“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?”
“Kimberly Curzon-Winston. She says Jason was her uncle.”
“Damn.”
“That's not all she says.” Cleo pushed her glasses more firmly into place on her nose and eyed Max with speculation. “She says you work for her. I told her she was wrong.”
The possessiveness in Cleo's voice made Max smile. “Did you?”
“Yes. I told her you work for me. What's going on here, Max?”
Max picked up the teacup and swallowed the contents. “Just what you said. I work for you.”
“But you used to work for Ms. Curzon-Winston?”
“No,” Max said flatly. “I told you, I worked for Jason. When he died, I resigned my position with Curzon International.”
“I see.” Cleo's eyes gleamed behind the lenses of her glasses. “Well, then, that settles it, doesn't it? Who gets to tell Ms. Curzon-Winston that you are no longer her employee?”
“I'll tell her.”
“Good idea. Oh, by the way, your old pal Garrison Spark showed up today, too. Never a dull moment around here.”
Max went still. “What did Spark want?”
“What do you think he wanted?” Cleo raised her brows. “He offered me a measly thirty grand for the Luttrells. I told him the same thing I told you. I don't have the stupid paintings, and if I did have them, I'd give them to you.”
Max stared at her. He couldn't think of anything to say. The sound of raised masculine voices from the lobby caught his attention. He picked up his cane. “I think we'd better get your unexpected arrivals settled.”
“Right. I just hope they don't start shooting arrows or tossing their spears around. This is a respectable establishment.” Cleo whirled and rushed to the door. “Sylvia, give me a hand with the front desk. Trisha, call George and tell him we need him to come in early tonight. Then give Andromeda a hand here in the kitchen. Max, there's a leaking shower head in one-ten. Can you take a look at it?”
“Yes,” Max said.
“I'll call George,” Trisha said. She gave Max a quick, misty smile. “Thanks again, Max.”
It was the first time in his life that anyone had thanked him for just trying, Max reflected. He nodded at Trisha, unable to think of anything to say.
He left the kitchen wondering what kind of tools one needed to fix a leaking shower head.
“What in hell is going on around here, Max?” Kimberly paced the shadowed solarium, the only place in the inn that wasn't overrun by warriors.
Max stretched out his legs and absently rubbed his thigh. Kimberly was as stunningly beautiful as ever, he thought, but he experienced absolutely no reaction to her now. Whatever he had once felt for her had died three years ago.
“What does it look like?” Max said quietly. “I've found a new job.”
She shot him a disgusted look. “Come off it, Max. You and I have known each other too long to play games. Why did you leave Curzon?”
“Let's just say that I felt like a change.”
“If you wanted more money, all you had to do was ask. For God's sake, you know that.” The heels of Kimberly's gray suede pumps clicked loudly on the tiles, betraying the tension that was evident in every line of her body. “If this is some kind of ploy to get the seat on the board that Uncle Jason promised you, I assure you, you didn't need to stage this dramatic little scene.”
Max arched a brow. “Come off it, Kim. We both know your father would never allow anyone but a member of the family to sit on the board.”
Kimberly flushed. “I know my father has a thing about that, but I might be able to talk him into reconsidering his decision. He wants you back at Curzon. He'll do just about anything to get you back, Max.”
“Forget it. Things have changed. I don't give a damn about the seat on the board. Not any longer.” Max listened to his own words with silent amazement. At one time he would have seized the offer with both hands. A seat on the board would have meant that the Curzons as a group had really accepted him. It would have been the next best thing to belonging to the family.
“What are you trying to do?” Kimberly asked tightly. “Why the shock tactics? What's your agenda? Just tell me, Max. We can come to terms.”
“I don't have an agenda. At least not one that concerns Curzon.”
She shot him a quick, suspicious glance. “Don't tell me you've decided to go with Global Village Properties? If that's the case, I can guarantee you we'll match whatever offer they make. You know as well as I do that Curzon can't afford to have you go work for our chief competitor. You know too much.”
“I'm not going with Global Village.”
“What is it then? You can't be serious about working for that odd little innkeeper in the tacky running shoes.”
Max smiled slightly. “Why not? The pay's good.”
“Don't be ridiculous. She can't possibly pay you anything close to what you were earning at Curzon.” Kimberly swept out a hand to indicate all of Robbins' Nest Inn. “We both know you could buy this place with less than one year's salary. Not to mention bonuses. How much is she paying you?”
“Minimum wage.”
Kimberly stared at him. “I don't believe you.”
“It's not such a bad deal. I've got my own room in the attic and three hot meals a day. I also get to keep all the tips I make in the lounge. Some guy left me a ten-dollar bill last weekend.”
“You sleep in the attic? You're working for tips? This is insane. Why are you doing this to me?” Kimberly came to a halt in front of him. “You know Curzon needs you. I need you.”
Max rested
his head against the back of the wicker chair. “You don't need me, Kim. Neither does the company. In a few months you'll realize that you and your family can get along just fine without me.”
“We've all depended on you for years. You know that, Max.”
“Dennison is probably a little nervous at the moment. After all, this is a transitional period. But he's got you.” Max narrowed his eyes faintly. “You've got what it takes to handle the company, Kim.”
“You know my father would never turn Curzon over to me,” Kimberly said bitterly. “I'm not the son he always wanted, and I never will be.”
Max said nothing. There was nothing to say. Kimberly was right. Her father, Dennison Curzon, intended to take the reins of Curzon International and prove that he had the same talent his brother had had. It was unfortunate for all concerned that he was not the brilliant corporate strategist that Jason had been.
The only one in the family who could lead Curzon International into the future was Kimberly, and they all knew that her father was highly unlikely to entrust her with the task. Dennison believed the job required a man.
It was probably going to turn into an unholy mess, but Max figured that was the Curzons' problem now.
Kimberly watched Max for a moment. Then she turned away and walked to the fountain. She stood looking down at the bubbling water, her head bowed. “I think I should tell you something, Max.”
“What?”
“Roarke and I are having problems. I'm thinking of leaving him.”
Max eyed her classic profile. “Why?”
“Does it matter?”
Max shrugged. “No.”
Kimberly touched the blue tiles that formed the highest pool on the fountain. “I made a mistake three years ago, Max. I allowed my father to talk me out of marrying you.”
“He didn't have to talk very hard. You started having doubts right after I put the engagement ring on your finger.”
“I was a fool.”
“Let's not get melodramatic about this. I'm in no mood for it.” Max reached for his cane. “It's been a long day, and I'm tired.”
Something bright gleamed in the open doorway on the other side of the room. Max turned his head and saw Cleo standing in the shadows. The light from the hall reflected off her metallic sneakers. He could not see the expression on her face.
Grand Passion Page 16