the number.

“Robbins' Nest Inn.”

“Sylvia? It's me.”

“What a surprise,” Sylvia chuckled. “Hang on a second.” Sylvia cupped her hand over the receiver. “I win,” she hissed to someone in the background.

“What's going on? Are you busy?” Cleo asked quickly. “I can call back later if you've got people checking in.”

“Nope, we're not busy,” Sylvia said cheerfully. “I just had a small bet on with O'Reilly that you'd be unable to resist checking on us this evening. He bet that Max would be keeping you too busy to call. I said that nothing, not even a proper proposal of marriage, could keep you from fretting about how things were going out here.”

Cleo shot a quick glance at Max. “Well, you were right.”

“About you fretting? That's no big revelation.”

“No,” Cleo said softly. “About the proper proposal.”

“Aha.” Sylvia's voice held great satisfaction. “I knew it. And you said yes, right?”

“Right.”

“That makes it all nice and official then,” Sylvia crowed. “We'll start making plans for the wedding as soon as we get Trisha and Ben married off. I'm sure Sammy will want to be in this ceremony, too. O'Reilly can give the bride away.”

“O'Reilly?”

“Sure. He's going to practice on Trisha.”

Somewhere along the line, Cleo realized, O'Reilly had become a member of the wedding party. At this rate he was going to become one of the family, just like Max. “Okay.”

“Don't worry, Cleo. Andromeda, Daystar, and I will take care of everything.”

“Thank you.” Cleo didn't know what else to say. “Uh, so how are things going there?”

“Believe it or not, we're managing to scrape along without you. Had a few new reservations for the weekend. Oh, by the way, good old Herbert T. called to book another corporate seminar.”

“I thought Mr. Valence was annoyed with us because we lost power the last time he used the inn. Remember how upset he got when he couldn't show his video?” Cleo could still hear Valence's angry protest.
I've got a reputation for flawless performance
.

“He says that in spite of the electrical difficulties, our inn still makes a good background for his seminars. I booked him for the weekend after next. A group of fifteen from some computer firm this time.”

“Good,” Cleo said. “That will give us a nice crowd. Jason was right when he suggested we start promoting the inn for corporate retreats and seminars.”

“Yes, he was. Hey, I'm sure you've got better things to do than chat with the home office. Say hello to Max. We'll see you both in a couple of days.”

Cleo hung up the phone and looked at Max. “They're doing just fine without us.”

“Don't worry,” Max said. “They couldn't get by for long on their own.”

“You're sure?”

He smiled. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her down onto the couch. “I'm sure. I, on the other hand, can't get by for more than a few minutes without you.”

* * *

The dream came as a shock in the middle of the night. Blood-spattered walls whirled around Cleo, closing in on her. She tried to scream, but, as always, no sound emerged from her horror-constricted throat. She could not move her arms. Her legs were pinned by some heavy object.

“
Cleo
. Wake up. Wake up, damn it.”

Cleo awoke drenched in sweat. Max was crushing her against him. He was holding her tightly, trapping her with the weight of his body as if he could hold her back from the invisible tentacles that reached out for her.

“I'm okay,” she whispered. Little wonder she had been unable to move in her dream, she thought wryly. She couldn't move in real life, either. Max's grip was so fierce she could barely breathe.

“The dream again?” Max released her slowly, his eyes shadowed in the darkness.

“Yes. That's the second time in a week.” Cleo rubbed her eyes. “I wonder what's happening.”

“Stress. Tension. Worry.” Max massaged her shoulders. “There's plenty of explanation for the bad dreams you've had lately.”

“Do you ever get nightmares?”

“Everyone gets nightmares occasionally.”

She relaxed against his chest. Max's hands were warm and strong and comforting. “What are yours like?”

“Some of them are hanging on the walls of my gallery downstairs,” he said calmly.

Cleo shuddered. There were a lot of private, secret places in Max Fortune.

“Cleo?”

“Hmm?” She was feeling drowsy again. The last traces of her dream had already retreated to the dark recesses of her mind. Max was good at banishing nightmares, Cleo reflected.

