He didn't get a chance to go in search of Cleo until after eleven o'clock. When he finally tracked her down, she was alone in the small office behind the front desk.
She was seated with her back to him at a table that held a computer and several piles of miscellaneous papers and notes. His trained eye skimmed appreciatively over her. It was not the first time that evening that he had found himself intrigued by the subtly graceful line of her spine and the sweet, vulnerable curve of her neck. Her feet, still clad in the silver athletic shoes, were tucked under her, toes resting on the chrome base of the swivel chair.
He stood silently in the doorway for a moment, watching Cleo as she concentrated intently on a printout spread out on the desk. Without taking her eyes off the figures, she absently reached up to unfasten her hair clip. The simple feminine gesture triggered a heavy, pooling sensation in Max's lower body.
He stared, enthralled, as Cleo's hair fell free around her shoulders. The glow of the desk lamp highlighted the red fire that shimmered in the depths of the thick, dark stuff. Max had a sudden, urgent need to warm his fingers in the flames. Unconsciously he took a step forward. His cane thudded awkwardly on the floor.
“What?” Startled, Cleo spun around in her chair. She relaxed when she saw Max. “Oh, there you are. Come on in. Have a seat. I thought you were George.”
“Who's George?” Max regained his self-control in a heartbeat.
“My night desk man. He phoned and said he'd be a little late tonight.”
“I see.” Max moved across the small space and lowered himself onto the chair near the window. With cool precision he positioned the cane in front of himself and rested his hands on the hawk. “I think it's time we talked, Ms. Robbins.”
“Cleo.”
“Cleo,” he repeated.
She smiled. “I suppose you're wondering if you can have the same arrangement that Jason had.”
Max gazed at her uncomprehendingly. “I beg your pardon?”
“It's okay. I don't mind. You're a friend of his, after all. Heck, it's the least I can do. I'm sure Jason would have wanted you to enjoy what he enjoyed here.”
Max wondered if he was hallucinating. He could not believe that Cleo was offering to let him take Jason's place in her bed. “I am overwhelmed by your generosity, Ms. Robbins. But I'm not sure Jason would have wanted that.”
“Why would he object?”
“Jason was a good friend,” Max said. “But there are limits to any friendship.”
Cleo looked briefly bewildered. “You're an artist, just as Jason was, aren't you?”
Max lowered his lashes slowly, veiling his gaze while he digested that comment. Jason had freely admitted he could not draw a straight line, let alone paint. He had collected art, not created it.
“Not exactly,” Max finally said carefully.
Cleo gave him a sympathetic, knowing look. “Say no more. I understand completely. You haven't been able to sell yet, so you're reluctant to call yourself an artist. I know how you feel.” She hesitated. “I'm a writer.”
“You are?”
She blushed. “I've got a book coming out this spring. It's called A Fine Vengeance. It's a sort of woman-in-jeopardy thing. Suspense and romance.”
Max eyed her thoughtfully. “That's very interesting, Ms. Robbins.”
“I haven't told anyone except the family about it,” Cleo said quickly. “I'm waiting until it actually shows up in the stores, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention it.”
“I won't say a word about it,” Max promised.
“Jason knew about it, of course. So I don't mind if you know, too. The point I was trying to make is that it isn't whether or not you sell your work that makes you an artist or a writer. It's whether or not you work at your craft.”
“That is a point of view, I suppose.”
“Sometimes a person can be very good and still not sell. Take Jason, for instance. He never sold a single painting, and he was a wonderful painter.”
“He was?”
“Certainly.” Cleo tilted her head to one side and gave Max a curious look. “You must have seen his work. Those are his paintings hanging out there in the lobby. Didn't you recognize his style?”
Max turned his head sharply and stared through the doorway at the series of uninspired seascapes. “I didn't recognize them.”
“Didn't you?” Cleo looked briefly disappointed. Then she smiled again. “I love those paintings. They'll always remind me of Jason. In a way they're his legacy to all of us here at Robbins' Nest Inn. Who knows? Maybe one day they'll be worth a fortune.”
