Grand Passion by Jayne Ann Krentz

Tom eagerly closed the space between them. “My main character is this guy from our world who finds himself stranded in this alternate world. At first he thinks he's dreaming. Then he realizes he's trapped there. He has to learn how to survive or he'll get killed.”

  “Very clever,” Cleo said weakly. She retreated another step.

  Tom followed. “He's a computer nerd on earth, so when he's caught in this weird world run by magic, he's really confused for a while.”

  It dawned on Cleo that Tom the stock boy had no interest at all in The Mirror. Convinced he had found a soul mate, he was going to regale her with the plot of his entire book right there in front of the dairy case.

  “And then he meets this character who's like a sorcerer, y'know…”

  “Interesting,” Cleo said. She inched back down the aisle, aware of Max's silent amusement. Tom followed her every step of the way.

  “Then there's this other sorcerer who's like crazy, y'know? He's discovered some new law of magic. I haven't quite decided what that's going to be yet, but whatever it is, it threatens the whole alternate world…”

  “That's absolutely fascinating,” Cleo said. She glanced at her watch. “I'd love to hear the rest, but I've really got to run.”

  “Huh?” Engrossed in his tale, Tom frowned, puzzled. “Oh, sure. Look, maybe I could stop by the inn sometime and tell you the rest?”

  “We'll see.” Cleo turned and fled toward the checkout counter. She did not look back to see if Max was following.

  The gray-haired woman at the checkout counter smiled broadly. “Oh, hello, Cleo. Heard someone's been making a nuisance of himself because you wrote a book. I didn't know you were a writer.”

  “I've only had one book published so far,” Cleo muttered. She set the milk down on the counter.

  “That's all right, dear, I'm sure you'll write some more. You know, I haven't read a book in years. Just never had the time, what with TV and all. Milk?”

  “Yes, please, Ernestine.”

  “Thought you got dairy deliveries out there at the inn.”

  Cleo groped for an explanation as Max arrived at the counter. “Ran short.”

  “Oh.” Ernestine whisked the milk through the checkout routine. “You know you and I should get together one of these days.”

  “We should?”

  Ernestine beamed. “I could tell you all about my family history. You could write a book about it. I'm sure people would want to read it. Some real fascinating stuff in my family's history. Did I ever tell you that one of my relatives came out West on a wagon train?”

  “I don't believe you ever mentioned it, Ernestine.”

  “That was Sarah Hill Montrose, I believe.” Ernestine assumed a contemplative look. “Her story would make a terrific book. Then there was my great-grandfather, Morton Montrose. He used to farm over in Eastern Washington. Raised turkeys, too. Used to tell the funniest stories about those birds. Dumb as bricks, they are.”

  “Is that right?” Cleo looked at her milk, which was standing forgotten on the counter.

  “Eugene Montrose, that's my grandfather, was probably the most interesting of the lot. He fished.”

  “You don't say. Could I please have my milk, Ernestine?”

  “What's that?” Ernestine glanced down at the milk. “Oh, yes. The milk. Here, I'll put it in a bag for you.” She stuffed the milk into a sack.

  “Thanks.” Cleo snatched up the milk, aware that Max's eyes were brilliant with laughter. “See you around, Ernestine.”

  “Just let me know when you've got time to write that book about my family,” Ernestine said cheerfully. “I've got lots of old newspaper clippings and photos and such.”

  “I'll let you know if I ever get a free minute,” Cleo promised. “But I'm pretty busy these days.”

  She was halfway out the door, with Max still following faithfully behind her, when another familiar figure loomed in her path. Cleo was forced to come to a halt. She clutched the milk close and smiled weakly.

  “Hello, Adrian.”

  Adrian Forrester glowered at her from beneath dark brows. He had a large manila envelope in his hand. “Heard you had a book published.”

  “Yes, I did.” Cleo glanced uneasily at the envelope he was holding. She was afraid she knew what was inside. She'd received her share of rejections before she'd sold The Mirror.

