Grand Passion (27 page)

Walter cringed. “Did you say you're going to marry this…this
person
, Max?”

“Yes.” Max finally tore his gaze away from the picture. He smiled. “She doesn't know much about art, but she knows what she likes.”

“I see.” Walter's eyes glittered. “By the way, Max, there are rumors floating around.”

“Rumors about what?” Max asked without any real show of interest.

“About five Amos Luttrell paintings that have recently disappeared,” Walter said softly. “You wouldn't know anything about them, would you?”

“I know that they belong to me,” Max said.

“Uh, yes. I suspected you'd say something like that.” Walter pursed his lips. “But there appears to be some question of ownership.”

Max's mouth curved in a humorless smile. “There's no question at all about who owns the Luttrells, Walter.”

Walter cleared his throat. “The story I heard involves Garrison Spark. Word is, he's on the trail of the Luttrells. He's got a client who will pay a quarter of a million for them. He's also got a bill of sale from Jason Curzon. He claims it predates the will.”

“The bill of sale, if it exists, is a forgery.” Max's eyes met Walter's. “We both know it wouldn't be the first forgery Spark has handled, don't we?”

Walter smiled wryly. “Point taken.”

The following afternoon Cleo sat beside Max in the Jaguar and watched with trepidation as Harmony Cove came into sight. “I wonder if the city council will have roadblocks up at the entrance to town to prevent me from coming back.”

“Relax, Cleo. No one's going to be upset about the fact that you wrote a book.”

“Nolan was.”

“Nolan's an ass.”

“Yes, well, I'm afraid he's not the only ass in Harmony Cove.” Cleo twisted the ring on her finger. She was very conscious of its weight. “By now I suppose O'Reilly has talked to everyone.”

“Probably. O'Reilly is very thorough.”

“I don't know if this was such a good idea, Max.”

He slanted her a sidelong glance. “You think letting that stalker get closer and closer is a better idea?”

“Well, no, but I have to live here in Harmony Cove after this is all over. I don't want people staring at me. I had my fill of curiosity seekers after my parents died.”

“I'll keep the curiosity seekers at bay,” Max promised softly.

She saw the grim line of his jaw and knew he meant every word. Cleo relaxed slightly. With Max by her side no one was going to give her too much trouble. “I may have to give you a raise.”

“I'll take it out in Daystar's cornbread muffins.”

Max slowed the Jaguar as they drove through Harmony Cove's block-long downtown district. A woman waved at them from the entrance to the grocery store.

Cleo waved back. “At least Mrs. Gibson doesn't look like she wants to paint a large red A on my forehead.”

“Who's Mrs. Gibson?”

“She owns the little bookshop on the corner.”

Max smiled. “She's probably ordered several copies of
The Mirror
in anticipation of the rush.”

“Oh, geez, Max. This is going to be awful.” Cleo fiddled nervously with the car phone.

“Put down the phone and stop panicking.” Max slowed the Jaguar still further and turned into the grocery store parking lot.

“What are you doing?” Cleo yelped in alarm.

“We're going to get the worst of this over with in a hurry so you'll stop working yourself up into a lather.”

“Max, I don't need anything at the grocery store.”

“We'll find something.” Max slid the Jaguar neatly into one of the parking spaces and opened the door on his side.

Cleo made no move to unfasten her seatbelt. Max walked around to her side of the car and opened the door.

“Come on, Cleo. This isn't going to be that bad.”

“I don't want to deal with this yet.”

“You're going to have to deal with it sometime.”

“I know. But I don't want to do it today,” Cleo insisted.

“Get out of the car, Cleo,” Max said gently, “or I will peel you out of there and carry you inside the damn grocery store.”

She looked at him with mute defiance. Max's expression was even more stubborn than her own. She knew he was right. Sooner or later she was going to have to face the people of Harmony Cove.

“All right, let's get this over with.” Cleo unbuckled the seatbelt and exploded out of the car. She stormed past Max.

“That's my brave Cleopatra,” Max muttered.

Already halfway to the door, Cleo stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. She scowled when she realized that she had left Max behind in the dust.

“I'm not going in there alone,” she said.

“Then you'll have to slow down a bit.” Max reached her side and took her arm. “I don't run except in cases of acute emergency and this is not one of those cases.”

“You can move fast enough when you want to,” Cleo grumbled. “I've seen you go up and down the stairs at the inn as rapidly as any of the rest of us. Max, are you sure we have to do this?”

“I can't believe you're this nervous about it.” Max pushed open the glass door of the grocery store and shoved her gently ahead of him. “You're here for milk.”

“We don't need milk. We get a dairy delivery twice a week at the inn,” Cleo muttered.

“Today you need milk.”

Cleo felt the eyes as soon as she stepped into the familiar surroundings of the store. Everyone from the stock boy to the counter clerk looked at her as if they had never seen her before in their lives. They all waved enthusiastically.

Cleo ducked her head and hurried toward the dairy case.

The young man stocking milk and cottage cheese smiled tentatively at her. “Hi, Ms. Robbins.”

“Hi, Tom. How are you today?” Thankful for Max's reassuring presence, Cleo opened the glass door and yanked out a quart of skim.

“Fine. I heard someone was pestering you on account of you wrote a book. Is that true?”

Cleo's fingers trembled around the carton of milk. “Yes.”

“Real sorry to hear someone's bothering you. Hope they catch him.”

“Thank you, Tom.”

“Say, I was, uh, wondering.” Tom cast a surreptitious look up and down the aisle and sidled closer.

Cleo steeled herself. “What were you wondering, Tom?”

“About the book you wrote.”

Cleo's stomach tightened. “Yes?”

“I, uh, I've been thinking about writing a book myself.”

