Grand Passion

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Of all the ridiculous things to say.” Cleo was stricken by a sudden thought. “Is that how things worked at Curzon International?”

  “That's how things have worked most of my life. Curzon was no exception.”

  “I can't believe Jason ran his business that way.”

  “I hate to shatter your illusions about Jason Curzon. But I can guarantee that he didn't run Curzon International with a sweet, gentle, consensus style of management. He was one tough son of a bitch.”

  “Jason would have given people a second chance. I know he would have.”

  Max's mouth curved slightly. “Sometimes, if there were extenuating circumstances, and if he needed whoever had screwed up badly enough to keep him around. But second chances were rare at Curzon. And there was no such thing as a third chance.”

  “You got along with him.”

  “I made it a point not to screw up when it came to getting things done for Jason.”

  Cleo touched his arm. “Are you saying that you think Jason would have kicked you out if you'd failed him in some way?”

  Max hesitated. “Let's just say I didn't want to put it to the test.”

  Cleo framed his face with her palms. “That's awful. How could you live with that kind of constant pressure to perform?”

  Max was genuinely amused by her concern. “I'm used to it. The flip side is that I don't screw up very often.”

  Cleo shook her head wonderingly. “No, I don't suppose you do. But you thought you had when you came home without Ben, didn't you?”

  “Yes.”

  Cleo smiled sadly. “I'm sorry you felt that way. I had no idea you believed your welcome here was contingent on whether or not you brought Ben home. But I've got to admit I'm a little relieved to hear your explanation.”

  Max searched her face. “Why?”

  “Because I'd come to my own conclusion about why you'd packed your bag before you left.”

  “What conclusion was that?” Max asked.

  Cleo ducked her head and kissed his mouth lightly. “Promise you won't laugh?”

  “I promise.”

  “I thought it was just barely possible that you weren't coming back because you'd finally realized I didn't know where those Luttrell paintings were.”

  Max's gaze turned fierce. “What the hell are you saying?”

  “I thought maybe the paintings were all you cared about.” Cleo smiled tremulously. “It crossed my mind, Max, that you might have just possibly seduced me primarily to see if you could get me to tell you where I'd stashed your Luttrells. Your old pal, Garrison Spark, didn't help matters when he told me you were quite capable of using that kind of tactic.”

  Max's fingers tightened abruptly around her waist. His dark lashes veiled his eyes. “You believed that?”

  Cleo felt herself growing warm, but she did not lower her gaze. “After you made love to me you asked me about the paintings one last time. Don't you remember? You said something like ‘You really don't know where the Luttrells are, do you?’”

  “Cleo, I told you I'd come back.”

  “I know,” she admitted.

  “But you didn't believe me?”

  “I didn't know what to believe. All I could do was cross my fingers and hope you'd return, with or without Ben.”

  Max watched her intently. “Cleo, what if I told you that it did occur to me that seducing you might be the easiest way to see if you were telling the truth about the Luttrells?”

  She grinned. “I'd say you were teasing me.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yep.” She touched the edge of his mouth with her fingertip. “We both know you didn't seduce me just to find out where the paintings are. If that was all you wanted from me, you would never have tracked Ben down and talked to him. And you would never have come back here to the inn. Right?”

  Max's hand closed tightly around hers. He brushed his mouth across the inside of her wrist in an incredibly gentle, almost reverent kiss. “I guess you're right.”

  “And before you say anything more, let me remind you that you've got no business lecturing me about my lack of faith in you.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Cleo folded her arms on top of his chest. “You displayed the same lack of faith in me and the rest of the family. I can't believe you didn't know we'd want you to come back regardless of whether or not you were successful. We like you because you're you, Max, not because you have a reputation for never screwing up.”

  “Hardly ever screwing up.” Max brought her face close to his and kissed her with rough passion. When he released her, his eyes were gleaming, hard and fierce.

  Cleo smiled slowly. “I guess we've both learned something about each other from all this, haven't we?”