  “I suppose you had an agent?” Adrian demanded.

  “Well, no, I didn't although I'm thinking of getting one for the next book.”

  “Know someone in publishing?”

  “Uh, no. I didn't know anyone, Adrian. I just sent the manuscript off to a lot of different publishers, and someone finally bought it.”

  “So you just got lucky.”

  “Right,” Cleo said. “I just got lucky.”

  “It's because you're writing women's stuff,” Adrian said in an aggrieved tone. “That's why they published you instead of me. New York is only interested in women's books these days. Romance, self-help, glitz, erotica. It's all aimed at women. Hell, even the mystery market is skewed toward women.”

  “What about all the thrillers and science fiction and horror stuff that's published?”

  “They're putting relationships in them, too.” Adrian looked at her as if it were all her fault.

  “Gosh, I don't really think…”

  “Do you know what this rejection letter says?” Adrian waved his manuscript aloft. “It says they're not interested in hard-boiled detective mysteries featuring male protagonists. The editor suggests I turn my hero into a female private eye.”

  “Gee, Adrian, I can't imagine why the editor would suggest a thing like that. Unless, of course, it's because a lot of women like to read and are willing to spend their money on books that feature stories they enjoy.”

  Adrian's glare would have frozen lava. “I'll tell you something. If they weren't putting out books like yours, they'd be publishing my stuff.”

  Cleo's temper overcame the last vestiges of her fear of being identified as the author of The Mirror. “You think so?” she asked.

  Max apparently recognized the dangerous sweetness of her tone and finally bestirred himself to intervene. “I think we'd better be on our way, Cleo. The family will be waiting.” He took her arm and started toward the Jaguar.

  Cleo dug in her heels. “Wait a second. I want to give Adrian some publishing advice.”

  Max grinned. “I don't think Forrester wants your advice, do you, Forrester?” He wrapped an arm around Cleo and dragged her toward the car.

  “She just got lucky,” Adrian snarled.

  “You think so? Well, maybe it was more than luck,” Cleo shouted as Max stuffed her into the front seat of the Jaguar. “Maybe I write better than you do. Maybe my book was better than yours. Did you ever think about that possibility?”

  “It's because it was a woman's book,” Adrian yelled. “That's the only reason it got published. The women's market is taking over, I tell you.”

  “So get a sex change operation,” Cleo yelled back.

  “Good Lord,” Max muttered as he slammed the car door shut, “I've created a monster.”

  Chapter

  16

  You can stop laughing now,” Cleo muttered as Max drove along the bluffs toward Robbins' Nest Inn.

  Max glanced at her, unable to suppress his grin. She was sitting with her arms folded in a gesture of complete disgust, her gaze fixed on the winding road.

  “Sorry,” Max said.

  “You're not the least bit sorry. I can tell.”

  “Come on, Cleo, admit the whole thing was funny. You've been terrified of what everyone in town would think when they found out you wrote The Mirror. But being discovered wasn't so bad, was it?”

  “I don't think any of them even bothered to read it.” She sounded disgruntled.

  “I'd say that's a fairly safe assumption. If our recent unscientific survey holds true, we can assume that the vast majority of the people you meet will never actually read your books. But th
ey'll want to talk to you about publishing. People are fascinated with publishing.”

  “You mean they'll want to tell me the plots of their own books or suggest I write their family's history or complain because I got published instead of them.”

  “Yes.”

  Cleo started to smile. “It was sort of funny, wasn't it?”

  “Very,” Max said softly. “Especially the look on Forrester's face.”

  “When I think about the way he used to drone on and on about his own book and how it was going to take the publishing world by storm—” Cleo broke off and started to grin.

  She burst first into giggles and then into full-blown laughter.

  Max watched her out of the corner of his eye and smiled to himself. “I'm not saying you won't get the occasional critic,” he cautioned. “But I think you can handle it if someone comes up to you and tells you he thinks your book was trash.”

