“Why not?” O'Reilly asked.
“Because no one here knows I wrote it,” Cleo said impatiently. “I told you I did it under a pen name. Only the family knows I'm the author.”
“That's not true, Cleo,” Max said quietly. “Nolan Hildebrand knows, and whoever is staging these incidents knows. It probably won't be long before a lot of other people discover you're the author of The Mirror.”
Cleo laced her fingers together very tightly. “I didn't want outsiders to know about The Mirror. It's such a personal book.”
“Max is right,” O'Reilly said. “I'm afraid the secret is out. There's not much point trying to keep your identity hidden any longer. It's to your benefit right now to go public.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“In a small town like Harmony Cove news travels fast,” O'Reilly explained. “Sure, people will talk about the book. But they'll also talk about the fact that someone is threatening you. That process could turn up some new information.”
Max looked thoughtful. “He's right, Cleo. You're well liked in town. That won't change when people find out you wrote The Mirror. Most of the people in Harmony Cove are going to be angry on your behalf about the threats that have been made. It's possible that someone knows more than he or she realizes.”
“People will be alert for strangers or unusual actions. That will provide some protection for you.” O'Reilly smiled reassuringly at Cleo. “I'll talk to your police chief first. We'll get him in our corner and go from there.”
Cleo bit her lip, aware that it was useless to argue in the face of such relentless masculine logic. Max and O'Reilly simply didn't understand. They couldn't know how much she dreaded the invasion of privacy she would face once her secret was widely known. It was one thing to be known as a writer of romantic-suspense; it was quite another to be known as the author of something as deeply personal and intimate as The Mirror.
She flopped back onto the wicker lounge chair and glared at the bubbling fountain. “I'm not sure it's worth all this fuss. Maybe the incidents are nothing more than someone's idea of a practical joke.”
“That note we found in your car was more than a joke,” Max said. “And whoever followed you through the fog was either trying to frighten you or worse. I want this business stopped before it goes any farther.”
Cleo saw the unshakable intent in his eyes and knew there was no point staging a protest. Besides, she was getting scared herself. She turned back to O'Reilly. “You really think it has to be someone here in Harmony Cove? You said that none of the people who were here the weekend of the motivational seminar looked suspicious?”
“I didn't turn up any red flags when I ran the names of your guests through my usual computer checks,” O'Reilly said. “But that doesn't mean one of them isn't nuttier than a fruitcake. However, I don't think we'll find our rabid book critic in that crowd. After all, according to what you told me, the incidents started before any of them arrived at the inn.”
“There was the anonymous letter that came through your publisher last month,” Max reminded Cleo. “Someone put a copy of the book in Hildebrand's mailbox while the motivational seminar group was at the inn, but none of that crowd was around when that jerk stalked you in the fog.”
“I suppose you're right. It must be someone here in Harmony Cove. My God, that's a strange thought.” Cleo wrapped her arms beneath her breasts and hugged herself. “To think that it's someone I know.”
“It often is in cases like this,” O'Reilly said.
Max looked at Cleo. “I think the best thing for us to do is get you out of town for a couple of days while O'Reilly starts asking his questions.”
Cleo glanced up sharply. “Leave town? I can't do that. I've got a business to run.”
“You're not heavily booked this week,” Max said. “Sylvia, Andromeda, and the others can handle things for a couple of nights.”
He was right, but Cleo did not want to admit it. “I'd rather stay here.”
Cleo watched, annoyed, as O'Reilly exchanged man-to-man glances with Max. Then the detective smiled at her. “Might be easier if you took off for a couple of days. It would give me a chance to break the news to everyone about The Mirror and what's been happening to you. By the time you get back, the initial uproar will have had a chance to die down. Your friends here at the inn can field the first round of curiosity seekers for you.”
Cleo stirred uneasily. Logically speaking, she knew that the hubbub that would ensue when O'Reilly started asking his questions would be relatively mild compared to what she had gone through four years earlier. At least the gossip would focus on her sex life, she thought ruefully, not death and destruction.
But then there would be all those questions about the obsessed critic who was pestering her. Patty Loftins at the beauty shop would probably read The Mirror and speculate to her customers on what the stalker would do next. The pimply-faced kid who worked at the drugstore would watch to see if she bought any birth control supplies the next time she shopped for shampoo. Chuck, the gas station attendant, would wonder if she practiced any of the techniques in The Mirror when she went out on a date. He'd probably ask her out the next time she stopped in to fill her tank. Cleo winced at the thought.
“Maybe it wouldn't hurt to leave town for a day or two,” Cleo said.
“We'll go to Seattle for a couple of days,” Max said, as if everything was settled.
“Seattle?” She slanted him a wary glance.
Max achieved a remarkably earnest expression. “It will give you a real change of scene. O'Reilly will keep an eye on the family for you.”
“No problem,” O'Reilly said cheerfully. “As long as your kitchen keeps pumping out chocolate chip cookies, I'll be happy to hang around forever.”
Max glanced casually at his watch. “We can leave in an hour.”
