“You want me to help Kim pull a coup and unseat her father? Nice idea, but it's pure fantasy.”
“I disagree. Nothing says you're limited to the role of a rubber-stamper on the Curzon board. You can take action. I never noticed you having any problem controlling your own board of directors.”
“Damn it, I don't particularly want to get involved with running Curzon. I've got my hands full with my own company.”
“This would be a very short-term arrangement. Help Kim take control of the board. Once she's been elected CEO, you can retreat gracefully from active management and let her take over completely. You can start rubber-stamping her projects the same way you used to rubber-stamp Jason's.”
Roarke rubbed his jaw. “Kim's brilliant and gutsy. She's got what it takes to run Curzon, doesn't she?”
“Once she's no longer worried about trying to placate Dennison, she'll do fine. She doesn't need me. What she needs is help taking the company away from her father. You can be the one to give her what she wants most in the world.” Max paused and smiled slightly. “Think how grateful she'll be.”
Roarke narrowed his eyes. “She'd never go up against her old man.”
“I think you could convince her to do it,” Max said.
Roarke looked briefly intrigued. Then he shook his head. “I don't know. Even if I could talk her into trying to stage a coup, I doubt we could pull it off. Kim would have me on her side, but that still leaves a couple of cousins and her aunt. They'd follow Dennison because they're used to taking orders from his brother.”
“You can handle the cousins, and that's all you need,” Max said quietly. “If you and Kim show a united front, they'll start taking their lead from you two, rather than Dennison.”
Roarke considered that for a moment. “Maybe. It just might work. I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but would you mind telling me what's in this for you, Fortune? What do you want for being so damn helpful?”
“All I want is your guarantee that you and Kim and everybody else with the last names of Curzon or Winston will quit showing up here at the inn at unexpected and inconvenient moments,” Max said softly.
“I think I'm getting the picture.” Roarke looked at Cleo, and then he met Max's eyes. “You want us out of your way.”
“Yes,” Max said. “I do. And I'd really appreciate it if you'd start the process immediately.”
Roarke slanted another glance at Cleo and smiled. “I can take a hint. It's a long drive back to Seattle. Guess I'd better get started.”
Chapter
13
That was a cozy little scene I walked in on just now,” Max growled as the door of the dining room swung closed behind Roarke. He gave the stack of folded tablecloths that Roarke had left behind a disgusted glance. “Thinking of taking on additional help?”
“Why not? Hotshot executive material is all over the place these days. I might as well take advantage of some of it.” Cleo concentrated on spreading another cloth on a table.
Max sat down at one of the tables in the far corner near the window. He propped his cane beside his chair and watched Cleo with brooding eyes. “We have to talk.”
“About what?”
“Last night would probably be a good place to start,” Max said.
“I've got a better idea. Let's talk about this morning, instead.”
Max's eyes darkened. “What about this morning?”
“Did you really try to marry Kimberly in order to get your hands on Curzon International?” Cleo asked in what she hoped was a tone of mild curiosity.
There was a long silence from the table in the corner. “What do you think?” Max finally asked.
Cleo threw him a glare as she whipped open another tablecloth. She looked away quickly because his eyes were burning with an emotion she could not define.
“I think you must have had a very good reason for asking her to marry you,” Cleo said in a subdued voice. “Either you were in love with her, which everyone including you seems to seriously doubt, or you wanted something from her. What was it, Max?”
“It's been three years since the engagement ended.” Max absently rubbed his thigh. “I believe I've forgotten what it was that convinced me I wanted to marry her.”
“Don't give me that.” Cleo approached his table with the last of the unfolded cloths. “You told me that she represented a lot of things you wanted. What were those things, Max?”
He looked at her. “Whatever they were, they don't matter any more.”
“You don't want Curzon International?”
“No.”
“You don't want Kimberly Curzon-Winston?”
“No.” Max watched Cleo unfold the last tablecloth. “I want you.”