  “The way Nolan did?” Cleo's mouth twisted wryly. “Yes, I think so. I've been anxious about having people pry into my private life, but the truth is, all that most of them really wanted to talk about was themselves. This isn't anything like what happened to me after my parents died.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I guess I'd let my imagination run away with me.”

  “You do have a first-class imagination,” Max conceded.

  The laughter died in Cleo's eyes. “I just wish the stalker was a product of my imagination.”

  Max watched the road. “So do I.”

  Cleo turned to him with an expression of intrigued speculation. “Hey, you don't suppose Adrian is the stalker, after all, do you? Maybe his jealousy has gotten the better of him. Maybe he's trying to punish me because I got published and he didn't.”

  Max shook his head with grim certainly. “No. It's obvious Adrian only recently found out that you'd published The Mirror. The incidents started over a month ago. He'd never have been able to keep his jealousy under wraps this long.”

  Cleo lounged back in the seat. “I'm not so sure about that. Maybe he knew all along and just pretended that he didn't.”

  Max took one hand off the wheel and reached out briefly to touch her leg. “We'll find out who's trying to scare you, Cleo.”

  “I hope so.”

  Max put his hand back on the wheel and drove in silence for a while. There was less than a mile to go until they reached the inn. He and Cleo would be home soon.

  Home.

  In spite of his concern about the incidents that had been plaguing Cleo, Max was aware of the pleasant sense of anticipation that was simmering deep inside him.

  For the first time in his life he felt like he belonged somewhere. Best of all, he had a woman who wanted him, a woman who had waited her whole life for him.

  “What are you thinking about, Max?” Cleo asked softly.

  “I was wondering if Ben took care of that dripping shower head in two-sixteen.”

  Cleo smiled.

  The early darkness of a winter night was descending on the coast. Heavy clouds overhead promised more rain before dawn. Max drove around the last bend in the road and saw the lights of Robbins' Nest Inn blazing in the distance.

  “Cleo?”

  “Hmmm?” Cleo was studying the mostly empty parking lot with an innkeeper's professional frown of concern.

  “I want us to have a baby.”

  She jerked her gaze away from the lot. “A what?”

  “A baby.” A baby would make everything more secure, Max thought. It would be another bond linking him to Cleo and her friends.

  “Why?”

  Max hesitated. “Why does anyone want a baby?”

  “There are a lot of reasons why someone might want a baby. Not all of them are good reasons. Why do you want one?”

  “Is this a test?” Max asked.

  “Probably.”

  He felt the tension in his jaw as he searched for a way to put his certainty into words. “It's time.” He concentrated. “I'm going to be thirty-five next month. I've got a secure income from the investments I've made over the past few years. I've got a stable life-style now that I'm working for you. And I've got you.”

  “I'm not sure those reasons are good enough,” Cleo said quietly.

  Fear surged through him. His fingers clenched around the steering wheel. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Cleo bristled. “Having a baby is a major decision. There are a lot of things to consider. We're talking about a serious commitment.”

  “You and I have already made a serious commitment.”

  “I know, but still…”

  “What's the risk?” Max asked swiftly, sensing a weak point. “Are you afraid I'm going to walk out on you in a year or so, the way Sylvia's husband did to her and Sammy?”

  Cleo turned her head to gaze at him with perceptive eyes. “No.” Her voice was very soft and very certain. “No, I don't think you would walk out on your family.”

  “You think I'd make a lousy father, is that it? Look, I know a man with my kind of background probably doesn't seem like a good bet as a father. But I think I could handle the basics. You once told me you didn't have to jump out of a plane in order to figure out what it would do to your insides.”

  “What do you think are the basics of fatherhood?” Cleo asked with genuine curiosity.

  Max flashed her a quick glance. “Being there. Sticking around to do the job.”

  “Where did you learn that?” Cleo asked.

  “From my own father,” Max said roughly.

  “He spent a lot of time with you?”

  “No,” Max said. “I never met him. He left before I was born.”

  “Oh.” There was a wealth of understanding in her voice.

  “My strategy for being a father is to do just the opposite of everything that was done to me when I was growing up.”