  Max's answering smile was laced with lazy sensuality. “Well, I'm convinced that you aren't hiding my Luttrells. I knew the first night I met you that you were either one of the most formidable opponents I had ever encountered or…Never mind.”

  “What do you mean, never mind?” Cleo said. “Finish the sentence.”

  “Or you were one of the nicest, sweetest, most innocent women I had ever met,” Max concluded smoothly.

  Cleo glowered at him. “That's not what you originally intended to say, was it? What did you really think that first night? That if I wasn't extremely shrewd, I was probably not too bright? Is that what you thought?”

  “I can't even remember what I thought that first night. Too much has happened.” Max rolled her over onto her back and sat up beside her. He opened the drawer next to the bed and reached inside.

  “What are you doing?” Cleo asked, straining to focus on whatever it was he was removing from the drawer. “What's that? It looks like a scarf.”

  “That's exactly what it is.” Max shook out the large square of yellow and blue silk.

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I'm going to try something I read about in chapter five of The Mirror.” Max took hold of opposite corners of the scarf and stretched the fabric into a taut, narrow rope.

  Cleo's eyes widened even as the first tremors of excitement flowed through her. “Max, you wouldn't.”

  Max's eyes gleamed with warm, sexy amusement. “Relax, Cleo. I rarely screw up, remember?”

  “Yes, I know, but Max.” Cleo was suddenly hot all over.

  Max slowly eased the hem of her chaste, flower-printed flannel gown up to her waist. Then he slid the strip of yellow and blue silk beneath her buttocks and drew it up between her thighs as if it were a thong-style bikini. He gently pulled it taut.

  “Max.” Cleo could feel the strip of silk working its way into the moist, heated folds of her feminine flesh. She grabbed fistfuls of the sheet in both hands.

  Max tightened the scarf slowly until it was gliding over the delicate bud hidden in the triangle of dark hair. The sensation left Cleo gasping. The feeling was one of tantalizing torment, just as she had imagined it would be when she had written the scene in The Mirror.

  When Max embellished the original version and used his mouth to dampen the silk between her legs, Cleo came apart in his hands.

  She knew Max was watching her in rapt fascination as she surrendered to the climax. For some reason that only made the final sweet convulsions all the more exquisitely exciting.

  Max opened one eye a long time later to find Cleo sitting up in bed, leaning over him. She had a speculative expression on her face as she shook out the yellow and blue scarf.

  “What do you think you're going to do with that?” he asked with sleepy unconcern.

  “Experiment. You never know. Someday I might write a sequel to The Mirror.” Cleo started to drape the silk square over him. “From a man's point of view.”

  Max started to smile. Then he sucked in a deep breath as his recently satisfied body reacted to the sensual touch of the silk. “Sounds interesting.”

  “Yes, I think it will be.”

  The phone rang just as Cleo was starting to do some truly crea
tive things with the length of silk. Max swore as he reached for the receiver beside the bed.

  “Fortune here.”

  “Max?” George sounded wide awake for once. “This is me. George. At the front desk.”

  “What's wrong, George?”

  Cleo halted the process of tying the narrowed scarf into a bow around an extremely rigid portion of Max's anatomy. She leaned across him to fumble for her glasses on the nightstand.

  Max groaned as her soft stomach pressed against his decorated manhood.

  “There's a guy down here says he knows you, Max. Says he wants to talk to you right away. He's threatening to tear the place apart if you don't get down here.”

  Max sat up against the pillows. “Who is it?”

  “He says his name is Roarke Winston.”

  “Hell, that's all I needed. I'll be right down.” Max tossed the phone back into its cradle. He reached for the cane he had propped against the wall.

  “What's wrong?” Cleo demanded. She was already off the bed, searching for her jeans.

  “Winston's here.” Max got out of bed and went to the closet.

  “Kimberly's husband?”

  “Right.” Max started to pull on his trousers and stopped when he noticed that the silk scarf was still tied around him in a wispy, languid bow. He cautiously removed it.

