Grand Passion

of us whether he screws up or not.”
    Kimberly's mouth opened on a soundless exclamation. When she could not find the words she sought, she turned to Max.
    “All right,” she said, “I give up. I can't figure out what's going on here, but it's obvious you've got things in the palm of your hand, as usual. I assume that sooner or later we'll all find out what your agenda is, Max.”
    “There's no hidden agenda,” Max said quietly. “Cleo told you the truth. I'm working for her. I'm not open to outside offers. You may congratulate me on my engagement, and then you may leave.”
    Kimberly gave him a disgusted look. “Congratulations.” She turned around and walked to the door.
    Silence descended on the breakfast room.
    Max looked at Cleo. “Thanks.”
    “For what?”
    “For everything.”
    “Sure.” Cleo ladled up another spoonful of batter. “Want a waffle?”
    “Among other things,” Max said. His glance went to the pot of honey that sat in the middle of the table.
    Cleo gave him a severe frown. “Don't get any ideas. That scene with the honey in The Mirror was pure fantasy.”
    “My specialty is turning fantasy into reality.”
    “Forget it. Too sticky.”
    “Let me worry about the technical details.” Max smiled slowly. He picked up the pot of honey.
    Cleo forgot about the next waffle.

    A cold rain began to fall just as Max and Cleo emerged from an antiquarian bookshop in Pioneer Square. Cleo flicked open her umbrella. Her silver sneakers were getting soaked.
    “It's pouring. Let's go back to your place,” she suggested.
    “I've got a better idea.” Max took the umbrella from her and held it aloft so that it shielded both of them. When his fingers brushed against hers he glanced with approval at the emerald ring he had put on her finger an hour earlier. “There's an interesting little gallery around the corner. We can get out of the rain for a while in there.”
    “I'll bet this gallery doesn't hang any nice pictures of dogs or horses or seascapes,” Cleo muttered. They had already been in three other galleries, and none of them had featured the sort of art she liked. All the owners knew Max on sight.
    “The day this place hangs a picture of a spaniel will be the day I stop buying art here.” Max took a possessive grip on Cleo's arm and shepherded her into the white-walled gallery.
    Cleo studied the collection of mostly dark, mostly bleak, mostly gray and brown paintings with an unimpressed eye. She wrinkled her nose at Max. “I really don't understand what you see in this stuff.”
    Max took in the paintings on display with a single, sweeping glance. “If it's any consolation, I don't see anything at all in this batch.”
    “Good.” Cleo grinned. “There's hope for you yet.”
    A shining, bald head popped up from behind the counter. “Max, my friend.” A heavy-set middle-aged man dressed entirely in black smiled widely. “Long time, no see. Where have you been? I've left half a dozen messages with your office telling you to call me as soon as possible. Did you get them?”
    “No,” Max said. “I'm no longer working for Curzon. Walter, I'd like you to meet my fiancée, Cleo Robbins. Cleo, this is Walter Stickley. He owns this gallery.”
    “How do you do?” Cleo said.
    “My pleasure.” Walter's eyes lit with curiosity. He glanced at Max. “Engaged, did you say?”
    “Yes.”
    “Congratulations. And you say you've left Curzon?”
    “That's right. I'm with another firm now.”
    “That explains why I haven't been able to reach you. I'm glad you decided to drop in today.” Walter rubbed his palms together. “I was just about to start making a few phone calls to other clients.”
    “What have you got to show me?” Max gave the paintings on display another dismissing glance. “I don't see anything very interesting here.”
    Walter chuckled. “You know I always keep the good stuff in the back room. Follow me.”
    He came out from behind the counter and led the way down a short hall to a closed door. He opened it and waved Cleo and Max inside.
    Cleo took a quick look at the large canvas leaning against the wall and rolled her eyes. This picture was bleaker, more savage, and admittedly more interesting than the ones that were hanging in the outer room, but she didn't like it any better than she had the others.
    “Yuk,” Cleo said.
    Walter shot her a scathing glance. “Philistine.”
    “She likes pictures of dogs and horses,” Max said absently. He was staring at