“Hmm.” So much for trying to get him to put his quest into words. She understood, then, that his need for a family of his own was an inchoate longing that he probably did not even fully comprehend himself, let alone want to analyze.
The risk here was excruciatingly clear, Cleo thought. She was in danger of playing the same role in Max's life as Kimberly had played. He did not love her, at least not in the way Cleo wanted to be loved. What Max really wanted were all the things that came with her.
“Why did you insist on going back to your own room last night, Cleo?”
“I wanted to think.”
“About us?”
“I suppose so.” Cleo refused to be drawn. She did not trust her own mood this morning. She was edgy and unsettled. There were moments when she thought she could see all the way to Max's shadowed soul. But there were other times when he seemed more of an enigma than ever.
Max leaned forward, his expression intent. “Cleo, let's get out of here for a couple of days. We need to be alone together for a while.”
She shot him a quick, wary glance. “Why?”
“So that we can talk, damn it.”
“We're talking now.”
“But not for long.” Max glanced toward the door. “Sooner or later someone will interrupt us. You can bet on it. It's damned tough to find any privacy around here, isn't it?”
“Doesn't bother me,” Cleo said blithely.
“I noticed. I think you're trying to hide behind the family. Don't be afraid of me, Cleo.”
That annoyed her. “I'm not afraid of you.”
“Then why have you been avoiding me since last night?”
“I'll give you one guess.”
“Because of Ben's announcement.” Max smiled persuasively. “Don't blame him. He and everyone else here knows that you're sleeping with me, and they all know that you don't make a habit of having affairs. It's logical that they would conclude we're serious about each other.”
“Are we?”
Max's smile vanished. “Yes, damn it, we are.”
Cleo lost her precarious temper. “You might be interested to know that I do not blame Ben for embarrassing me last night. I blame you. You went right along with his announcement. You told everyone we were getting married.”
“Under the circumstances, it seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. It would have been a lot more awkward for everyone if I'd denied it.”
“I don't think you went along with the program just because it was the gentlemanly thing to do,” Cleo stormed. “I think you saw Ben's announcement as an extremely convenient opportunity to prevent poor Roarke Winston from beating you to a pulp. You used me.”
Max's jaw tightened ominously. “You really believe that?”
Cleo fiddled a bit with her glasses. “Yes, I do.”
“You really have an attitude problem this morning, don't you?”
“You think so?” Cleo tilted her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. “Actually, I thought I was behaving with remarkable restraint, given the circumstances.”
“That's not how I see it,” Max said.
“Too bad.” Cleo frowned sharply as she saw his hand move on his thigh. “Why are you massaging your leg? Is it bothering you this morning?”
&nb
sp; “Forget my leg. Look, Cleo, I understand that you're feeling as if you've been backed into a corner. I realize we hadn't actually talked about marriage.”
“Oh, good.” Cleo gave him a bright, brittle smile. “For a while there I thought I was just getting forgetful. It happens when someone is under stress, you know.”
“Stop being so waspish. I'm trying to have a rational conversation here.”
“In that case you'd better find someone else to have it with,” Cleo said. “I'm not feeling very rational at the moment.”
“Damn it, Cleo—” Without any warning Max slammed his palm flat against the table in a small explosion of violence that graphically communicated his own anger.
The sharp crack of sound startled Cleo. She jumped and took a step back as Max started to rise from his chair. The dining room door burst open.
“Cleo?” Sylvia's voice was laced with concern. “What's going on here?”
“I knew someone would come in at the wrong moment.” Max dropped back into his chair with an air of resigned martyrdom. “No privacy at all.”
“That's family life,” Cleo said sweetly.
She swung around to face the door. Sylvia stood there, gazing anxiously at the pair near the window. She was not alone. Sammy was with her and so was a very large stranger.
The newcomer was a mountain of a man with the endearingly homely face and sad eyes of a basset hound. He wore a loud green and orange plaid sport coat and a pair of brown polyester slacks. His tie was studded with red polka dots.