Never in a million years, Max thought. “And if they do turn out to be quite valuable,” he asked softly, “what will you do? Sell them?”
“Good heavens, no. I could never bring myself to sell Jason's work. It belongs here at the inn.”
Max cleared his throat cautiously. “Ms. Robbins…”
“Cleo.”
He ignored the interruption. “Jason owned five Amos Luttrell paintings. Before he died he told me that he had left them here at the inn.”
“Who's Amos Luttrell? Another friend of Jason's?”
She was either the most accomplished liar he had encountered in years, or she was a naive idiot, Max decided. His money was on the former. He could not imagine Jason having an idiot for a mistress. In which case he was up against an extremely clever opponent.
“Luttrell was a master of neo-expressionism,” Max said blandly.
“Expressionism? That's modern art, isn't it?” Cleo wrinkled her nose. “I've never really liked modern art. I prefer pictures that make sense. Dogs, horses, seascapes. That kind of thing. I don't have any modern art hanging here at the inn. It wouldn't fit in at all.”
A cold anger raged through Max. There was only one conclusion. Cleo was obviously aware of the true value of the Luttrells and had decided to play dumb. She was going to pretend she knew nothing about them. She must have realized that Max had no proof she had them in her possession.
It was a clever tactic, he admitted to himself. And one he had not expected to encounter. But, then, nothing was going quite as he had anticipated here at Robbins' Nest Inn.
“Now, then, as I was saying,” Cleo continued blithely, “if you're an artist like Jason, you'll probably enjoy the arrangement I had with him.”
Max raised one brow. “What, exactly, are you offering?”
“The same salary I gave Jason plus room and board any time you're staying with us in exchange for the kind of odd-job work you were doing tonight. I promise you'll get plenty of time to yourself to paint. You can have Jason's old room in the attic. It's quiet and comfortable. Jason liked it.”
Room and board but not her bed, then. At least not yet. “I'm not exactly a starving artist, Ms. Robbins.”
“I know that.” Cleo smiled gently. “But there are a lot of different ways to starve, aren't there? You're a friend of Jason's, and that's all that matters.”
“I'm not sure I would make a good Antony,” Max said dryly.
“Huh?” A second later Cleo's face turned a charming shade of warm pink. “Oh, I get it. I'd better warn you that we have one ironclad rule around here. No Cleopatra cracks and absolutely no asp jokes.”
“I'll try to remember that.”
“So? Are you interested?” Cleo gave him an inquiring look.
The sense of unreality that had gripped Max earlier returned. He stared at Cleo for a long while, and then he made his decision.
What the hell, he thought. He had to find out what had happened to his Luttrells, and it wasn't like he had anything or anyone waiting for him in Seattle. Jason had sent him in this direction for a reason. Max decided he might as well follow the yellow brick road to the end.
Another turning point, he thought. And as usual, he had no reason to go back.
“As it happens,” Max said, “I've just lost a job. I'll take the deal you gave Jason.”
Chapter
2
Andromeda,
these muffins are out of this world.” Cleo popped the last of the hot muffin into her mouth and chewed happily. “As usual.”
Andromeda, the head chef of the Robbins' Nest Inn, smiled serenely. All of Andromeda's smiles were serene. She was heavily into metaphysical studies. “I'm glad you like them, dear. It's a variation on the corn bread recipe Daystar's been using for the past few months. You know Daystar. She can't stop experimenting.”
“The old recipe was terrific, too, but this one is even better. The guests are going to love these little suckers.” Cleo scooped up another corn bread muffin and slathered it with honey.
She hastily devoured it as she surveyed the busy kitchen. Andromeda's staff, all middle-aged and all members of the Cosmic Harmony Women's Retreat, were an industrious crew.
The arrangement between the inn and Cosmic Harmony was simple and lucrative for both sides. Andromeda and her team provided first-rate seafood and vegetarian cuisine for the inn's guests that was unmatched anywhere else on the coast. In return Cleo paid the Retreat a portion of the inn's profits and agreed not to force the women into standard white kitchen uniforms.
