“A gold-digging mistress.” Cleo reached the foot of the stairs and swept the beam of light around the crowded basement.
“All right,” Max said patiently. “I apologize for assuming you were his gold-digging mistress.”
“Okay, you've apologized. Now you can leave.”
Max took a tight grip on his hawk-headed cane. She was not going to get rid of him this easily. She still had his Amos Luttrells. “I'm afraid I can't leave just yet.”
Cleo crossed the room to the circuit-breaker panel. “Why not?”
“I told you last night. I need the arrangement you're offering. I don't have another job.”
She turned away and concentrated on opening the panel cover. “That's not my problem.”
Max could tell that she was wavering. He decided to change tactics. “What happened with Hildebrand?”
Cleo flipped a switch, and the overhead light came on. Her smile was grim. “Nolan came to the same conclusion about me that you did. He thinks I'm a fallen woman. As a budding politician with a career in the White House ahead of him, he can't afford to be associated with the likes of me.”
Max was surprised by the jolt of anger that went through him. He studied Cleo's set face. “This was a sudden conclusion on Hildebrand's part?”
“Very sudden.”
“What prompted it?”
“I can't imagine.” Cleo closed the panel door and switched off the flashlight. “You'll have to excuse me. I've got a lot of things to do, and you've got a long drive ahead of you.”
Max positioned himself directly in her path. “Cleo, wait. I meant what I said. I'm sorry about the misunderstanding, and I don't have anywhere else to go. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me stay for a while. I'll earn my keep.”
She hesitated. The uncertainty was plain in her eyes. “Look, I'm sorry about your situation, but you really can't expect me to give you the same arrangement I gave Jason. Not after what you said this morning.”
“Jason was your friend,” Max said quietly. “He was my friend, too. What did you expect me to think when he talked about a mysterious woman named Cleo? He was on his deathbed. He didn't have the strength to give me a detailed explanation of just how you fit into his life. All I knew was that he—” Max broke off, searching for the right words. “Cared for you.”
Cleo's expression softened. She lowered her eyes and was silent for a long minute. Finally, she met his gaze and said, “All right. For the sake of our mutual friendship with Jason, I'll let you stay.”
“Thanks,” Max said. It had been easier than he'd anticipated. The lady was obviously a sucker for a hard luck story.
“But only through this long weekend,” Cleo added, just as if she'd read his mind and suspected she'd been had. “There's still no sign of Benjy, and I could use an extra hand around here for the next three days. But I'll expect you to leave on Tuesday. Understood?”
“I understand.”
Three days was a long time, Max thought. A lot could happen. He'd been known to make and break multimillion-dollar deals in a period of three days. He'd once orchestrated in less than three days the ransom and rescue of an entire contingent of Curzon executives who had been kidnapped by terrorists. With any luck he would find his Luttrells in the next three days.
And if not, he'd find a way to stay on longer at Robbins' Nest Inn.
Herbert T. Valence was right. The trick was to think positive.
Cleo glanced into the lounge around nine o'clock that evening. Max and Sylvia were pouring after-dinner coffee and sherry for the inn guests. A pleasant fire blazed on the hearth, creating a scene of warm contentment. A low murmur of conversation wafted across the room.
Cleo had been chiding herself for her lack of will-power all afternoon. She knew she should have sent Max packing as soon as she returned from the meeting with Nolan. She had told herself she would kick him out if he was still hanging around the place. But somehow Max had managed to make her feel sorry for him.
She could not escape the feeling that she had been manipulated.
“You'll have to admit that Max adds a certain style to the place,” Sylvia observed as she paused beside Cleo. “Jason used to have that same aristocratic air when he poured coffee and sherry. The guests love it.”
“He acts like he owns the place,” Cleo muttered. “Look at him. Every inch the gracious lord of the manor.”
“Face it, Cleo. Put a man like Max to digging a ditch, and he'd manage to make it look like he owned the ditch and a hundred thousand acres surrounding it.”
“Maybe he does. He drives a Jaguar. And those clothes he's wearing didn't come from any bargain basement.”
