Grand Passion

climate-controlled vault had been created by modern artists who were only just beginning to achieve the recognition they deserved. A few paintings were already acknowledged as works of genius. Some of the artists were still undiscovered, except by Max.
    Although he knew their present and future value, Max had not collected the paintings as an investment. Savage, bleak, and technically brilliant, the canvases reflected something inside himself that he could not put into words. Many were the stuff of the old nightmares that he had had as a child.
    He had no doubt that one day every painting in his possession would be acclaimed as the unique creation it was. His instincts were unerring when it came to art. He had the inner eye.
    With the exception of the complete works of Dr. Seuss and several tattered volumes of The Hardy Boys series, the rare books in the glass cases would have fetched enormous sums at any auction. Max coveted books almost as much as he coveted paintings.
    He especially valued old and rare books, books that had a history, books that had meant something to someone. When he held an old book in his hands, Max knew a fleeting sense of connection with people who had lived before him. He felt as though he shared a small part of someone else's past. It was as close as he got to feeling like a member of a family.
    The elegant old house, which Max occupied alone, sat on Seattle's Queen Anne Hill. It commanded a sweeping view of the city and Elliott Bay and was considered a prime piece of real estate. Everything in the mansion, from the 1978 California Cabernet Sauvignon that Max was drinking to the exquisite Oriental rugs on the polished hardwood floors, had been chosen with great care.
    But Max knew better than anyone that all the money he had lavished on the great brick structure had not accomplished the impossible. It had not turned his house into a home.
    Max had not had a home since the age of six. He was fairly certain now that he would never have one. He accepted that stark fact. He had long ago learned that the secret of surviving was not to want the things he could not have.
    Max's philosophy of life worked quite well for the most part because there were very few things he wanted that he could not have.
    Among the many things that Max had acquired for himself was a formidable reputation.
    People described his reputation in different ways. Some said he was dangerous. Others said he was brilliant and ruthless, utterly unrelenting in his pursuit of a goal. Everyone agreed on one thing, which was that when Max Fortune set out to do a job, the job got done.
    Max knew that his legendary reputation was based on one very simple fact: He never screwed up.
    Or, almost never.

Chapter

1

    I t had taken Max Fortune nearly a month to locate Jason Curzon's mistress. Now that he had found her, he didn't know what to make of her. Cleopatra Robbins was definitely not the sort of woman he had been expecting to find.
    Max stood quietly near the roaring fire and surveyed the chaos that filled the cozy lobby of the Robbins' Nest Inn. In spite of her evocative first name, Ms. Robbins certainly did not look like a sultry charmer who made her living by seducing wealthy men old enough to be her grandfather.
    She looked exactly like what she purported to be: a cheerfully harried innkeeper trying to deal with a flood of new arrivals.
    Max glanced at the series of insipid seascapes hanging on the walls as he listened to the hubbub going on around him. He smiled with faint derision. It was obvious that Cleopatra Robbins was not only not a typical seductress, she was not much of a connoisseur of art. Anyone who would hang those bland views of storm-tossed seas would be incapable of appreciating the five Amos Luttrell paintings that had been left in her care.
    It was just as well she preferred the seascapes, because Max intended to take the Luttrells from her. They belonged to him. They constituted his inheritance from Jason Curzon, and Max had every intention of claiming them.
    He was prepared to use whatever tactics were necessary to recover the legacy. Having to fight for what was his would be nothing new for Max. Since the age of six, he had done battle for everything he had ever wanted in life. Sometimes he lost, but more often he won.
    Max rested both hands on the intricately carved hawk that formed the grip of his cane. With an effort of will that was second nature to him, he ignored the persistent ache in his leg. The old