“We could get married the week after Trisha and Ben have their wedding. Your family can arrange to have another reception that soon, can't they?”

She was torn between laughter and exasperation. He was not going to stop pushing until she had set a date. “I've already told you that I'll marry you. Do we have to pick the day and time tonight?”

“I'd like to get the details nailed down.”

“Okay, okay. One week is a little fast. We've got the inn to run, you know. How about two weeks after Trisha and Ben's reception?” She felt the exultant relief sweep through him. “We may have to delay the honeymoon for a while,” Cleo warned. “I've got a couple of small conventions scheduled next month.”

Max's fingers tightened around her shoulders. “I don't give a damn about the honeymoon.”

Cleo chuckled. “Thanks a lot.”

“You know what I mean. I just want to get everything settled.”

Cleo lifted her head and kissed Max lightly on the mouth. He fell back onto the pillow and pulled her down on top of him.

“There's just one thing you should know, Max.” Cleo touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of his mouth.

“What's that?”

“It's not
my
family that is going to arrange our wedding reception. It's
our
family.”

“You're right. Our family.” Max twisted his fingers in Cleo's hair and dragged her face down to his.

“What do you want to do today?” Max asked the next morning. He watched contentedly as Cleo made waffles in the gleaming iron positioned on a table in the breakfast room.

“I don't care. I don't get to Seattle very often any more. I guess I'd like to do the usual tourist things. Visit the Pike Place Market. Do some shopping. Take in a few good bookstores.”

“I've got a better idea. Why don't we shop for a ring?” Max glanced out the window. The downtown high-rises sparkled after the night's rain. “It looks like it's going to be clear for a while. I know a couple of good jewelers.”

Cleo smiled ruefully. “It shouldn't take long to find a ring. We'll do the other stuff later.” She popped out a waffle and dropped it onto a plate.

The doorbell chimed.

Max looked irritated. He seized his cane and got to his feet. “Whoever that is, I'll get rid of him.”

Cleo poured maple syrup on the waffle and listened to Max make his way down the hall.

Max's house was awfully big for one person, she thought. It took forever just to get to the front door. The mansion needed a butler. She wondered why he had bought such a place. Maybe he had been under the impression that if he spent enough money, he could buy a home. Cleo wondered how long it had taken him to discover his mistake.

Cleo heard Kimberly's voice just as she forked up a bite of waffle. She stifled a small groan of dismay when she heard the other woman's high heels on the terrazo floor of the hall. So much for Max's being able to get rid of his unexpected caller.

“Max, I have to talk to you,” Kimberly said in a cool, businesslike tone as she came down the hall. “This is extremely important.”

“How did you know I was in town?”

“I called Robbins' Nest Inn. I was told you were here with Cleo. Max, you can't put me off. This is absolutely critical. I've talked to Roarke. He told me you suggested that he and I try to take over the Curzon board. Were you serious?”

“Why not? Looks like the logical move.”

“Roarke seems convinced it could be done,” Kimberly said slowly.

“The two of you can do it together.”

“But my father—”

Max cut her off abruptly. “The only way you're going to prove to your father that you're as good as the son he never had is to take Curzon from him.”

“Do you really think so?” Kimberly asked.

“Yes.”

Kimberly hesitated. “That isn't the only thing I want to talk to you about. Max, give me five minutes. That's all I'm asking.”

“All right,” Max said impatiently. His cane thudded softly on the tile as he led Kimberly into the breakfast room. “Five minutes, but no more. Cleo and I have things to do today.”

“Such as?” Kimberly asked dryly.

“Such as shop for a ring,” Max said. “Cleo and I are engaged.”

“Well, isn't that interesting,” Kimberly murmured. She looked at Cleo. “I can't say I'm surprised.”

“Thank you,” Cleo said around a mouthful of waffle. “I think.”

“Max was always very good at arranging advantageous engagements for himself,” Kimberly said.

“If you're going to make cracks like that, Kim,” Max said calmly, “you can leave now.”