  Cleo touched his thigh. “Max, I think you'd make a terrific father.”

  Relief washed over him. He had pushed hard and won again. “You do?”

  “Yes.” She gazed through the windshield at the warm lights of the inn. “I do.”

  “Then it's settled.” Max turned the Jaguar into the parking lot. “We'll get started right away.”

  “Could we wait until after dinner?” Cleo asked. “I'm sure the family will have a lot of questions, and Ben and Trisha will probably want to talk about their wedding plans. I'd like to have a chance to go through the new bookings, and maybe O'Reilly will have some news for us.”

  Max smiled ruefully. “If you insist, I guess we can wait until after dinner.”

  Everything was going to be okay, he thought. So why did he feel this disturbing sense of unease beneath the satisfaction he was experiencing, he wondered.

  But even as he asked the question, he knew the answer. He was still on dangerous ground. After all, he knew better than anyone else that he had pushed Cleo into the engagement just as he had once pushed Kimberly. And now he had pushed Cleo into another commitment.

  Maybe he was pushing too hard in his effort to force his way into her life. He knew that he didn't have a good track record when it came to this kind of thing. It was the one area in which he always screwed up.

  He probably should have held back, Max thought, suddenly worried about his own successful pressure tactics. Something was wrong.

  The things he wanted most in life always seemed to elude him just as he was reaching for them.

  Three hours later Max watched, amused, as O'Reilly put his feet up on a wicker footstool in the solarium and lounged contentedly in one of the fanback chairs.

  “Playing pasha?” Max asked.

  O'Reilly looked at him with knowing eyes. “I think I've finally figured out why you changed jobs, Max. Just be careful you don't put on weight eating chocolate chip cookies.”

  “I'll work it off. There's always something that needs doing around an old place like this.”

  “Yeah. Found that out fast. I helped Ben with a couple of leaking faucets while y
ou were gone. Ben thinks you leap tall buildings in a single bound, by the way.”

  “I don't know why,” Max said. “I haven't leaped any lately.”

  “I guess we all have to find our heroes where we can.” O'Reilly grinned. “Sammy supervised the plumbing repairs.”

  “Sammy's good at supervision.”

  O'Reilly looked pleased. “He's a great little kid, isn't he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Smart as a whip,” O'Reilly said.

  “Talented, too,” Max said, remembering the crayon drawing that was hanging in the attic.

  “What kind of a father would run off and leave Sammy and a fine woman like Sylvia on their own?” O'Reilly asked.

  “A real jerk of a father.”

  “Some guys don't know when they've got it made, do they?” O'Reilly mused.

  “No,” Max said. “Some guys don't.”

  O'Reilly gave him a level look. “But some guys, guys like you and me, for instance, are a little brighter. We know a good thing when we see it.”

  Max's attention was caught by the unfamiliar undercurrent he thought he detected in O'Reilly's voice. He had known the other man for a long time. Since the death of O'Reilly's wife and child, it had been rare to hear any emotion other than unrelenting, completely superficial amusement in his voice.

  “Yes,” Max said. “Some of us know a good thing when we see it.” He glanced toward the French doors as they opened. Ben walked into the room. “Come on in, Ben. We've been waiting for you.”

  “What's up?” Ben glanced at Max and then at O'Reilly. “You said we needed to have a strategy session?”

  “Right. Sit down.” Max waved him to a seat. “I figure this is something the three of us should discuss before we talk to the rest of the family. I don't want everyone worrying unnecessarily.”

  O'Reilly chuckled. “Translated, that means Max thinks this is a job for the men of the household. I'm warning you, the ladies will have a fit if they find out we're making plans behind their backs.”

  “Gotcha.” Ben dropped down on a nearby seat, obviously proud to be included in the strategy session. “I take it we're going to talk about what you found out while Cleo and Max were gone?”

  “I've got my notes here somewhere.” O'Reilly rummaged around in his pants pockets and pulled out a small notebook. “I'd better bring Max up to speed first.”