Cleo scowled at him. She knew perfectly well what he was doing. The tendrils of his willpower were forming an invisible net around her, dragging her slowly but inevitably in the direction he wanted her to go. Max was a difficult man to resist when he put his mind to getting what he wanted. In fact, according to Kimberly, he was unstoppable.
“Well…,” Cleo said hesitantly.
“Let's get you packed.” Max gripped his cane and levered himself to his feet. He looked at O'Reilly. “You've got my number in Seattle. Call me if you learn anything.”
“Right.” O'Reilly stuffed his notebook into his pocket and rose from the wicker chair. “I'll start talking to the staff here at the inn this afternoon. We'll see where it goes from there.”
“Hold it a minute.” Cleo held up a hand. “I think we'd better discuss your fee before we go any farther, O'Reilly.”
“Fee?” O'Reilly looked as though he were unfamiliar with the concept.
“Yes, fee.” Cleo frowned. “I hired a private investigator once. The man spent months on the project. He sent me a bill for nearly fifteen thousand dollars and never turned up a single useful piece of information. I don't want a repeat of that experience.”
Max and O'Reilly stared at her as if she'd just announced that she was from Saturn. Max recovered first.
“Why in hell did you hire a private investigator?” he demanded.
Cleo watched the water froth in the fountain. “I wanted someone besides the police to look into the deaths of my parents.”
“You told me the cops said it was a case of murder-suicide,” Max said very quietly. “Your father killed your mother and turned the gun on himself.”
Cleo continued to stare at the fountain. She was intensely aware of O'Reilly's silent, questioning gaze. “I also told you that I've had a hard time accepting that conclusion. Last summer I decided to hire someone to look through the old records of the case and see if there was any reason to think something had been mishandled or overlooked.”
“Mind telling me who you hired?” O'Reilly asked in a neutral tone. “Professional curiosity. I might know him.”
“His name was Harold Eberson.
He had an office in Seattle.”
“Yeah.” O'Reilly nodded. “I've heard of him. Did he turn up anything for you?”
Cleo put her hands between her knees and pressed them together. “No. He strung me along for a couple of months. He told me he had found a few odd things about the case that he was checking out. But it was all a scam.”
“Scam?” O'Reilly repeated.
Cleo nodded, embarrassed at the memory of her own gullibility. “I kept paying his bills until one day they just stopped coming. I called his office to ask what was happening. I got a recording saying the number was no longer in service.”
O'Reilly glanced at Max and then looked back at Cleo. “Eberson died in a car accident in October. The reason you never heard any more from him was that no one took over his business. He worked alone. When he died, the business died, too.”
“Was he a con man?” Cleo asked bitterly. “How badly did I get taken?”
“Eberson was a small-time operator.” O'Reilly shrugged. “If he billed you for fifteen grand, I think it's safe to say you were probably the biggest client he ever had.”
Cleo frowned. “But do you think he deliberately ripped me off?”
O'Reilly met her eyes. “I never heard that he was crooked. He just wasn't very big-time. Probably didn't have a head for the business side of things.”
“I see.” Cleo felt stiff. She started to rub the back of her neck.
Max put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. His thumb moved across the tense muscles. The strength in his fingers felt very good. Cleo could feel the warmth in his hand seeping into her.
“Let's get out of here, Cleo,” Max said.
“What about O'Reilly's fee?” she said stubbornly. “I think I need a contract or something. I told you, I don't want another fifteen-thousand-dollar surprise.”
“I'll take the same deal you gave Max, here,” O'Reilly said. “Minimum wage plus tips and room and board while I'm here.”
Cleo wrinkled her nose. “He told you about that?”
“Yeah.”
Cleo gave Max a disgusted look. “I suppose you thought it was all very funny, Mr. Hotshot hotel executive.”
“No,” said Max. “I thought it was the best deal I'd been offered in a long, long time.”
Chapter
14
The old brick mansion had never seemed so cold. Max checked the thermostat before he went down-stairs into the wine cellar to find his best California Cabernet. It was a cold night, but the house should have been comfortably warm. The temperature was set at seventy-four degrees. Max frowned and nudged the setting up to seventy-six. It occurred to him that his attic room at the inn had never seemed chilly.
He knew it was not the mansion that was cold, it was him. It was a familiar sensation. He had felt like this several times before in his life. The first occasion was when a social worker had explained to him that he was going to live with a very nice family. The last time had been when Jason had died.
Tonight was another turning point. He could sense it. A fine tension had set all his nerve endings on red alert.
This time the feeling was the worst it had ever been. This time there was too much at stake. Always before he had been able to walk away from what he knew he could not possess. He did not know how he would walk away from Cleo if she refused his offer of marriage.
On his way back to the kitchen he paused to glance uneasily into the vast living room. Cleo stood with her back to him in front of the broad expanse of windows that overlooked the city and Elliott Bay. She was studying the lights of the downtown high-rises, which gleamed like bright jewels in the rain.
Max watched her, aware of a deep sense of longing inside himself. She had been far too quiet during the drive from the coast. He had made several attempts to start a conversation, only to have each effort flounder.
Cleo had been polite since they left the inn, but she seemed to be off somewhere in a world of her own. Max could not tell what she was thinking, and that fact was making him extremely edgy.