“Are you mad at Cleo, Uncle Max? You look mad.” Sammy scampered over to Max's chair and gazed up at him with worried eyes.
“Cleo and I were having a private discussion,” Max said. “It was a very serious talk.”
Cleo raised her brows at the gruff reassurance in his voice. “Don't let him fool you, Sammy. He's mad at me.”
Already satisfied by Max's response, Sammy giggled. “But not really, really mad, I bet.”
“No.” Max scowled at Cleo. “Not really, really mad.”
“He's right, Sammy,” the stranger said in a deep, rumbling voice that matched his size, “I've known Max for quite a while now, and I can say for sure that when Fortune's really, really mad, no one can even tell until it's too late.”
Sammy looked at the man in the doorway. “So if he just looks mad, what does that mean?”
“It means he's feeling a tad grumpy.” The man sauntered into the dining room. “Probably hasn't had his morning coffee.” He looked at Max. “Hi, Max.”
“About time you got here, O'Reilly.” Max glanced briefly at the polka-dot tie his friend was wearing. “Where did you get that tie?”
“Bought it from some guy who sells them off the back of a truck in an alley between Third and Fourth avenues in downtown Seattle,” O'Reilly said proudly. “Heck of a deal. I'll introduce you to him next time you're in town.”
“Don't bother.”
“We can't all afford to buy our clothes in Europe,” O'Reilly said easily.
“I like O'Reilly's tie,” Sammy said. “It's nice. Mommy thinks so, too, don't you, Mommy?”
Cleo was astonished to see the faint blush that warmed Sylvia's cheeks.
“Stunning,” Sylvia murmured.
O'Reilly grinned at her. The smile transformed his face. “I'm glad someone around here has good taste.” He turned back to Cleo. “Allow me to introduce myself. I'm O'Reilly. Compton O'Reilly of O'Reilly Investigations.”
“I'm pleased to meet you,” Cleo said politely.
“Presumably Max has told you all about me. How brilliant I am. How resourceful and clever. How fearless, tireless, and tenacious, et cetera, et cetera.”
Cleo smiled reluctantly. “Max said you were very good at what you do.”
A strange twinge of fear went through her as she acknowledged the introduction to Compton O'Reilly. It loosed a flock of butterflies in her stomach and made her feel light-headed.
The arrival of a private investigator brought home the reality of what was happening. Max was taking the recent troubling incidents very seriously. The realization that he was doing so made them suddenly all the more disturbing.
“That's Max for you,” O'Reilly said. “Always the master of the understatement. When he says I'm good at what I do, he really means I'm terrific.”
Max looked at Cleo. “Did I tell you how modest he was?”
It was Sylvia who answered. “I think Mr. O'Reilly's modesty is self-evident.”
O'Reilly grinned at her again. “Thank you, ma'am.”
Sylvia turned slightly more pink. She looked at Sammy. “Why don't you come with me, dear? We'll see if we can find Mr. O'Reilly a cup of coffee in the kitchen.”
“And some cookies,” Sammy said eagerly.
“Now that's one of the better ideas I've heard today,” O'Reilly murmured. “I prefer chocolate chip, if you've got them.”
Sammy clapped his hands in delight. “So do I.”
“Great minds move in the same paths,” O'Reilly said. He looked pleased.
“We'll be back in a few minutes,” Sylvia promised as she took Sammy's hand.
O'Reilly watched the pair disappear through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Then he turned and gave Max a slow, perusing examination.
“What the heck have you gotten yourself into out here, Max, old buddy? And what's this I hear about you being engaged?”
“Rumors.” Cleo cleared her throat. “Rumors, innuendos, and lies.”
“Is that right?” O'Reilly stuck his hands in his pants pockets and regarded her with a gravely interested expression. “Nothing to all those rumors, innuendos, and lies?”
“Of course not.” Cleo ignored Max's annoyed gaze. “Max, here, hasn't even bothered to ask me to marry him, so how could there possibly be a real engagement?”
