“Don't give me a lot of pop-psych communication theory.” Max looked down at her with dangerous eyes. “Just cut to the bottom line.”
“There is no bottom line.” Cleo was bewildered by his reaction. “I'm only trying to tell you that you can't expect me to meekly step aside and let you take over running the family and everything else in sight. Good grief, no wonder Kimberly was afraid to give you a seat on the board. She knew you'd take over Curzon if you got half a chance.”
Max looked as if she'd slapped him. His hand clenched around the handle of his cane. “Is that what you think I'm trying to do? Take control of your family and your inn?”
Cleo was horrified. “Of course not.” She scrambled to a kneeling position in the center of the bed. “Max, you're getting this all wrong.”
“Is that right? What part am I getting wrong? It all sounds very clear to me. You think I'm taking over, and unless I handle things the way you want them handled, you're going to back out of the marriage. Did I miss anything?”
“I am not going to back out of the marriage. Will you please stop putting words in my mouth?”
“I'm using the words you used.”
Cleo lost her temper. “What on earth is the problem here? Why don't you want me with you tomorrow when you talk to Spark?”
“Because I don't want you there. Isn't that reason enough?”
“No, damn it, it's not.”
Max moved to the window and stood looking out into the darkness. “It's all the reason you're going to get. And if that's not good enough, you'll have to make your own decision about what to do next.”
The bleakness in his voice was Cleo's undoing. His words echoed with a cold, aloof loneliness that tore at her heart. She wondered how many times in his life Max had waited for others to make the decisions that would send him down the road to the next temporary home.
With a soft exclamation of pain that was as deep as his own, Cleo leaped off the bed and ran across the room to where he stood at the window. She threw her arms around him and leaned her head against his bare chest.
“Max, I've got news for you. It doesn't work like that now.”
He touched her hair with a hesitant hand. “What do you mean?”
Cleo raised her head to meet his eyes. She framed his hard jaw between her palms. “You don't get kicked out of this family just because you are occasionally as stubborn as a mule and have an annoying tendency to govern by fiat.”
“I don't?” He searched her face with eyes that mirrored both grim acceptance of his fate and a tiny flame of hope.
“No.” Cleo stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You're one of us now. It doesn't matter if you occasionally screw up, remember?”
Max's eyes were more enigmatic than Cleo had ever seen them. “You're sure?”
“I'm sure.” Cleo grinned. “Of course, in return, you have to learn to accommodate some of my little foibles, which may tend to irritate you now and again. For instance, I am not going to give up on this matter of going with you when you confront Spark. But that's family life for you. A little give and take. What the heck. Nothing's perfect.”
There was no answering amusement in Max's expression. “Cleo…”
“Yes?”
“Never mind.”
Max pulled her against him and held her so tightly Cleo thought her ribs might crack. But they didn't.
After a while Max led her back to bed.
A long time later Max stirred and rolled reluctantly off of Cleo. “You can come with me tomorrow,” he said.
Cleo wondered why he sounded like a gambler who had just bet everything on a long shot.
* * *
The meeting had been arranged on neutral territory. Spark had suggested that Max meet him at a small motel located forty miles from Harmony Cove. Max had agreed.
He had thought about the meeting most of the night, but he was still not fully prepared for the flood of memories that assailed him when Spark opened the door of his small motel suite. No matter how he sliced it, Max thought, there was no getting around the fact that he owed Spark a great deal.
It was Spark, after all, who had first made it possible for Max to indulge his grand passion for fine art. It was Spark who had allowed him to handle some of the most brilliant paintings that had been produced by West Coast artists in the past twenty years. It was Spark who had provided Max with the opportunity to meet Jason Curzon.
“Well, well, well.” Spark's expression was one of cool, half-amused appraisal. “It's been a long time, Fortune. You seem to have done rather well for yourself. Hard to believe that once upon a time you made a living running errands for me.”