“He's trying to be helpful,” Sylvia said. “He's done everything you asked him to do this afternoon. He even hauled logs in for the fire, which was probably not an easy task with that cane of his.”
Cleo winced as a shaft of guilt lanced through her. She sincerely regretted having asked Max to fetch the firewood. The truth was, she hadn't even considered his bad leg when she'd issued the order. Something about Max made it all too easy to forget his cane and everything it implied. Max simply did not look like he had any weaknesses.
“There's something about him that bothers me,” Cleo grumbled.
“Like what?”
“I'm not sure,” Cleo admitted. She hesitated. “He thought I was Jason's mistress.”
Sylvia glanced at her in surprise and then grinned. “No kidding?”
“It's not funny.”
“Yes it is. Do you know what your problem is? You've been in a lousy mood ever since you returned from seeing Nolan.”
“Nolan thinks I'm a porn queen.”
Sylvia's mouth fell open. “What?”
“He found out that I wrote The Mirror.”
Sylvia stared at her. “No one knows you wrote it except members of the family. I didn't tell a soul, I swear it, Cleo. I can't believe anyone else did, either.”
“I know. Don't worry about it. I guess the secret was bound to leak out sooner or later.”
Sylvia frowned. “I know how important it was to you to maintain your anonymity with that book.”
“It's such a personal thing,” Cleo said. “I won't mind people knowing I wrote A Fine Vengeance. But The Mirror has too much of me inside it.”
“I understand,” Sylvia said gently.
Cleo shifted restlessly. “I told Nolan that I don't want to deal with the snide remarks people will make, but the truth is, I don't want to deal with their rude curiosity. I had too much of that kind of thing after my parents died. People asked me the most awful, personal questions about what it had been like to find them—” Cleo broke off abruptly. “There's no telling what kind of questions they'd ask about The Mirror.”
Sylvia put a comforting arm around her. “It's all right, Cleo. Take it easy. The most important question at the moment is, who told Nolan?”
“I don't know,” Cleo admitted. “Someone put a copy of the book into his mailbox, along with a note saying I'd written The Mirror. The note also said that I'd make a very unsuitable wife for a man with political ambitions.”
“My God, that's downright weird. No wonder you've been upset all afternoon. What did Nolan say?”
Cleo smiled wryly. “He said I was no longer a viable candidate for the position of Mrs. Nolan Hildebrand. Said my pornographic past could seriously jeopardize his political career. He hoped I'd understand why he was dumping me.”
“Why, that little slimeball,” Sylvia muttered. “I trust you told him to take a long walk off a short pier?”
“It's over, and it really doesn't matter. My relationship with Nolan never amounted to much in the first place.” Cleo met Sylvia's worried gaze. “I don't want the rest of the family to know about the note. It would only upset everyone.”
Sylvia nodded in agreement. “All right. I won't mention it. But what about Nolan? Won't he tell everyone you wrote that book?”
Cleo smiled wryly. “I doubt it. He doesn't want a
nyone to know he associated, however briefly, with a woman of doubtful virtue.”
“No offense, Cleo, because I know you liked him, but the guy's a jerk. He's probably got a brilliant political career ahead of him.”
Cleo started to respond and stopped short when she saw Sammy running toward them down the hall. The little boy was dressed in his pajamas. He grasped Lucky Ducky firmly in one small fist.
“What are you doing up, honey?” Sylvia asked in concern. “You're supposed to be asleep.”
“Can't sleep.” Sammy clung to his mother's hand and pressed close to her leg.
“A bad dream?” Cleo asked gently.
“No.” Sammy hugged Lucky Ducky close. “Trisha's crying.”
“She is?” Cleo frowned. Trisha slept in the room next to Sammy's
“Won't stop.” Sammy turned his face into Sylvia's skirt.
“I'll go up and see what's wrong,” Cleo said. “Don't worry about her, Sammy. I'm sure she'll be fine.”
Sammy nodded but did not raise his head. Sylvia picked him up and hugged him tightly. “Cleo will talk to her, honey. Everything will be okay.”
