Grand Passion

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