Spark had changed little during the past twelve years, Max thought. He looked as polished and sophisticated as ever. He still had the supercilious curl of the lip and that expression of bored condescension that was so useful for intimidating timorous collectors.
“There's no point wasting time reminiscing,” Max said. He tightened his grip on Cleo's arm. “You've met my fiancée, I believe.”
“Fiancée?” Spark's smile was rueful. “I'm sorry. I hadn't realized you had actually made the mistake of falling in love with Fortune, my dear. What a pity. Do come in.”
Cleo glared at him as she walked into the room. “We're here to discuss the paintings, Mr. Spark. I suggest we skip the small talk.”
“Ah, yes. The Luttrells.” Spark motioned Max and Cleo to chairs and then sat down himself. He crossed one leg languidly over the other. “I must admit to being rather startled when I got your call yesterday, Max. May I assume that you are ready to deal?”
“There is no deal,” Max said. “If and when the Luttrells are found, they belong to me. I have no intention of selling them.”
“I have a bill of sale from Jason Curzon.” Spark's eyes were speculative. “It clearly shows that he sold the Luttrells to me shortly before he died.”
“That bill of sale is as phony as the Maraston you sold to that collector down in Portland last year,” Max said calmly.
Spark's eyes narrowed. “You can't prove that painting was a forgery.”
Max smiled faintly. “Sure I can. I own the original.”
A flash of annoyance appeared in Spark's eyes. It vanished almost instantly. “You're lying.”
Max shook his head with weary patience. “No, Spark, I'm not lying. We both know that I never bluff. I picked up the original three years ago. It's been hanging in my vault ever since. If you insist on producing your bill of sale, I'll contact the Portland collector and suggest he have his Maraston examined by an expert.”
“You're the leading authority on Maraston's work.”
“Exactly.” Max shrugged. “I'll be only too happy to volunteer my expertise in this instance. I imagine the Portland collector will be very grateful. I think it would be safe to say that he'll probably want his money back from you. He will undoubtedly never buy anything from you again, and neither will anyone else who hears the story, which I imagine would spread like wildfire in certain circles.”
“Bastard,” Spark said, but he sounded more resigned than outraged.
Spark was, at heart, a businessman, Max reflected. He knew when to cut his losses. “I'm surprised you're still peddling the occasional forgery. I would have thought you'd have given up that sideline by now. After all, you do just fine handling the real thing. What's the matter? Still can't resist a quick buck?”
“Some of us never change, do we, Fortune?” Spark's answering smile was tinged with poison. “I see you're still as much of an opportunist as ever. I'm amazed that you've stooped to seducing nice young women in order to get what you want, however. Even in the old days you had some rather irritating standards.”
The standards hadn't been all that high, Max reflected. The arrangement he'd had with Spark was a simple one. In exchange for being allowed to handle the art he craved more than food, Max had agreed not to voice his opinions to Spark's clients.
Unless those clients asked f
or his opinion.
Jason Curzon was the only one who had ever asked Spark's rough-edged errand runner and odd-job man for an opinion.
Out of the corner of his eye, Max watched Cleo's expression. His insides were twisted into a cold knot of anticipation. He had known what would happen if he brought Cleo with him to this confrontation. That was why he had fought so hard to keep her away from the meeting.
But in the end she had destroyed his defenses in her own gentle fashion. At some point last night Max had realized he would have to take his chances. He did not know how she would react to this glimpse into his less-than-savory past, but he accepted the fact that his fate was in her hands.
“Do we understand each other, Spark?” Max asked quietly.
“I think so.” Spark turned to Cleo. “Did your fiancé ever tell you precisely what he did for a living when he worked for me, Ms. Robbins?”
Cleo shot a quick glance at Max. “He said he did odd jobs for you.”
“That he did.” Spark looked pleased. “Some very odd jobs. His duties included picking up extremely valuable works of art from certain sources that were, shall we say, less than reputable. Fortune carried a gun when he worked for me, Ms. Robbins. That should tell you something of the nature of his responsibilities.”