Andromeda and her friend, Daystar, were the cornerstones of the inn's kitchen staff. Other members of Cosmic Harmony came in at varying times, depending on who was available and what skills were needed. This morning Cleo recognized Nebula and Constellation hard at work. One was preparing muesli, and the other was slicing sourdough whole wheat bread. The women at Cosmic Harmony generally adopted new names when they came to the Retreat. Some stayed for a few days, weeks, or months. Others, like Andromeda and Daystar, were permanent residents.
All of the women at work this morning had the sleeves of their long, jewel-colored gowns secured above their elbows. Their bright head scarves and strange bronze and silver necklaces added an exotic touch to the kitchen.
The latest edition of the guidebooks had recently begun citing the cuisine at the Robbins' Nest Inn as one of the best reasons to visit the Washington coast in winter or any other time of the year.
For Cleo, the women from Cosmic Harmony provided something much more important than a money-making restaurant; they provided friendship and a place to go when she needed peace and serenity. She often went to the Cosmic Harmony meditation center after one of the recurring nightmares that plagued her from time to time.
The Retreat, situated on a magnificent stretch of land overlooking the ocean, had once been an exclusive golf resort. The resort had failed years earlier and had slowly rotted into the ground.
Five years ago Andromeda and Daystar had conceived the notion of turning the abandoned site into a commune for women. Initially they had leased the grounds and buildings. But three years ago, together with Cleo's assistance, they had pooled their limited resources and purchased the old resort at a foreclosure sale.
Andromeda and Daystar, who formed the core of Cosmic Harmony, had not always been involved in metaphysics and philosophies of self-realization. They had, in fact, started out as members of a Seattle bridge club that had met every Tuesday for years. As time went past, each had found herself on her own due to divorce. The bridge club had been the only thing that had remained stable in their lives.
Andromeda's name in her former life had been Mrs. Hamilton R. Galsworthy III. She had helped create Cosmic Harmony six months after her husband, a doctor who was Board Certified in Gynecology, had run off with his aerobics instructor. Dr. Galsworthy had had an extremely capable lawyer who had managed to ensure that Andromeda did not get more than a token amount in the divorce settlement.
Andromeda had explained to Cleo that she bore no ill will toward her ex-husband, who wound up being divorced by the aerobics instructor within a year. “It was really very sad, dear,” Andromeda had once explained. “The poor man was sixty at the time, and they say she had him doing an hour of high-impact aerobics twice a day. With ankle weights, no less. He hasn't been the same since, I'm told. One assumes his karma finally caught up with him.”
But there was no going back for Andromeda, not even when Hamilton R. Galsworthy III, M.D., showed up at her door, a broken man, offering to come home. Andromeda had already launched herself on a new path of cosmic enlightenment. In addition, she and her bridge partner, also recently divorced, had discovered that their friendship for each other was a stronger, more enduring bond than the relationship either had had with her ex-husband.
Andromeda sipped a cup of herbal tea in a slow, ceremonial manner. “I wanted to speak to you about one of our new guests,” she said to Cleo. She was nearly sixty, a cheerful elf of a woman with a halo of curly gray hair and bright, inquiring eyes. When she moved, the small bells attached to the hem of her gown tinkled merrily.
Lately, every move Andromeda made had an air of carefully cultivated grace and ritual about it. She was currently studying the traditional Japanese tea ceremony and its implications for daily living. It was the latest in a never-ending series of such philosophical explorations for Andromeda.
“We got twenty-five new arrivals last night,” Cleo responded. “Another Seattle company is sending some of its employees through one of Herbert T. Valence's three-day motivational seminars.”
“Oh, dear. Another one of those, eh?” Andromeda shook her head. “Hard to imagine that anyone really believes there are five easy steps to wealth, power, and unlimited success.”
Cleo grinned. “I get the feeling good old Herbert does. The guy must be making money hand-over-fist with these seminars.”
“True. He does seem to be doing rather well, doesn't he? This is the third seminar he's booked in here this winter,” Andromeda observed.
