Grand Passion

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