Cleo frowned. “I imagine that transporting expensive art requires some security precautions.”
“Oh, yes, yes, indeed.” Spark chuckled. “Especially when some of that art was purchased from collectors who had ties to the underworld. And then there were the occasions when Max delivered paintings which had rather cloudy provenances.”
“You mean they were fakes?” Cleo demanded.
“Excellent fakes, Ms. Robbins.” Spark contrived to look offended. “Max can tell you that when I deal in forgeries, I make certain I deal in only first-class forgeries. Ninety-nine percent of the time no one can tell the difference between a good Spark forgery and the original.”
“Except Max?” Cleo asked.
Spark sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. Max has what amounts to a preternatural talent for telling the real from the fake. At times it was an extremely useful skill. At other times, it was rather annoying.”
“You mean you used Max's talent to make certain you didn't get burned yourself,” Cleo concluded. “But you worried that when you burned others, he might spill the beans?”
“Precisely, Ms. Robbins.” Spark's eyes glittered. “To my knowledge, however, he experienced an attack of integrity only once during the course of our association. That was when he delivered a certain painting to Jason Curzon. In retrospect I'm inclined to believe that it was not integrity but sheer opportunism that overcame him. Max saw a chance to better himself, didn't you, Max?”
Max kept his gaze steady. “We had a deal, Spark. I told you I wouldn't lie about a painting if one of your clients asked my opinion. Jason asked.”
“And shortly thereafter Max resigned his position as my odd-job man to accept a more lucrative offer with Curzon.” Spark smiled thinly at Cleo. “Once again I advise you to be cautious around Fortune, Ms. Robbins. Once he has his hands on those Luttrells, he'll be gone.”
“That's enough, Spark. I think we understand each other, don't we?” Max got to his feet.
Spark lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “We always did understand each other rather well, Fortune.”
“One more thing. Make sure that you notify Nolan Hildebrand that you are no longer in the market for the Luttrells.”
“If you insist.”
Max folded his hands on top of the hawk and looked at Cleo. The deep sense of foreboding was eating him alive. “Let's go, Cleo.”
Without a word, she rose from the chair and walked toward the door. Max followed.
“Fortune,” Spark murmured softly behind him.
Max glanced back over his shoulder. “What is it, Spark?”
“I urge you to reconsider. I have a client who will pay a quarter of a million for those Luttrells. I'll split it with you, fifty-fifty. Think about it.”
“They're not for sale,” Max said.
“I was afraid you'd say that.” Spark raised a hand. “Take yourself off. I trust we won't run into each other again any time soon.”
“That will be just fine with me. By the way, you probably ought to know that my attorney has a sealed letter which is only to be opened if I suffer an unfortunate accident. The letter contains a short list of the more prominent forgeries that are presently hanging on the walls of some of your clients' homes.”
“You always were an ungrateful wretch.” Spark's mouth twisted wryly. “Never fear. I shall light candles for your continued good health.”
“Thank you. The deal we made still stands, as far as I'm concerned, Spark. You stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours.”
Spark looked at him. “It's going to be interesting to see how you adjust to married life.”
Cleo turned at the door. “He's going to do just fine, Mr. Spark.”
Max saw the warmth in her eyes. The tension inside him evaporated at last. It was going to be all right. Cleo was not going to hold his past against him.
Max followed her out into the hall and closed the door of Spark's room. Without a word he took Cleo's arm. Together they walked out of the motel and into the cold, misty rain.
“Well, that's that,” Cleo said as Max opened the door of the Jaguar. “What do you think?”
“About Spark?” Max watched her intently. “I think the same thing I thought before. He's not the one behind the incidents. But if I'm wrong and he is the one who's been harassing you, or if he put Hildebrand up to doing it, it will stop now.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes. Spark and I understand each other. He knows I'll destroy him if he gets in my way. But he also knows that I'll leave him alone if he leaves me alone.”