Cleo laughed. “Just be grateful he's decided the inn makes a suitable setting for his uplifting and inspiring messages.”
“I am, dear. I am well aware that the inn is doing very nicely this winter because of Mr. Valence. However, when I mentioned the new guest, I was not referring to one of the seminar attendees.”
Cleo smiled wryly. “Let me guess. You're talking about Jason's friend, right?”
“Yes. Are you certain he was a friend of Jason's?”
Cleo glanced at Andromeda in surprise. “He says he is. He certainly knew about Jason having stayed with us from time to time during the past eighteen months. And he knew about the arrangement Jason and I had worked out.” Cleo wolfed down the last of the muffin. “At least I think he did. I offered him the same deal, and he took it.”
“He's working for you now?”
“Uh-huh.”
Andromeda frowned delicately. “I told you when Jason first started to show up around here on the weekends that he was not exactly what he seemed.”
“I know, but I liked him. You said you liked him, too. We both agreed we could trust him.”
“Well, I knew he was not a threat, of course. In his own way Jason needed us. I am not so certain about this other man.”
“You only met him briefly last night.”
Daystar swooped down on Cleo before Andromeda could respond. “Saw his car in the parking lot.” She hoisted a spatula in a warning manner. “My ex-husband bought a Jaguar like that right before he married his secretary. Your Mr. Fortune is no starving artist, Cleo.”
Cleo smiled at her. Daystar was a sturdy, competent-looking woman whose shrewd, no-nonsense eyes reflected her assertive, inquisitive attitude toward everything and everyone. She was the airy, ethereal Andromeda's natural opposite. Cleo had often thought the two made a perfect pair.
“Jason wasn't exactly starving either,” Cleo pointed out. “At least not in the literal sense. But he needed a place like Robbins' Nest Inn in order to paint. And he wanted to help out around here.”
Andromeda gave her a gentle smile. “You mean he wanted to be part of our extended family.”
Cleo shrugged. “Maybe Max Fortune wants the same thing.”
“Or perhaps he wants something else,” Daystar said darkly.
“I doubt it,” Cleo murmured. “Don't forget, I saw him with a toilet plunger in his ha
nd. You learn a lot about a man when you see him in action like that.” She popped the last bite of muffin into her mouth. “Besides, what else is there for him around here except the same kind of family thing that Jason found?”
“I don't know,” Daystar said. “I'm just suggesting that you be cautious. The fact that he knew Jason does not automatically make Mr. Fortune a member of the family.”
Andromeda nodded in agreement. “Daystar is right, dear.”
“Don't worry, I'll be careful,” Cleo promised.
She was about to pick up the teapot when a flash of awareness made her pause. There had been no telltale sound above the clatter of pans and the hum of conversation that filled the kitchen, but Cleo knew without turning around who was standing in the doorway. A small thrill shot through her, leaving her tingling from head to foot.
Apparently her strange reaction to Max Fortune last night had not been just a curious by-product of the stress she had been under at the time. She was perfectly relaxed this morning, and yet she was experiencing the same unsettling sensation. She took a deep breath and braced herself.
“Good morning, Max.” Cleo swung around, pot in hand, and smiled at him. She would not make a fool of herself, she vowed silently. She would be calm and dignified. She struggled to keep her expression limited to one of polite welcome, but inside she was bubbling with the delicious, unfamiliar excitement.
It was clear in the light of the new day that her imagination had not been playing tricks on her. Max Fortune's impact on her senses was devastating. She found herself staring in spite of her determination to be casual and cool.
He was the man in the mirror. She had never seen his face clearly in her dreams, but the moment he had materialized, she had recognized him.
Cleo gave herself a small, imperceptible shake in an effort to free herself from the disorienting sensation that was sweeping through her. She forced herself to concentrate on facts, not fantasy.
Max was obviously in his mid-thirties but definitely not in any danger of going soft. There was a lean, hard quality to his body. His boldly carved face bore a disquieting similarity to the hawk on the handle of his cane.