  “What's he doing here?” Cleo swiftly buttoned her oxford cloth shirt.

  “How the hell should I know? Maybe he's looking for Kimberly.” Max tossed the scarf aside with genuine regret.

  “Why ask for you?”

  Max cocked a brow as he led the way to the door. “Damned if I know. We'll find out soon enough.”

  He went down the two flights of stairs with Cleo hard on his heels. When he walked into the lobby, he knew there was going to be trouble.

  Roarke Winston, patrician-featured, well-dressed, and normally brimming with the subtle arrogance that came from old money and solid family connections, was in a towering rage.

  He swung around as Max entered the room. “Fortune, you son of a bitch. Where's my wife?”

  “I don't know,” Max said calmly. “She's not here.”

  “You're lying.” Roarke started forward, his hands clenched at his sides. His handsome face was mottled with fury. “She's here. I know she is. You talked her into coming here with you, didn't you? You're sleeping with my wife, you bastard.”

  “Take it easy, Winston,” Max said.

  “What made you think I'd let you get away with having an affair with my wife?” Roarke closed the distance between himself and Max with long, swift strides.

  “Stop it,” Cleo yelped in alarm. “Max isn't having an affair with Kimberly.”

  “The hell he isn't.” Roarke's voice rose. “He's wanted to get his hands on Curzon from the start. He figures seducing Kim is one way to do it.”

  “That's not true,” Cleo said. She turned toward the front desk and glared at George. “You're the night desk man, George. Do something.”

  George gazed at her helplessly and then banged the bell that sat on the front desk. Apparently pleased with that decisive maneuver, he banged it again.

  “Oh, for heaven's sake,” Cleo muttered.

  Roarke came to a halt less than two feet away from Max. “You don't love her. You never did love her. You're just trying to use her. I'll be damned if I'll let you do it.”

  He swung wildly.

  “No,” Cleo shouted. “Don't hit him. He didn't do anything.”

  She leaped in front of Max just as Roarke's fist came crashing toward its target. At the last instant, Max realized that the blow was going to strike Cleo.

  He grabbed Cleo's shoulder and spun her aside, out of the path of Roarke's fist. Unfortunately the maneuver did not give him time to use the cane in self-defense. Instead it took him straight into the path of the punch.

  Cleo stumbled and fell. In an effort to avoid hitting her, Roarke obviously tried to pull his punch at the last second. But it was too late. His fist clipped the side of Max's jaw.

  Max staggered, lost his balance, and sprawled back against the front desk. As he slid gracefully to the floor, he saw Cleo reach for the vase that sat on the corner stand. She grabbed it with both hands and took aim at Roarke's head.

  Max didn't know whether to laugh or curse. He was not accustomed to having anyone leap to his defense. It was a pleasant novelty, but enough was enough. If things went any further, someone was going to get hurt.

  “Put the vase down, Cleo.” Max sat on the floor, propped against the desk in what he hoped was a suitably dramatic fashion. He groaned and gingerly fingered the side of his jaw. “I quit, Winston. You're the winner.”

  Roarke stood over him, breathing heavily. “Bastard.”

  “Don't you dare touch him,” Cleo said to Roarke. “Get away from him.” She set the vase down on the stand and dashed across the room to Max's side. “He's not sleeping with your wife.”

  “How do you know?” Roarke demanded.

  “Because he's sleeping with me.” Cleo touched Max's face with gentle, questing fingers. “Isn't that right, Max?”

  “Right,” said Max.

  The sound of running footsteps overhead made everyone, including George, look toward the staircase.

  Ben came thundering down the stairs first. His hair was tousled, and his shirt was unbuttoned. He was trying to fasten his jeans. Trisha was right behind him. She was tying the belt of her robe as she hurried down the steps.

  Sylvia and Sammy brought up the rear. Both were in their nightclothes. Sammy was yawning.

  “What's going on down here?” Ben scanned the lobby scene quickly. “Cleo? Max? Are you guys okay?”

  “No,” Cleo said.