“Trisha's probably unhappy because Benjy's gone,” Cleo said. She exchanged a glance with Sylvia. “Keep an eye on things here.”
“Right,” Sylvia said. “Max and I can handle the lounge crowd.”
Sammy brightened suddenly as he caught sight of Max behind the bar. “There's Max. Hi, Max.” He waved Lucky Ducky in greeting.
Max glanced toward the door. His gaze went to Sammy and then to Cleo. He put down the bottle of sherry he had been wielding and walked over to join the small group in the doorway.
“Something wrong?” he asked quietly.
“Trisha's crying,” Sammy explained. “Cleo's going to go make her feel better.”
“I see.” Max watched Cleo intently. “Do you think it's serious?”
“From Trisha's point of view, yes,” Cleo said. “She's worried about Benjy. There's been no word from him. I'll be right back.”
Cleo turned away and hurried toward the back stairs. She was not surprised by the announcement that Trisha was in tears. She had been concerned about her since last night, when they had all discovered that Benjy had vanished.
Trisha's room was on the third floor. She had moved in two years earlier when she had taken the job at Robbins' Nest Inn. Trisha and Benjy had been drawn together from the moment they had met. Cleo knew they had a lot in common. Too much, perhaps. Both came from badly mangled, nonsupportive families. They had become close friends within the framework of Cleo's extended clan. About six months ago, Cleo knew, they had become lovers.
Cleo had watched the inevitable romance spring up between Trisha and Benjy with some misgivings. She was not at all certain that either of them could cope with the responsibilities of a committed relationship, yet she knew that was exactly what both desperately wanted. There had been an odd sense of fate about the pair. It was as if they were two lost waifs clinging to each other in a storm.
Cleo stopped in front of Trisha's door and knocked softly. “Trisha? It's me, Cleo.”
“Cleo?” Trisha's voice was muffled. “I'm in bed. Please go away.”
“Trisha, you know I can't do that. Sammy says you've been crying. Let me in. We'll talk.”
“I don't want to talk.”
“Not even about Benjy?”
“Especially not about Benjy.” Trisha suddenly burst into wracking sobs.
Cleo couldn't stand it any longer. “Let me in, Trisha, or I'll use the master key.”
There was a moment of painful silence. Then the door opened slowly to reveal Trisha's tear-blotched face.
“Oh, Trisha,” Cleo whispered. She opened her arms.
“I know why he left,” Trisha wailed. She flung herself into Cleo's comforting arms. “It was because of me.”
“Of course it wasn't because of you.” Cleo patted Trisha's shoulder. “Benjy's got problems of his own, you know that. He's got a lot to deal with.”
“I know,” Trisha sobbed. “And I gave him one problem too many.”
“Trisha, it's not your fault that Benjy left.”
“Yes, it is,” Trisha said in a choked voice. “I'm pregnant.”
Cleo closed her eyes briefly, her worst fears confirmed. “Oh, Lord.”
“I told Benjy, and he couldn't handle it. That's why he left. Cleo, what am I going to do? I'm so scared.”
“It's all right,” Cleo said quietly. “Everything's going to be all right. You've got family now, remember? You're not alone.”
It was nearly midnight before Cleo wearily made her way to the tower room on the third floor. She had chosen her small sanctuary with care immediately after she had moved in to the inn.
Her private quarters were tucked away out of sight of the guests' rooms. Her small suite in the tower afforded privacy and a view of the sea. There were times when Cleo badly needed both. Being surrounded by family and inn guests was all very well most of the time, but there were occasions when Cleo needed the protective solitude of her own rooms.
She unlocked the door, her mind still on Trisha's unhappy situation, and let herself into the lovingly overstuffed domicile. It was furnished, as was the rest of the inn, in the most flowery expression of Victorian style. Every item, from the chintz wallpaper and the canopied bed to the ceramic clock on the table, had been carefully chosen by Cleo.
She flipped the switch on the wall, leaving the door still open behind her. The bedside lamp cast a warm glow over the frilly white pillows arranged on the bed.
