Grand Passion

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “I wrote the book, not you.”

  “Don't you see? It's bad enough that I've been dating you. What if we'd gotten married? I'd have been ripped to shreds as the husband of a porn queen.”

  Cleo stared at him. “You never said anything about marriage.”

  Nolan scowled. “Well, I was starting to think about it.”

  “Nolan, that's ridiculous. We're not in love, and you know it.”

  “I was beginning to think we would have made a good team.” Nolan gave her an aggrieved look. “You know what it's like for a politician these days. The media dissects everything under a microscope. Your background seemed perfect for a wife.”

  “Perfect?”

  “No scandals, no radical politics, no previous marriages.”

  “And a nice income of my own from the inn?” Cleo suggested dryly.

  “Money had nothing to do with it,” he said with righteous indignation. “It was your character that attracted me. Hell, I even know for a fact that you don't sleep around. The only thing that bothered me a bit was your friendship with those weird women at Cosmic Harmony.”

  “My friends are not weird.” Anger flared inside Cleo. “You think I've got a pristine past? What about my parents?”

  “What about them? I know they're dead.”

  “But you don't know how they died, do you? I never told you that.”

  Nolan scowled. “I got the impression they were in a car accident.”

  “That's the impression I've let most of the people around here have. It's easier to explain than the truth.”

  Nolan looked wary. “What the hell's the truth?”

  Cleo lifted her chin. “They say my father shot my mother and then killed himself. How's that for a skeleton in the closet? Do you think the media would have ignored a juicy tidbit like that?”

  Nolan's shock was obvious. “Are you serious? You should have told me.”

  “Why? I have a right to my privacy. Besides, it's hardly the sort of thing one discusses over dinner at the Crab Pot Restaurant.” Cleo pushed her glasses higher up on her nose and took a steadying breath.

  She was furious with herself for having allowed Nolan to goad her into telling him the painful facts of her parent's death. It was something she rarely talked about with anyone.

  “We might have been able to finesse the stuff about your parents, although it would have been difficult. But we'd never have been able to explain that damn book you wrote.” Nolan's gaze turned bitter. “You really had me fooled.”

  “Sorry about that. I didn't know you were considering me for a position as a politician's wife. You might have mentioned it earlier. I would have told you all the lurid details of my past right up front.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Damn right.” She widened her eyes in mocking derision. “You don't think I'd actually want to be a politician's wife, do you?”

  Nolan's face reddened. “Look, I'm sorry about this, Cleo. And about your folks. About everything. Hell, I know I'm not handling this very well. It's just that the business with that damned book came as a shock.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Look at it from my point of view,” Nolan pleaded. “I didn't know you'd actually published anything, let alone a book like that.” He looked at the paper sack she was holding as if it contained a snake.

  “I didn't tell you about The Mirror because I didn't want anyone outside the family to know that I'd written it.”

  He snorted. “I'm not surprised.”

  “I'm not ashamed of it,” she stormed. “It's just that this book was a very personal thing for me. I knew no one around here would understand. I didn't want the kid who works at Bennington's Drug Store leering at me every time I went in to buy shampoo. I didn't need the attendant at the gas station making snide remarks. I didn't want to have to explain it to Patty Loftins down at the beauty shop.”

  “I can sure as hell understand that.” Nolan turned away to gaze out over the choppy ocean. “Patty's got a mouth the size of the Grand Canyon.”

  Cleo looked down at the brown paper sack she was clutching. It was impossible to explain The Mirror to anyone. It was too intimate. Too much a part of her most secret self. She had poured all her most private fantasies into the book, baring her deeply sensual soul.

  The passion that was trapped inside her had combined with the aching loneliness to form a searing account of a woman on a quest for emotional intimacy and physical release. The tale had literally cascaded out of her a year and a half earlier. The book had been published a month ago.

  The critics had, generally speaking, responded very favorably to The Mirror. Only Cleo knew that none of them had really understood it. They had thought the book was a work of autoeroticism; that the female narrator was locked in a fantasy of startling intimacy with the masculine elements of her own nature.

  They did not comprehend the significance of the man in the mirror.

  Writing The Mirror had been a cathartic experience for Cleo. It had also taught her that she wanted to keep on writing, although she knew she would never again need to write a book like The Mirror.

  “I wish I could explain this to you,” she said quietly. “The Mirror was a one-of-a-kind thing for me.”

  “I should hope so. I read some of that stuff last night. I couldn't believe you'd written it. You wouldn't even go to bed with me.” He shot her a fulminating look. “Just as well, I guess. I'd never have been able to compete with the fantasy in that damned book. No man could. That woman in the book is making love to herself. She doesn't need a man, does she?”

  “Nolan, you don't understand.”

  “Sure I do. Now I know why you wouldn't sleep with me. It wasn't because you were so damned pure, was it? It was because you've decided no mere male can give you what you can get from your own imagination and a good vibrator.”

  “Stop it right now.” Cleo took a step back. “I don't want to hear another word about this. I told you, you don't understand.”

  “I understand what that book could have done to my chances for getting elected to the state legislature next fall. It would have turned me into a laughingstock in the press.”