O'Reilly nodded. “Good point.”
“Damn it to hell.” Max pinned Cleo with a fierce look. “Is that what's made you so prickly this morning? The fact that I haven't formally asked you to marry me?”
Cleo did not deign to answer that. She gave O'Reilly a bland smile. “Ignore him. He's got an attitude problem today.”
“Max always has an attitude,” O'Reilly said. “Can't you tell by the way he dresses?”
A short while later, fortified with several cookies and a cup of coffee, O'Reilly glanced down at his notebook. He leaned back in the fanback wicker chair and contemplated Max and Cleo, who were seated across from him in the solarium.
“The bottom line here is that there aren't any obvious suspects. As far as you know, you don't have any enemies. No one's got a grudge against you?”
Cleo shuddered. O'Reilly seemed nice enough, but she was still having qualms about getting a private investigator involved in the situation. “Not that I know of. I haven't had any run-ins with anyone, unless you count Tobias Quinton.”
“Who's Tobias Quinton?”
Max shifted slightly. “Forget him. He's not a factor in this.”
O'Reilly gave him a level look. “You're sure?”
“I'm sure. Just a slightly disgruntled inn guest. Stayed one night and left the next morning,” Max explained.
O'Reilly turned back to Cleo. “Pardon the personal questions, but I need to know the answers. Any possibility you've got an ex-boyfriend who might have become a little too possessive? Especially now that Max is in the picture? Max sometimes makes enemies, I'm sorry to say.”
“I wasn't in the picture when the incidents started,” Max pointed out. “Nolan Hildebrand was. But he and Cleo had nothing more than a casual dating relationship.”
O'Reilly peered at him from beneath bushy brows. “You're positive about that?”
“He wasn't sleeping with her, if that's what you want to know,” Max said coolly. “And before you ask, the answer is, yes, I'm sure of that.”
“Max.” Cleo felt herself turn bright red. “I can answer Mr. O'Reilly's questions on my own.” She gave O'Reilly an embarrassed smile. “Nolan and I r
eally were just friends, although I have reason to believe that he might have been thinking of marriage.”
“That sounds as if things were more than just friendly between the two of you,” O'Reilly said quietly.
“Well, I never actually knew for certain that he had marriage in mind,” Cleo said, feeling unaccountably reckless, “because he never actually asked me, you see. He had been making certain assumptions, apparently. Just like someone else I could name.”
“Cleo.” Max's voice was laced with dark warning.
“The first I knew of Nolan's plans,” Cleo continued, “was when he sort of casually tossed the concept of marriage at me one morning when he was under a lot of stress.” She glared at Max. “Men tend to do that a lot around me, too.”
“Ignore her, O'Reilly,” Max advised. “She's in a bad mood today for some reason.”
“Uh-huh.” O'Reilly looked at Cleo. “Maybe we ought to talk a little more about Nolan Hildebrand.”
Cleo shrugged. “As I told you, there isn't much to talk about. He was very upset when he found out I'd written The Mirror, but only because he felt that it disqualified me from being the wife of a future senator.”
“He wasn't weird about it, then?” O'Reilly asked. “He didn't act like he had been assigned some holy mission to rid the world of people who write sexy books?”
Cleo blushed again, but she kept her voice cool. “No, just annoyed at having wasted time dating me. Trust me, the only thing Nolan is obsessed with is launching his political career.”
“What about this Adrian Forrester you mentioned?” O'Reilly asked.
Cleo wrinkled her nose. “Forget Adrian. My relationship with him was even more casual than the one I had with Nolan.”
O'Reilly smiled briefly. “Okay. That will do it for now. Once I've had a chance to talk to your staff and take a look around Harmony Cove, I'll probably have more questions, but I've got a few other angles to check first.”
Cleo, weary from the long, intensive session, straightened in alarm. “Wait, what do you mean? You can't run around Harmony Cove asking questions about me and my book.”
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