Cleo blinked. “You have?”

Tom nodded urgently and turned a bright shade of red. “Yeah, it's science fiction, y'know?”

“I see,” Cleo said uncertainly. “That's great. Good luck with it.”

Tom brightened at the encouragement. “It's an alternate world story, see. There's a lot of stuff in it that's similar to our world, but the basic laws of science are different. More like magic, y'know.”

“Uh-huh.” Cleo took a step back.

Tom eagerly closed the space between them. “My main character is this guy from our world who finds himself stranded in this alternate world. At first he thinks he's dreaming. Then he realizes he's trapped there. He has to learn how to survive or he'll get killed.”

“Very clever,” Cleo said weakly. She retreated another step.

Tom followed. “He's a computer nerd on earth, so when he's caught in this weird world run by magic, he's really confused for a while.”

It dawned on Cleo that Tom the stock boy had no interest at all in
The Mirror
. Convinced he had found a soul mate, he was going to regale her with the plot of his entire book right there in front of the dairy case.

“And then he meets this character who's like a sorcerer, y'know…”

“Interesting,” Cleo said. She inched back down the aisle, aware of Max's silent amusement. Tom followed her every step of the way.

“Then there's this other sorcerer who's like crazy, y'know? He's discovered some new law of magic. I haven't quite decided what that's going to be yet, but whatever it is, it threatens the whole alternate world…”

“That's absolutely fascinating,” Cleo said. She glanced at her watch. “I'd love to hear the rest, but I've really got to run.”

“Huh?” Engrossed in his tale, Tom frowned, puzzled. “Oh, sure. Look, maybe I could stop by the inn sometime and tell you the rest?”

“We'll see.” Cleo turned and fled toward the checkout counter. She did not look back to see if Max was following.

The gray-haired woman at the checkout counter smiled broadly. “Oh, hello, Cleo. Heard someone's been making a nuisance of himself because you wrote a book. I didn't know you were a writer.”

“I've only had one book published so far,” Cleo muttered. She set the milk down on the counter.

“That's all right, dear, I'm sure you'll write some more. You know, I haven't read a book in years. Just never had the time, what with TV and all. Milk?”

“Yes, please, Ernestine.”

“Thought you got dairy deliveries out there at the inn.”

Cleo groped for an explanation as Max arrived at the counter. “Ran short.”

“Oh.” Ernestine whisked the milk through the checkout routine. “You know you and I should get together one of these days.”

“We should?”

Ernestine beamed. “I could tell you all about my family history. You could write a book about it. I'm sure people would want to read it. Some real fascinating stuff in my family's history. Did I ever tell you that one of my relatives came out West on a wagon train?”

“I don't believe you ever mentioned it, Ernestine.”

“That was Sarah Hill Montrose, I believe.” Ernestine assumed a contemplative look. “Her story would make a terrific book. Then there was my great-grandfather, Morton Montrose. He used to farm over in Eastern Washington. Raised turkeys, too. Used to tell the funniest stories about those birds. Dumb as bricks, they are.”

“Is that right?” Cleo looked at her milk, which was standing forgotten on the counter.

“Eugene Montrose, that's my grandfather, was probably the most interesting of the lot. He fished.”

“You don't say. Could I please have my milk, Ernestine?”

“What's that?” Ernestine glanced down at the milk. “Oh, yes. The milk. Here, I'll put it in a bag for you.” She stuffed the milk into a sack.

“Thanks.” Cleo snatched up the milk, aware that Max's eyes were brilliant with laughter. “See you around, Ernestine.”

“Just let me know when you've got time to write that book about my family,” Ernestine said cheerfully. “I've got lots of old newspaper clippings and photos and such.”

“I'll let you know if I ever get a free minute,” Cleo promised. “But I'm pretty busy these days.”

She was halfway out the door, with Max still following faithfully behind her, when another familiar figure loomed in her path. Cleo was forced to come to a halt. She clutched the milk close and smiled weakly.

“Hello, Adrian.”

Adrian Forrester glowered at her from beneath dark brows. He had a large manila envelope in his hand. “Heard you had a book published.”

“Yes, I did.” Cleo glanced uneasily at the envelope he was holding. She was afraid she knew what was inside. She'd received her share of rejections before she'd sold
The Mirror
.

“I suppose you had an agent?” Adrian demanded.

“Well, no, I didn't although I'm thinking of getting one for the next book.”

“Know someone in publishing?”

“Uh, no. I didn't know anyone, Adrian. I just sent the manuscript off to a lot of different publishers, and someone finally bought it.”

“So you just got lucky.”

“Right,” Cleo said. “I just got lucky.”

“It's because you're writing women's stuff,” Adrian said in an aggrieved tone. “That's why they published you instead of me. New York is only interested in women's books these days. Romance, self-help, glitz, erotica. It's all aimed at women. Hell, even the mystery market is skewed toward women.”

“What about all the thrillers and science fiction and horror stuff that's published?”

“They're putting relationships in them, too.” Adrian looked at her as if it were all her fault.

“Gosh, I don't really think…”

“Do you know what this rejection letter says?” Adrian waved his manuscript aloft. “It says they're not interested in hard-boiled detective mysteries featuring male protagonists. The editor suggests I turn my hero into a female private eye.”

“Gee, Adrian, I can't imagine why the editor would suggest a thing like that. Unless, of course, it's because a lot of women like to read and are willing to spend their money on books that feature stories they enjoy.”

Adrian's glare would have frozen lava. “I'll tell you something. If they weren't putting out books like yours, they'd be publishing my stuff.”

Cleo's temper overcame the last vestiges of her fear of being identified as the author of
The Mirror
. “You think so?” she asked.