Grand Passion by Jayne Ann Krentz
“Max?” She took a step into the room. “I've been looking for you. I think we'd better close down the lounge. This is a rather strange crowd. All those men who arrived earlier are sitting around telling each other about their divorces. Some of them are starting to cry. It's very depressing for the other guests.”
“I'll take care of it.” Max rose from the chair, grateful for the interruption.
Kimberly looked at him in open astonishment. Then she swung around to confront Cleo. “I don't believe this. Will somebody please tell me what's going on?”
“I need Max,” Cleo said quietly.
“Do you really?” Kimberly gave her a scathing look as she started toward the door. “The real question here is why does Max need you? A word of warning, Ms. Robbins. Max Fortune is not playing bellhop and bartender without a damn good reason.”
“Is that so?” Cleo angled her chin. “And what would you know about his reasons for doing anything?”
“A great deal.” Kimberly made to brush past her. “Max and I go back a long way together. Or hasn't he told you about us?”
“What's there to tell?” Cleo challenged.
Max swore softly.
Kimberly smiled coldly. “I think I'll let Max give you the details, Ms. Robbins. You might start by asking him how he got that limp.”
Chapter
9
Half an hour later, with all the inn's guests safely tucked in their rooms and George in command at the front desk, Max went up the stairs with Cleo. He was aware that some part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Sheesh.” Cleo pushed hair out of her eyes. “No offense to the male of the species, but I'll be glad when Mr. Tobias Quinton's gang of manly warriors checks out. It's unnerving having a bunch of men around who are trying to get in touch with their emotions.”
“We can kick them out tomorrow morning,” Max suggested. “Tell them you have another group checking in or something.”
“Yeah, but I don't have another group checking in,” Cleo said glumly. “In fact, we're going to be fairly empty this weekend. There's no getting around the fact that Mr. Quinton and his crowd are paying customers. I suppose we can put up with them for a while.”
“Spoken like a dedicated innkeeper,” Max said as they reached the third floor.
He hesitated, waiting to see if she would invite him down the hall to her room or put her hand in his and let him lead her up to the attic. She did neither.
“Well, good night, Max.” Cleo gave him a bright little smile, but her eyes were wary. “You must be exhausted after that long drive. I'll see you in the morning.”
She stood on tiptoe and brushed her mouth against his cheek. Then she turned and went down the hall alone to her tower room.
Max did not move for a long while. He just stood there, staring after her until she disappeared. A dark, seething desire twisted his insides, but that was not the worst part. The worst part was that he did not know what Cleo was thinking.
She had not said a word to him about Kimberly since the confrontation in the solarium. He could not tell if she was angry or hurt or simply cautious. He knew she had questions. He could feel them simmering inside her.
In the meantime he had a big question of his own, and there was only one way to get it answered. Max tightened his grip on his cane and went down the hall to Cleo's room.
He came to a halt in front of her door and lifted his hand to knock. He paused, gathering his courage. Asking his question of Cleo was going to be just as hard as returning to the inn without Ben Atkins in tow. Perhaps harder. Max knocked twice on the door and waited.
It seemed to take forever before Cleo slowly opened the door and peered out through the crack. The hall light glinted on the lenses of her glasses, concealing the expression in her eyes.
“Is something wrong?” she asked politely.
“I would like to clarify the sleeping arrangements,” Max said with great care.
Her brows snapped together in a frown of concern. “Is there a problem with one of the room assignments?”
“Yes,” Max said evenly. “Mine.”
Cleo's fingers clenched abruptly around the edge of the door. She looked as if she needed to hold on to it in order to keep from collapsing. “Yours?”
“I was just wondering where I'm supposed to sleep tonight.”
Cleo stared at him. “Where do you want to sleep tonight?”
“Here.” Max wedged the toe of his shoe into the narrow opening between the door and its frame. “With you.”
“Oh.”
He braced his hand against the door frame. “Is that all you can say?”
Cleo flushed a vivid shade of pink. “I wasn't sure what you wanted to do. I mean, I didn't know how you were feeling about the situation. I thought you might need a little time to get in touch with your emotions.”
“You're starting to sound like Tobias Quinton.”
Cleo smiled weakly. “I am, aren't I? Well? Are you in touch with your feelings?”
“I know what I want.” Max flattened one hand against the door and pushed gently inward. He would not force his way into her bedroom, he told himself. He would just lean a little and see if she leaned back. If she didn't, he would have the answer to his question.
“Max.”
The door gave way abruptly as Cleo released her grip on it and stepped aside. Max realized at the last instant that he was leaning a lot more heavily against the door than he had intended. He lost his balance. His bad leg started to give way. He almost fell into the room.
He was saved from sprawling ignominiously on the floor by the counter force exerted when Cleo slammed into his arms. He staggered once and managed to get a firm grip on both Cleo and his cane. He steadied himself as she hugged him very tightly.