Cleo shuddered. “Why on earth did you go to work for that man in the first place?”
“I needed a job.”
Max shut her door and went around the nose of the Jaguar. He got in behind the wheel and turned to look at Cleo. He didn't know what to say.
Cleo looked thoughtful. “I think I know now why you didn't want me to come along with you this morning.”
“I used to pride myself on never screwing up,” Max said quietly. “But now when I look back, it seems to me my whole life was a screwup.”
“Nah,” Cleo said. “You're just feeling a little depressed this morning. You'll get over it.”
“You think so?”
“I'm sure of it,” Cleo said. She leaned across the seat and kissed him.
“I give up.” Ben grimaced at his image in the mirror. “I can't figure out how to tie this stupid bow tie. I've never tied one of these things before in my life.”
“Hang on a second, I'll get to you as soon as I've finished with Sammy.” Max concentrated on adjusting Sammy's tie. “Hold your chin up, kid. That's it.”
Sammy lifted his chin obediently as Max tied the black bow tie that complemented his tiny tuxedo. “Can I take Lucky Ducky?”
“You won't have any place to put him during the ceremony. You're supposed to be guarding the rings, remember?” Max finished his task and surveyed his work with a critical eye.
Sammy was wearing a perfect miniature version of the black and white formal attire that he and Ben were wearing. Max was well aware that this was the first time either Ben or Sammy had been exposed to the fine art of wearing a tux. He had told them it was never too soon to start.
“You look good, kid.” Max nodded once, satisfied with the effect. “Your mom isn't going to recognize you.”
Sammy studied himself in the mirror. “I look just like you and Ben, huh, Max?”
“You sure do.” Max picked up the little black jacket and stuffed Sammy's arms gently into it. He straightened the tiny cummerbund. “Now, whatever you do, don't get any dirt on this outfit until after the ceremony, understand?”
“Sure, Max. I'll be careful. Do you think O'R
eilly will be here in time?” Sammy looked worried. He had been fretting about O'Reilly's belated arrival for the past hour.
“He said he'd be here,” Max reminded him. “If O'Reilly says something, you can count on it.”
The truth was, Max was beginning to fret a bit, himself, although he had no intention of revealing the fact. O'Reilly was normally close to compulsive when it came to matters of punctuality. There was no denying he was pushing the limits today. Max glanced at his watch for the fourth time in the past twenty minutes. The ceremony at Cosmic Harmony was scheduled to begin in an hour.
Ben fiddled with the ends of his tie. “Maybe he had a flat tire.” His eyes met Max's in the mirror, reflecting a trace of the unease Max was feeling.
“Could be,” Max agreed. “But he's got a car phone. He'd have called if he were going to be late. Here, let me take care of that tie. If you keep fooling with it, we'll have to get it ironed again.”
“I don't know why we had to get all gussied up like this,” Ben muttered. “Waste of time. I feel like an idiot in this suit.”
“It'll be worth it when you see the look in Trisha's eyes. Women are suckers for men in tuxes.”
“Yeah?” Ben looked intrigued by that notion. “You really think Trisha will like it?”
“Trust me.” Max took charge of the black tie, expertly shaping a perfect bow. “She's going to be swept off her feet.”
Ben fingered his starched white shirt. “I'm not sure about these little pleats. You don't think they look like something a girl would wear, do you?”
“Men have been wearing little pleats like this for nearly two hundred years. You're in good company.”
“You sure I don't look like a waiter in a fancy restaurant?” Ben asked doubtfully.
“You look like James Bond,” Max assured him.
Ben scowled. “I'd rather look like you,” he said gruffly. “That way I'd know I don't look like an idiot. You always look like you're supposed to look, y'know?” He groped for words. “You always look right.”
Max felt a peculiar twist of emotion. He could not recall anyone ever wanting to emulate him. “Just remember to wear the clothes with an attitude that says you're a lot sharper than they are.”
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