Kimberly looked at him. “What's the matter, haven't you told her why you've gotten yourself engaged to her?”

Max sat down and regarded Kimberly with cobra eyes. “Say whatever it is you came here to say and then leave.”

Kimberly walked over to the sideboard and helped herself to a cup of coffee with the ease of a woman who was familiar with her surroundings. She smiled bleakly at Cleo.

“Has he told you yet that he's negotiating with an outfit called Global Village Properties?” Kimberly asked. “They've offered him the same deal Curzon has, but Max wants more. He wants the CEO position.”

“No,” Cleo said. She looked at Max. “He didn't mention that.”

“Damn,” Max said. “I knew I shouldn't have opened the door this morning.”

C
leo forked up another bite of waffle and ate it in silence. She was aware of Max's gaze on her as Kimberly talked.

“It's all true,” Kimberly said not unkindly to Cleo. “My sources tell me that Max recently met with Turner and Sand, two point men for Global Village Properties.”

Cleo glanced at Max. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” Max said. His eyes did not leave her face.

Kimberly looked grimly satisfied. She started to pace the breakfast room with the elegant, restless stride of a racehorse that had been penned for too long. Cleo wondered how she could stand wearing high heels all day.

“I only know of one meeting,” Kimberly said. “But that doesn't mean he hasn't been negotiating with them since he left Curzon last month. I'm told that they made him a very generous offer.”

Cleo glanced at Max. “Did they make you an offer?”

“Yes,” Max said.

Kimberly shot him a knowing glance. “The rumor I heard is that the offer included a vice presidency and a seat on the Global Village board. But as I said, Max wants the CEO slot. So he's told them that he's going independent unless they can make it worth his while not to do so.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Cleo asked curiously.

“It means he's allowing everyone to believe he's going into business on his own.”

“Unless he receives a better offer from Global Village? Is that what you're saying?” Cleo watched Kimberly carefully.

Kimberly gave a sigh that held a trace of genuine sympathy. “Try not to feel too bad about it, Cleo. Max has a reputation for getting the job done and for using whatever means he thinks are necessary to do it. People who are far more savvy about business than you will ever be have gotten ground to dust beneath his chariot wheels.”

“A colorful image.” Cleo ignored Max's silent, brooding stare and kept her attention on Kimberly.

Kimberly looked briefly disconcerted. She flicked a quick, searching glance at Max and then frowned at Cleo. “The point I'm trying to make here is that Max is using you to add an element of realism to the picture he's painting for Global Village. Getting engaged to you will convince everyone he's serious about going independent.”

“And that will make Global Village surrender to his demands?” Cleo asked.

Kimberly shrugged. “Probably. They want him very badly.”

Cleo looked at Max. “Nice to be wanted, isn't it?”

“Depends on who wants you.” Max's gaze was unwavering.

Kimberly stopped pacing for a moment. “I wondered why Max turned down my father's offer to come back to Curzon. Now I know why. The CEO slot at Global Village probably looks a good deal more tempting. Max likes to be in charge. At Curzon he'd always be battling the family for control. But at Global Village he can be the one in command.”

Cleo used a linen napkin to blot a drop of syrup from the corner of her mouth. When that didn't do the trick, she used the tip of her tongue. “When did you first talk to Global Village, Max?”

“The day I went into town with Ben to get some stuff at the hardware store.” His eyes willed her to believe him.

Cleo took a deep breath. “That would be about a week after you had accepted my offer of employment.”

“Yes.”

“What did you say to them?”

“That I wasn't interested in any position at Global Village,” Max said quietly.

“Not even the CEO slot?” Cleo asked.

“No. Not even the CEO slot.”

Cleo smiled tremulously. “I guess that means you're still working for me, doesn't it?”

“Yes.” Max's eyes were brilliant with an emotion that was not reflected in his voice. “I'm still working for you. I have no plans to quit.”

“I thought so,” Cleo said. “Well, that settles that little problem, doesn't it? Stop worrying, Kimberly. Max isn't going to work for the competition.”