  Cleo had had enough. “Relax. You're saved. As far as I'm concerned, we never have to see each other again unless our shopping carts collide in the aisles of the grocery store.”

  “Damn it, Cleo, I didn't mean to have it end this way. It's just that I was really getting serious about our relationship.”

  “Don't worry. You've had the good sense to break things off before I could do any damage to your brilliant political career.”

  “It wasn't just that,” he muttered. “I liked you, Cleo. I mean, I really liked you.”

  Cleo sighed. “I liked you too, Nolan. Believe it or not, I still do. Heck, I'll probably even vote for you when you run for office next fall.”

  “Thanks.” He suddenly seemed at a loss for words. “Look, I won't say anything about that book to anyone else.”

  “I'd appreciate that.”

  “Well, I guess that's that, then. No hard feelings, huh?”

  “Sure. Right. No hard feelings.” Cleo turned around and started toward her car. Halfway there, a thought struck her. She turned back. “There's just one thing I'd like to know.”

  “What's that?”

  “How did you find out about The Mirror?”

  His mouth thinned. “Someone left it in my mailbox along with a note.”

  A chill went through Cleo. “A note?”

  “Yeah. I left it in the book.”

  Cleo nodded and walked on to her car. She opened the door and got inside. For a moment she sat behind the wheel, watching as Nolan started up his Jeep and took off down the narrow road toward town.

  When the other vehicle was out of sight, Cleo slowly opened the paper sack. She gazed at the cover of The Mirror for a long time, and then she opened the book and took out the folded sheet of paper inside. The note was brief and to the point.

  The Queen o
f the Nile is The Queen of Filth. A man with an important future ahead of him cannot afford to be seen with a whore.

  The tone of the note was uncomfortably familiar. It bore a remarkable resemblance to the anonymous letter Cleo had received last month.

  After the initial shock of receiving it, Cleo had dismissed the letter. It had been forwarded through her publisher, after all, and she had assured herself that the sender had no way of knowing her real identity.

  But now she had to confront the fact that someone not only knew her identity as the author of The Mirror, he or she was apparently determined to punish her for having written it. And that person knew who she was and where she was.

  Cleo's hand shook as she turned the key in the ignition. She suddenly wanted to get back to the safety of the inn as quickly as possible.

  Chapter

  3

  Max paused beside the open door of the large parlor. The quaintly furnished room was filled with seminar attendees. At the front of the parlor a man with silver, blow-dried hair, a chunky gold watch, and a massive diamond ring held forth. He was wearing a jacket and a pair of handmade leather shoes that Max knew had cost at least as much as the ones he, himself, owned. There was obviously money to be made in the motivational seminar business, Max decided.

  “My name is Herbert T. Valence, and you know something? I am incredible.” Valence radiated intensity. He practically bounced on his toes as he gazed expectantly around the room. “I am amazing. I can do anything I want to do. And you know what? So can you. Say it after me, everyone. I am incredible.”

  “I am incredible,” the audience repeated as one.

  “I am amazing,” Valence said. He looked as if he were about to burst with excitement and enthusiasm.

  “I am amazing.”

  “I can do anything I want to do,” Valence prompted.

  “I can do anything I want to do.”

  “The power of positive thinking is literally out of this world,” Valence announced with a triumphant smile. “It's pure energy. It's raw fuel, waiting to be poured into your creative engines.”

  Max watched with interest as Valence seemed to levitate back across the room to his wall chart.

  “I am here to teach you the secret of having it all,” Valence told the audience. “Money, power, success, and self-esteem. They can be yours by following my simple Five-Step Program. You want to wear clothes like mine? Drive a Porsche like mine? You'll be able to do just that when you've finished my program. I guarantee it.”

  Max lost interest and walked on toward the lobby. He stopped in front of the first of the series of seascapes that hung there and stood looking into it for a while.

  There was nothing to see beyond the surface image of a storm-tossed sea. The technique was poor, the design was static, and the colors were dull. It was the work of an amateur. Jason had been right in his own estimate of himself as a painter.

  “There you are, Max. I've been looking for you.” Sylvia Gordon waved from the office doorway. “There was a phone call for you a few minutes ago. I rang your room, but there was no answer so I took a message.”

  Max turned away from the seascape he had been studying and walked over to the front desk. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Sylvia smiled. “Sorry I couldn't find you when the call came through.” She handed him a piece of paper. “Whoever she is, she sounded very anxious to get hold of you.”

  Max glanced at the note. Kimberly called. She wants you to return her call as soon as possible. Very important. The very important had been underlined three times.

  “Just a business matter,” Max said. “It's not really important.”

  He crumpled up the note and tossed it in the waste-basket, just as he had the half dozen other urgent messages he had received from Kimberly Curzon during the past month. He wondered absently how she had managed to track him down here at the coast.

  “Is Cleo back yet?” he asked.

  “No.” Sylvia glanced at the wastebasket where the note had disappeared. When she looked at Max again there was speculation in her eyes. “But I expect her any minute. She won't be away long. Not with this crowd filling up the inn.”