“I didn't know what to think this morning when I realized you had packed all your things,” Cleo said into his chest. “And then when that Kimberly Curzon-Winston person showed up and told me that you worked for her, things got more confusing.”
“I know. It's all right. I've been just as confused today.” Max caught her chin on the edge of his hand, tipped up her face, and kissed her. Hard.
Cleo put her arms around his neck and returned the kiss with sweet fervor. Without lifting his mouth from hers, Max eased her back against the edge of the bed. They collapsed together on top of the old-fashioned quilt.
This was what it meant to come home, Max thought.
An hour later Cleo stirred in the darkness. “Max?”
“Umm?” He barely heard her. He was drifting on the edge of sleep, his body satiated, his mind at ease. Cleo was cradled against him, her lushly curved derriere pressed against his thighs. The peaceful feeling that consumed him was so unique that he wanted to savor it until he fell asleep.
“Were you and Kimberly lovers?”
“Hell.” Max was suddenly wide awake.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing important.” Max opened his eyes, folded one arm behind his head, and contemplated the frilly canopy overhead with a brooding glare.
“So what about you and Kimberly?”
“We were engaged for a while.”
“Engaged.” Cleo shot straight up into a sitting position. “Are you telling me you almost married her?”
“It was a very short engagement.” Max gave her a cautious glance and saw that she was glowering down at him.
“How short?” Cleo demanded.
“Uh, six weeks, I think.” Five weeks and four days. Not that he had been counting at the time.
Five weeks and four days of thinking that he had finally muscled his way into the inner circle of the Curzon family. Five weeks and four days of believing he had made a secure, permanent place for himself in Jason's world.
“You think? Can't you remember?”
Max groaned. “It was three years ago, Cleo.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. We got disengaged, that's all.”
“Did you change your mind?”
Max yawned. “She changed hers,” he said before he stopped to think. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he'd made a grave tactical error. “I mean, it was a mutual decision.”
But it was too late. Cleo pounced. “She's the one who called off the engagement? Not you?”
“We decided we weren't meant for each other,” Max said.
“Why not?”
“There were a lot of reasons,” Max said.
“What reasons?”
Max began to feel hunted. Instinctively he drew a line, just as he always did when someone tried to apply pressure. “Stop pushing, Cleo. My relationship with Kimberly was finished three years ago.”
“But you've been working for her all this time?”
“I told you, I worked for Jason, not Kimberly. Now I work for you.”
“Hmm.” Cleo considered that. “Why did she call off the engagement?”
Max drummed his fingers lightly on the bed. “She decided that we came from two different worlds. She was right.”
“Which two different worlds?”
“She came from old money, good schools, and a long line of socially acceptable ancestors. She was the heiress to Curzon International. I came from nothing. The only money I have is what I earned working for Jason. Her father did not approve of me. Hell, Kimberly didn't approve of me, herself. Not really.”
“So she married somebody named Winston?”
“Roarke Winston.”
“Let me guess,” Cleo said. “Old money, good schools, a long line of socially acceptable ancestors?”
“Right. He's in charge of his family's business empire.”
“What did Kimberly mean when she said I should ask you about your leg?”
Max gave Cleo another sidelong glance. He had a feeling she was going to prove tenacious. It figured. That quality went right along with the other Girl Scout attributes. “We got engaged shortly after I injured my leg. While I was in the hospital recovering, as a matter of fact. Kimberly was”—he searched for the correct word—“somewhat emotional at the time.”
“She was worried about you?”
“I think she was feeling a little guilty.”
Cleo frowned. “Why? Did she have something to do with your accident?”
“In a way. She had insisted on flying down to a potential hotel site in South America. I was already on the scene and had decided that it wasn't a good location. I advised her not to come, but she wanted to check it out for herself.”
“What happened?”
Max shrugged. “I picked her up at the airport. On the way back into town we were stopped by a bunch of guerrillas who had gotten word that a member of the Curzon family was expected. They were planning to kidnap her and use her as a bargaining chip in their ongoing battle with the local government.”
“My God.” Cleo was shocked. “What did you do?”
Max slanted her a strange glance. “When I worked for Jason I spent a lot of time in places where the potential for that kind of thing existed. I routinely carried a gun. Shots were exchanged when I ran the roadblock. One of the shells came through the door of the car and hit my leg.”
“That's how you got hurt?” Cleo's voice rose to a squeak. “Rescuing Kimberly?”
“Yes.”
Cleo clutched his arm. “You could have been killed.”
“Look, Cleo, this is ancient history, and I don't think there's much point discussing it.”
“But you could have been killed,” she whispered again. Her nails dug into his arm.
Max heard the old horror buried in her barely controlled voice. He realized she was no longer concerned about his relationship with Kimberly, but was thinking about her parents' death and her own past.
“It's all right, Cleo.” He rolled onto his side and pulled her into his arms. “Take it easy. I'm here.”
She curled into his warmth and clung to him. “I'm okay.”