She got up to pour herself a cup of coffee. She wanted to make the action look as nonchalant as Kimberly had earlier, but that plan went out the window when she had to hunt for a cup.

“Second cupboard on the left,” Kimberly said coldly.

Cleo set her teeth. “Thank you.”

“I can't figure you out.” Kimberly eyed her warily. “Originally I thought you were just naive and rather unsophisticated. But right now I'm starting to wonder if there's more to you than meets the eye.”

“You mean you're wondering if I'm as dumb as I look?” Cleo asked innocently. “Max had a problem with that in the beginning, too. I wonder what it is about me that gives that impression? Do you think it's the sneakers?” She glanced down at the silver sneakers she was wearing. €œMaybe I should do something about my image.”

“What sort of game are you playing, Cleo? Do you really think you can control Max?” Kimberly's gaze was bright with speculation. “If you're planning to use him to build an empire for you, I'd advice caution. If Max creates an empire, you can bet he'll be the one who owns and runs it. In the end you'll be left with nothing.”

Cleo blew on her coffee. “I'm not trying to build an empire. I'm just trying to run an inn. Good help is hard to find. I was lucky to get Max.”

“Don't give me that. We both know you can't possibly afford him.”

“All I know is that the offer I made to him was accepted.” Cleo looked at Max. “Wasn't it?”

Max smiled faintly for the first time since Kimberly had arrived. His eyes were gleaming. “Yes.”

Kimberly scowled at Cleo. “Damn it, what's going on here? There's no way you could match an offer from Global Village or Curzon International.”

“You're wrong,” Cleo said softly. “Robbins' Nest Inn has something to offer Max that neither you nor Global Village can possibly match.”

Kimberly's smile was laced with scorn. “And just what would that be, Cleo? You? Do you really think that Max would walk away from a CEO slot or a vice presidency with corporations like Global Village or Curzon for you or any other woman?”

“No,” Cleo said. “Not just for me alone. But I think he'd do it for what comes along with me.”

“Robbins' Nest Inn?”

“No,” Cleo said. “A family.”

“You're out of your mind.” Kimberly stared at her in astonishment. “What would Max want with a family?”

“For one thing,” Cleo said, “he won't have to worry about the occasional screwup.”

“What are you talking about?” Kimberly looked at her blankly.

Cleo took a sip of coffee. “With us Max knows that even if he fails to live up to his amazing reputation once in a while, we'll still want him around. He's one of us whether he screws up or not.”

Kimberly's mouth opened on a soundless exclamation. When she could not find the words she sought, she turned to Max.

“All right,” she said, “I give up. I can't figure out what's going on here, but it's obvious you've got things in the palm of your hand, as usual. I assume that sooner or later we'll all find out what your agenda is, Max.”

“There's no hidden agenda,” Max said quietly. “Cleo told you the truth. I'm working for her. I'm not open to outside offers. You may congratulate me on my engagement, and then you may leave.”

Kimberly gave him a disgusted look. “Congratulations.” She turned around and walked to the door.

Silence descended on the breakfast room.

Max looked at Cleo. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

“Sure.” Cleo ladled up another spoonful of batter. “Want a waffle?”

“Among other things,” Max said. His glance went to the pot of honey that sat in the middle of the table.

Cleo gave him a severe frown. “Don't get any ideas. That scene with the honey in
The Mirror
was pure fantasy.”

“My specialty is turning fantasy into reality.”

“Forget it. Too sticky.”

“Let me worry about the technical details.” Max smiled slowly. He picked up the pot of honey.

Cleo forgot about the next waffle.

A cold rain began to fall just as Max and Cleo emerged from an antiquarian bookshop in Pioneer Square. Cleo flicked open her umbrella. Her silver sneakers were getting soaked.

“It's pouring. Let's go back to your place,” she suggested.

“I've got a better idea.” Max took the umbrella from her and held it aloft so that it shielded both of them. When his fingers brushed against hers he glanced with approval at the emerald ring he had put on her finger an hour earlier. “There's an interesting little gallery around the corner. We can get out of the rain for a while in there.”

