Grand Passion

intimidating timorous collectors.
    “There's no point wasting time reminiscing,” Max said. He tightened his grip on Cleo's arm. “You've met my fiancée, I believe.”
    “Fiancée?” Spark's smile was rueful. “I'm sorry. I hadn't realized you had actually made the mistake of falling in love with Fortune, my dear. What a pity. Do come in.”
    Cleo glared at him as she walked into the room. “We're here to discuss the paintings, Mr. Spark. I suggest we skip the small talk.”
    “Ah, yes. The Luttrells.” Spark motioned Max and Cleo to chairs and then sat down himself. He crossed one leg languidly over the other. “I must admit to being rather startled when I got your call yesterday, Max. May I assume that you are ready to deal?”
    “There is no deal,” Max said. “If and when the Luttrells are found, they belong to me. I have no intention of selling them.”
    “I have a bill of sale from Jason Curzon.” Spark's eyes were speculative. “It clearly shows that he sold the Luttrells to me shortly before he died.”
    “That bill of sale is as phony as the Maraston you sold to that collector down in Portland last year,” Max said calmly.
    Spark's eyes narrowed. “You can't prove that painting was a forgery.”
    Max smiled faintly. “Sure I can. I own the original.”
    A flash of annoyance appeared in Spark's eyes. It vanished almost instantly. “You're lying.”
    Max shook his head with weary patience. “No, Spark, I'm not lying. We both know that I never bluff. I picked up the original three years ago. It's been hanging in my vault ever since. If you insist on producing your bill of sale, I'll contact the Portland collector and suggest he have his Maraston examined by an expert.”
    “You're the leading authority on Maraston's work.”
    “Exactly.” Max shrugged. “I'll be only too happy to volunteer my expertise in this instance. I imagine the Portland collector will be very grateful. I think it would be safe to say that he'll probably want his money back from you. He will undoubtedly never buy anything from you again, and neither will anyone else who hears the story, which I imagine would spread like wildfire in certain circles.”
    “Bastard,” Spark said, but he sounded more resigned than outraged.
    Spark was, at heart, a businessman, Max reflected. He knew when to cut his losses. “I'm surprised you're still peddling the occasional forgery. I would have thought you'd have given up that sideline by now. After all, you do just fine handling the real thing. What's the matter? Still can't resist a quick buck?”
    “Some of us never change, do we, Fortune?” Spark's answering smile was tinged with poison. “I see you're still as much of an opportunist as ever. I'm amazed that you've stooped to seducing nice young women in order to get what you want, however. Even in the old days you had some rather irritating standards.”
    The standards hadn't been all that high, Max reflected. The arrangement he'd had with Spark was a simple one. In exchange for being allowed to handle the art he craved more than food, Max had agreed not to voice his opinions to Spark's clients.
    Unless those clients asked for his opinion.
    Jason Curzon was the only one who had ever asked Spark's rough-edged errand runner and odd-job man for an opinion.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Max watched Cleo's expression. His insides were twisted into a cold knot of anticipation. He had known what would happen if he brought Cleo with him to this confrontation. That was why he had fought so hard to keep her away from the meeting.
    But in the end she had destroyed his defenses in her own gentle fashion. At some point last night Max had realized he would have to take his chances. He did not know how she would react to this glimpse into his less-than-savory past, but he accepted the fact that his fate was in her hands.
    “Do we understand each other, Spark?” Max asked quietly.
    “I think so.” Spark turned to Cleo. “Did your fiancé ever tell you precisely what he did for a living when he worked for me, Ms. Robbins?”
    Cleo shot a quick glance at Max. “He said he did odd jobs for you.”
    “That he did.” Spark looked pleased. “Some very odd jobs. His duties included picking up extremely valuable works of art from certain sources that were, shall we say, less than reputable. Fortune carried a gun when he worked for me, Ms. Robbins. That should tell you something of the nature of his responsibilities.”
    Cleo frowned.