“Good.” He stroked her back soothingly. “It's late. Try to get some sleep.”
She relaxed slightly against him. “You said that your engagement only lasted six weeks?”
“Give or take a few days.” He strove to sound disinterested. “I've forgotten the exact length of time.”
“And now Kimberly's married to someone else.”
“Yes.”
“She wants you back, Max.” Cleo's voice was bleak. “I can tell.”
Max smiled into her hair. “Only for business reasons. Her father thinks the company needs me.”
“Does it?”
“I don't particularly care if it does or it doesn't. I don't want the job.”
“You're sure?”
“I'm sure.” He kissed her throat. “I've got another job.”
Cleo looked up at him through her lashes. “I'll bet Curzon International pays a heck of a lot better than Robbins' Nest Inn.”
“That all depends on how you look at it.” Max kissed the sweet, scented curve of her breast and laced his fingers through the soft thatch of hair between her legs. “I'm satisfied with what I'm getting here.”
“Are you?” Cleo put her hand on his shoulder. “Max, do you still love her?”
Max was startled by the question. He had never thought about loving Kimberly. He had never thought about loving anyone. “No.”
“You're sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“You say that awfully easily.”
“It's easy to say.” Max took one nipple into his mouth. It was as firm and ripe as a raspberry. The taste of it sent a shudder of excitement through him. Sexual tension seized his insides.
“Why is it easy to say? Didn't you love her three years ago?”
“Cleo…”
“I just wondered,” she said softly. “I know how strong love can be because my parents were deeply in love. It's not the kind of thing a man like you could dismiss easily if he had experienced it.”
That stopped him. He raised his head. “A man like me?”
Cleo stroked his cheek with gentle fingertips. “You're like one of those paintings you say you collect. Very deep. Lots of layers. I think that if you ever fell in love you would stay in love for a very long time. Forever, probably.”
“I'm not a work of art. Don't romanticize me, Cleo.” Max caught her fingers and held them against his chest. “I don't know anything about that kind of love. I don't think it really exists.”
“My parents had it.” She smiled. “It's the kind of love I want for myself.”
Max got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You could spend your whole life looking for it and never be satisfied with what you find.”
“That's what my therapist said.” She stirred against him. “So you really weren't in love with Kimberly?”
“I think it's a safe bet that the kind of feeling Kimberly and I had for each other was nothing like the bond you say your parents had.” He slid his leg aggressively between Cleo's warm thighs. He could feel her responding to him, and the knowledge reassured him. Cleo might have an unrealistic view of love, but her body had a very pragmatic reaction to his. He intended to nurture that reaction until it was more important to her than the search for an elusive, mythical grand passion.
“I don't understand.” Cleo braced her hands against his shoulders and searched his face. “What sort of feeling did you have for Kimberly?”
Max tried to contain his impatience. He was thoroughly aroused, and Cleo was warm and sultry and ready for him. “Cleo, it's a little hard to explain. Kimberly represented a lot of things I thought I wanted at the time. I guess I thought that if I got her, I'd get those other things, too. I was wrong. She did us both a favor when she broke off the engagement.”
“What things did you want?” Cleo whispered.
“It doesn't matter. I don't want them any longer.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Yes,” Max said. He moistened the tip of his finger with his tongue and
Cleo flinched in reaction and then lifted herself against his hand with a soft moan. He cupped her gently and eased one finger into her damp heat. She was burning for him. He couldn't wait to lose himself in her again.
“What do you want now?” Cleo asked.
“You.”
She sighed in soft surrender and brushed her lips across his shoulder. “I want you, too.”
A few minutes later when he buried himself deep inside her, Max realized he had spoken a greater truth than he had realized. He wanted Cleo in a way he had never wanted any other woman in his life. He did not question the need; he simply accepted it.
The distant thuds brought Cleo up out of a dreamless sleep. She lay quietly for a moment, trying to identify the sounds. They stopped after a moment.
She concluded that George, or perhaps one of the guests, had walked down the hall outside her room.
Cleo yawned and tried to turn on her side. She realized she could not move because Max was pinning her legs to the bed. He had one muscled thigh thrown over her calves.
In addition to being trapped, she was much too warm. The heat from Max's body made the quilt superfluous. Sharing a bed with Max was a very strange experience, Cleo thought. It was like sleeping with a blast furnace.
The thuds started up again. They reverberated softly through the walls in a primitive, unrelenting, extremely irritating rhythm.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Cleo came fully awake in a hurry. She jackknifed into a sitting position.
“Good lord, Max. Someone's drumming down there.”
“What's wrong?” Max asked from the depths of the pillow.
“Don't you hear it? Someone's got a drum downstairs.” Cleo pushed aside the quilt and struggled to get herself free of Max. “He'll wake up everyone in the whole inn.”
Cleo managed to get out of the bed. She raced to the closet and reached for a pair of jeans and a shirt.
“Hold on, Cleo. I'll go down with you.” Max got out of bed, yawning.