“I'll bet this gallery doesn't hang any nice pictures of dogs or horses or seascapes,” Cleo muttered. They had already been in three other galleries, and none of them had featured the sort of art she liked. All the owners knew Max on sight.

“The day this place hangs a picture of a spaniel will be the day I stop buying art here.” Max took a possessive grip on Cleo's arm and shepherded her into the white-walled gallery.

Cleo studied the collection of mostly dark, mostly bleak, mostly gray and brown paintings with an unimpressed eye. She wrinkled her nose at Max. “I really don't understand what you see in this stuff.”

Max took in the paintings on display with a single, sweeping glance. “If it's any consolation, I don't see anything at all in this batch.”

“Good.” Cleo grinned. “There's hope for you yet.”

A shining, bald head popped up from behind the counter. “Max, my friend.” A heavy-set middle-aged man dressed entirely in black smiled widely. “Long time, no see. Where have you been? I've left half a dozen messages with your office telling you to call me as soon as possible. Did you get them?”

“No,” Max said. “I'm no longer working for Curzon. Walter, I'd like you to meet my fiancée, Cleo Robbins. Cleo, this is Walter Stickley. He owns this gallery.”

“How do you do?” Cleo said.

“My pleasure.” Walter's eyes lit with curiosity. He glanced at Max. “Engaged, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations. And you say you've left Curzon?”

“That's right. I'm with another firm now.”

“That explains why I haven't been able to reach you. I'm glad you decided to drop in today.” Walter rubbed his palms together. “I was just about to start making a few phone calls to other clients.”

“What have you got to show me?” Max gave the paintings on display another dismissing glance. “I don't see anything very interesting here.”

Walter chuckled. “You know I always keep the good stuff in the back room. Follow me.”

He came out from behind the counter and led the way down a short hall to a closed door. He opened it and waved Cleo and Max inside.

Cleo took a quick look at the large canvas leaning against the wall and rolled her eyes. This picture was bleaker, more savage, and admittedly more interesting than the ones that were hanging in the outer room, but she didn't like it any better than she had the others.

“Yuk,” Cleo said.

Walter shot her a scathing glance. “Philistine.”

“She likes pictures of dogs and horses,” Max said absently. He was staring at the painting with rapt attention.

“And seascapes,” Cleo added. “I'm very fond of seascapes.”

“I don't carry that sort of thing,” Walter said stiffly.

“I noticed.” Cleo watched Max. “You okay, Max? You look a little strange.” She wondered uneasily if he were looking into one of his own nightmares.

“I'm fine,” Max said softly. “Who's the artist, Walter? I don't recognize the style.”

“A recent discovery of mine,” Walter said smugly. “His name is David Verrier. What do you think?”

“I'll take it. Can you get it delivered this afternoon? I'm leaving town tomorrow.”

“No problem.” Walter rubbed his hands together and chortled knowingly. “Thought you'd like it. Five years from now Verrier is going to be worth a mint.”

“Yes,” Max said. He was still gazing into the painting. “Call me as soon as you get anything else from him. I'll leave you my new number.”

“Of course,” Walter said happily. “Yours will be the first name on my list.”

“Mine will be the only name on your list,” Max said.

Walter cleared his throat. “Uh, yes. The only name. But see here, Max. Verrier needs a chance to gain some exposure. You can't grab everything he does and lock it up before the art world has an opportunity to see his work. I want to be able to give him some shows. He deserves the recognition.”

Max did not look pleased, but he nodded reluctantly. “All right. You can show his pictures. But I get first crack at whatever he produces.”

“It's a deal.”

Cleo tipped her head to one side and studied the canvas from a different angle. When that didn't make it any more cheerful, she walked to another corner of the room and peered at it from there. Then she crouched down and tried again from another vantage point.

“Okay, Max, tell me what you see in that picture,” she said. “It looks like the bottom of a bucket of black paint to me.”