The light revealed something else on the bed: a length of red satin ribbon curled like a scarlet snake on one pillow.
Cleo stared at the ribbon in stunned shock. She suddenly felt light-headed. Her fingers, still clutching the doorknob, started to shake.
“Cleo?” Max materialized behind her in the open doorway, looming over her. “I've been looking for you. I wanted to talk to you before you went to bed.”
“Not now,” she got out in a hoarse whisper. She could not take her eyes off the red satin ribbon.
“What the hell?” Without apology, Max shouldered his way past her into the room. He swept the surroundings with a single glance and then swung around to face her. “What's wrong?”
“Please,” she whispered. “Go away.”
“You look like you've just seen a ghost.”
“Go away,” she hissed.
Max ignored the command. Instead he calmly closed the door. “Don't faint. I'm no good with fainting women.” He put an arm around Cleo and pulled her tightly against his chest.
“I'm not going to faint. I've never fainted in my life.” Cleo wanted to resist the compelling heat of his body, but it was soaking into her, driving out the chill that had gripped her a moment earlier. She stood there, leaning against him for a few minutes.
The man in the mirror.
Eventually she started to relax. Max felt solid and strong and he smelled good. Cleo inhaled the enticing combination of soap and maleness. She had never before found herself captivated by a man's scent, but Max's fascinated her. Surreptitiously she tried to bury her nose against his chest.
“Are you okay?” Max asked.
The question broke the delicate thrall that had begun to form around Cleo. Embarrassed, she raised her head, straightened her glasses, and pushed herself away from him. “I think so. Sorry about this. I was a little startled by something. I'm okay now.”
Slowly he released her. His eyes never left her face. “What was that all about?”
Cleo knew she should keep her mouth shut. But her defenses were down because of the shock of seeing the ribbon on the pillow and because of the way Max had held her. She knew she owed him absolutely no explanations. But she suddenly needed to talk to someone. If Jason had been there, she would have told him the whole story.
Max had been Jason's friend. Max was not a stranger. Not really.
“That ribbon shouldn't be there.” Cleo didn't know where to st
art. She went over to the bed and stood looking down at the coiled length of satin. “Someone put it there.”
“A gift from Sammy?”
“No.” Cleo hugged herself. “God, no. Sammy wouldn't know anything about the significance of a red satin ribbon left on a pillow.”
“But you do?” Max did not move.
“It's a scene out of a book I wrote.” Cleo shivered. Then she spun around and went to the bookshelf. She took down the copy of The Mirror that Nolan had given to her that morning. “It's from this. Chapter three.”
Max took the book and glanced at the cover. “You wrote this? It says the author's name is Elizabeth Bird.”
“That's me. Elizabeth Bird is a pen name. Until recently it's been a deep, dark secret known only to members of the family. But today it has become painfully obvious that someone else knows it.”
“Why did you try to keep yourself anonymous?”
Cleo watched his face. “Take a look at the book.”
Max flipped open the cover and scanned the inside flap. He looked up after a moment, his eyes unreadable. “You write women's erotica? I thought you wrote romantic-suspense.”
Cleo lifted her chin. “I wrote one book of erotica before I started writing romantic-suspense. The Mirror is that book.” She bit her lip and could not resist adding, “It was actually rather well received. Even got some good reviews.” Of course, Max wouldn't believe that, Cleo thought. She wished she hadn't sounded defensive. She wished she'd kept her mouth shut.
“I see,” Max said. There was absolutely no inflection in his voice.
For the life of her Cleo could not tell what his reaction was to the news that she had written The Mirror. “That book you're holding in your hand is the chief reason Nolan decided I was unsuitable company for a rising politician.”
“Ah, well. Politicians tend to be a rather dull bunch, don't they? No imagination.”
Cleo smiled dangerously. “I suppose it confirms your earlier opinion of me as a loose woman.”
“It confirms my impression that you are a very unpredictable woman.” Max sat down on a small, chintz-covered chair without waiting for an invitation. He leaned his cane against a table and started to massage his thigh with an absent movement of his hand. “Why don't you tell me what this is all about?”