He carried the Cabernet into the kitchen and uncorked it carefully. Long ago Jason had explained to him that a good Cab had to be treated with reverence.
Max experienced a few qualms about his choice of wine as he poured the ruby-colored liquid into two glasses. Maybe he should have chosen champagne, instead. His mouth curved wryly as he realized that, despite Jason's teaching, there were still times when he was unsure of the proper thing to do.
“What are you smiling about?” Cleo asked from the kitchen doorway.
Startled by the question after several hours of near-silence, Max managed to screw up the deft little twisting movement that was designed to prevent the wine bottle from dripping. Two blood-red drops splashed on the polished granite countertop. He looked at them as he set down the bottle.
“I was just thinking that there's one hell of a difference between being born into money and having to battle your way into it,” he said. He reached for a paper towel to wipe up the small drops of wine.
“What's the difference?” Cleo asked, her gaze unreadable.
Max shrugged. “A sense of assurance. The certainty that you always know the right thing to do or wear or serve.” He handed her one of the glasses. “When you're born into money, you absorb that kind of confidence from the cradle. When you fight your way into it, you never really acquire it.”
“I suppose you're right.” Cleo delicately tasted her wine. Apparently satisfied, she took a swallow. “On the other hand, when you become successful the hard way, you have the confidence that comes from knowing you earned it.”
Max met her eyes. “It's not quite the same thing.”
“No, it's a much more impressive sort of assurance. It's the kind of deep-rooted arrogance that comes from knowing that if you lost everything tomorrow and had to start over, you could make your way to the top again. You radiate that kind of confidence, Max.”
“That's different. I wasn't talking about that kind of assurance.”
“Why not? It's much more interesting than the other kind,” Cleo said coolly. “In fact, it can be down-right intimidating at times. It's probably most intimidating to someone who comes from a background of wealth. When you're born into money, deep down you don't really know for certain if you could make it on your own. But, Max, you know you can. You've proved it to yourself and the world.”
Max smiled. “But the guy who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth wouldn't have to worry about whether to serve champagne or a good Cabernet in a situation like this. He'd know the answer.”
“Oh, dear.” Cleo's eyes sparkled behind the lenses of her glasses. “Were you suffering a great deal of angst over the matter?”
“Don't worry, I wasn't going to let it ruin my whole evening.”
“Because you knew I wouldn't particularly care whether you served champagne or Cabernet or diet cola, right?”
“Right.” Max came to a decision. Glass in one hand, cane in the other, he went toward the door. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
“What?” She got out of his way and then turned to follow him.
“Come with me.” He went down the dark, paneled hallway to the steel door that guarded his treasures. He thrust the glass into Cleo's hand. “Hold this for a minute.”
She took the glass and watched curiously as he punched in the code that opened the door. “What's in there?”
“Some things that are important to me.” Max opened the door. The lights came on automatically, revealing a stairwell.
Cleo studied the stairs with interest. “Say, you aren't going to do anything real weird to me down there, are you?”
“That depends on what you consider real weird.”
Max led the way down the stairs and opened the second steel door at the bottom. Another bank of lights came up as the barrier swung open to reveal his gallery. Max heard Cleo suck in her breath as she stepped into the chamber.
“My God, Max. Is this stuff all genuine?”
The question irritated him. “Hell, yes. Do you think I'd bother to collect fakes?”
She shot him an odd glance. “No, I guess not.” She drew a finger along the top of the room's single chair. “Nice chair.”
“It's an original,” Max said dryly. “English. Early nineteenth century.”
“Naturally.” She walked to the center of the chamber and turned slowly in a circle, examining the masterpieces of modern art that were hung on the white walls. “I don't see a single picture with a dog or a horse in it.”
He couldn't tell if she was teasing him or not. “No seascapes, either.”
She looked at him. “I'll give you a couple of the seascapes that Jason painted. You can hang them in your room at the inn next to Sammy's picture.”
“Thank you,” Max said. “I'd like that.”
Cleo paused as she spotted the blank space on the north wall. “Why isn't there anything there?”
“That's where I'm going to hang the Luttrells when I find them.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot.” Cleo walked over to the bookcase and scanned the shelves. She read the titles on the spines of several leather-bound volumes. “Gosh. Real Latin. Real old. Real impressive. I'll bet the local libraries hope you remember them in your will.”
“I did,” Max said.
Cleo stopped short when she came to a series of narrow, tattered books. “What's this? Dr. Seuss? The Hardy Boys? Max, what are these doing in here?”
“They were the first things I ever collected.”
Cleo glanced at him, her eyes gentle. “I see.”
“Cleo, will you marry me?”
She went still.
Max realized he suddenly could not breathe.
“Where do you intend to put me?” Cleo asked softly.
A rush of bewildered anger swept through Max. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I was just wondering where you would hang me in your gallery. I'm not sure I would fit in here, Max.” Cleo walked slowly around the room, peering at his collection. “I'm not a very good example of modern art. I might work better in someone's butterfly collection or maybe an exhibit of carnival glass.”
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