  A roll of thunder drew Max's attention to the window. It had grown dark outside. The blustery wind was howling beneath the eaves. The rain would hit at any minute. Even as Max watched, a shaft of lightning arced across the sky.

  “Another storm,” he said.

  Sylvia shrugged. “It's that time of year. Listen, I wanted to thank you for finding Sammy's duck last night. He really treasures that thing.”

  “It was no problem.”

  “Lucky Ducky means a lot to him because Jason gave it to him.” Sylvia smiled tremulously. “Sammy's at that age when he's looking for a male role model. You know how it is.”

  “Sammy said his father's lost. He says he went off to look for himself.”

  Sylvia grimaced. “Children take things so literally, don't they? But he's not entirely wrong. Doug came home from the office one day and announced that he couldn't handle the responsibility of a wife and child. He said our marriage had been a terrible mistake. He packed up his things and left. Sammy was only a year old at the time.”

  “I take it your ex doesn't come around to visit Sammy?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “Doug went back east, where he apparently decided he was ready for responsibility after all. The last I heard he had married again and started a new family. He's never contacted Sammy and me since, except through his attorney. He does occasionally remember to pay child support.”

  The lights went out just as another flash of lightning lit up the darkened sky.

  “Darn,” Sylvia muttered. “There goes the power again. I hope it's just a blown fuse this time. Last month a tree went down across the lines, and we were without electricity for hours.”

  Max seized the opportunity. “I'll check the fuse box, if you like.”

  Sylvia gave him a grateful look. “Thanks. Hang on a second.” She reached under the front desk and produced a flashlight. “We keep one handy, as you can see. This sort of thing happens a lot around here.”

  Herbert T. Valence stormed out of the parlor just as Sylvia handed the large flashlight to Max. His expression of intense enthusiasm had been replaced by a look of intense agitation.

  “What is going on around here?” Valence demanded. “I'm trying to run a video in there. What's happened to the power?”

  “I'm going to check on it,” Max said mildly. He took the flashlight from Sylvia.

  Valence scowled. “Well, hurry up about it, will you? I've got a seminar to teach. I've got a reputation to maintain, you know. I can't do my best work without my audiovisual equipment.”

  “Try being creative,” Max said. “Just think positive. Positive thinking is the fuel that runs the engine of creativity, remember?”

  Sylvia turned away, but not before Max saw that she was struggling to bite back a laugh. Valence's face tightened with outrage.

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” Valence asked coldly.

  “I'm just giving you some of your own advice.” Max stepped around him, heading for the basement stairs. “And I'm not even going to charge you for it.”

  “Now see here,” Valence sputtered, “I don't have to put up with that sort of rudeness.”

  The lobby door opened at that moment. Max glanced back over his shoulder as wet wind and a disheveled-looking Cleo swept into the room.

  Cleo was clutching a brown paper sack protectively under one arm. He saw the strained expression on her face as she swung around to close the door. Apparently the meeting with Hildebrand had not gone well.

  “Whew.” Cleo shut the door and ran her fingers through her wet hair. “It's pouring out there. Everything all right in here, Sylvia?”

  “No, everything is not all right,” Valence said before Sylvia could respond. “The power is off. I want it fixed immediately. I'm trying to run a seminar, as you well know, Ms. Robbins. I've got a reputation fo
r flawless performance, and I simply cannot work without electricity.”

  Max watched as Cleo summoned up her innkeeper's soothing smile. “Yes, of course, Mr. Valence. We'll get someone on it right away.”

  “I'm already on it.” Max held up the flashlight.

  Cleo's gaze flashed to his face. “I thought you'd be gone by now.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea? You just hired me.”

  Cleo looked as if she badly wanted to respond to that, but Valence's presence forced her to restrain herself. “What do you think you're doing?”

  “I'm going down to the basement to check the fuse box. Any objections?” Max waited politely.

  Cleo set her jaw. “I'll come with you.”

  “I think I can handle this on my own,” Max said.

  “I said I'll come with you.” Cleo managed another serene smile for Valence. “Just give us a few minutes, Mr. Valence. I'm sure we'll have everything back under control very soon.”

  “I should hope so,” Valence muttered. “My time is extremely valuable. I can't afford to waste it sitting around waiting for someone to turn on the electricity.” He shot one last annoyed glance at Max as he stalked back down the hall to the parlor.

  Max watched Valence disappear. “Did you know he's incredible?” he said to Cleo. “Also amazing.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? Here, give me that.” She snatched the flashlight out of his hand and strode down the hall to the door that opened on to the basement stairs. “Why aren't you gone?”

  “There are a number of reasons,” Max opened the door and surveyed the inky depths of a vast basement. “One of which is that I haven't apologized for the small misunderstanding we had at breakfast.”

  “It was not a small misunderstanding.” Cleo switched on the flashlight and started down the basement stairs. She still had the paper sack tucked under her arm. “You were rude, crude, and obnoxious.”

  “You may be right.” Max's cane tapped softly on each step as he followed Cleo downstairs. “However, I'd like the chance to apologize for assuming you were Jason's mistress.”