  “Yes,” Max said, overriding her. “Allow me to introduce Roarke Winston. He's Kimberly's husband. He was under the mistaken impression that I was spending the night with his wife.”

  Ben glared at Roarke. “No way, man. Max isn't messin' around with your wife. He and Cleo are like a couple, y'know?”

  “Is that right?” Roarke asked with cold disbelief.

  “Damn right,” Ben said authoritatively. “In fact they're going to get married.”

  “Uh, Ben,” Cleo began carefully.

  Ben ignored her. “Isn't that right, Max?”

  Max knew a turning point when he saw one “Right.”

  Chapter

  12

  Okay, so maybe we jumped the gun a little,” Ben said.

  “We?” Max eyed the pipe joint that was less than four inches above his head. He was not in a good mood, and his bad attitude this morning had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he was sprawled on his back beneath the bathroom sink in room one-oh-one.

  “So I kind of rushed the announcement,” Ben admitted.

  “You think so?” A drop of water from the leaking pipe fitting hit Max on the forehead. “Dammit.”

  “Give me a break, Max, I had to think fast last night. That guy Winston was really pissed. He looked like he was going to take the place apart.”

  “Hand me the other wrench.”

  “Look, I know you got clipped, but you weren't really hurt.” Ben stooped down and thrust a wrench into Max's hand. “Besides, I'll bet you walked right into Winston's punch.”

  “I did not walk into it. Hand me a rag.”

  “You sure?” Ben crouched down on his haunches and handed Max a scrap of an old inn towel that was frayed and torn. “He's no fighter. He's too soft. You can't tell me he took you with a sucker punch.”

  “I was unable to duck because I was too busy trying to shove Cleo out of the way,” Max said with great dignity. He wiped the dripping joint with the rag and adjusted the new wrench.

  “Yeah? Is that how it happened?” Ben frowned at the pipe joint. “I thought maybe you deliberately took the punch so Cleo would feel sorry for you and fuss and stuff. Which she did.”

  “Not for long.” Max took a grip on the wrench handle and tightened the pipe fitting with rut
hless force.

  The fact that Cleo had not hovered very long last night after discovering that he was unhurt was one of the chief reasons for Max's foul temper this morning.

  She had not only failed to play the ministering angel for more than a few brief minutes, she had not returned to his room after the uproar had died down. Nor had she invited him to hers.

  Cleo had recovered her professional innkeeper aplomb almost immediately. She had risen from Max's fallen body, checked the confused Winston into one of the inn's best rooms, and sent everyone back to bed. She had then retired to her own bedroom without so much as a good-night kiss for Max.

  “Take it easy or you'll strip the threads,” Ben warned.

  “You want to take over?”

  “No, that's okay. I've fixed a lot of leaking pipes. I know how it's done. You're supposed to be getting experience, remember?”

  “You're supposed to be giving helpful advice, remember?”

  “Hey, you're doin' okay, man. A real natural. Anyhow, about last night.”

  “What about it?” Max surveyed the pipe fitting. Another drop of water oozed out of the metal joint.

  “Well, I know we all kind of rushed things by making that big announcement about you and Cleo getting married.”

  “Yes.” Max gave the wrench another twist. “You did.”

  “But it's not like you aren't planning to marry her, or anything like that,” Ben pointed out earnestly.

  “Is that right?”

  Ben scowled. “What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

  “Maybe it means I want to take off for a few days and go work in a gas station while I think things over.” Max wiped the joint again. It looked dry.

  “Come on, Max, that was a cheap shot. We both know you aren't going to take off the way I did. You aren't spooked.”

  “No, but I think Cleo is. Turn on the water.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, turn on the water.”

  “I heard that.” Ben got to his feet and turned on the faucet. Water gushed into the sink. “What did you mean about Cleo being spooked?”

  “You saw her last night.” Max watched to see if the joint was going to start dripping again. “After she figured out that I wasn't dying, she did a damn good job of pretending I didn't exist. She couldn't wait to send everyone, including me, off to bed.”