Grand Passion

you're a man, and I think Benjy will feel more comfortable talking to a man at this stage.”
    “What the hell do you expect me to talk to him about?”
    “Not supposed to say hell either,” Sammy said.
    “Sorry,” Max said brusquely.
    Cleo kept what she hoped was a persuasive smile in place. “Ideally I'd like you to talk him into coming home. I want him to shoulder his responsibilities toward Trisha. But at the very least he needs to realize he has a financial obligation to her.”
    “You don't ask much, do you?” Max said grimly.
    “What's an obligation?” Sammy asked.
    “That's what people say a person has when they want that person to do something.” Max didn't take his eyes off Cleo.
    “Oh.” Sammy appeared placated by the answer.
    Max studied Cleo. “This is way outside my area of expertise. I am definitely not a social worker.”
    “But you said your friend O'Reilly was good at tracking down people,” Cleo reminded him.
    “Finding Benjy is one thing,” Max said. “Talking him into coming back here is another.”
    “We've got to try.”
    Max looked at her. “I'd rather you left me out of this.”
    Sammy took his thumb out of his mouth. “I bet you could make Benjy come home, Max.”
    Cleo gave Max a searching glance. “Would you mind if we finished this discussion in the kitchen?”
    “Something tells me I can't avoid it.” Max took his foot down off the stool.
    He started to reach for his cane, but Sammy jumped to his feet, picked it up, and handed it to him.
    “Thank you.” Max took the cane politely. He tucked The Mirror under his arm and looked at Cleo. “All right. Let's go.”
    Sammy sat down in his small fanback chair. “Are you going to come back and read some more with me, Max?”
    Max glanced down at the boy. “Maybe.”
    “Okay. I'll wait here for you.”
    Cleo smiled ruefully as she led the way out of the solarium. “Sammy has really glommed on to you, hasn't he?”
    “He does seem to be underfoot every time I turn around.”
    “I think he's trying to turn you into a sort of honorary uncle, just as he did Jason,” she explained.
    “It's okay,” Max said. “I'm getting used to it.”
    Cleo pushed open the kitchen door. Trisha, Sylvia, Andromeda, and Daystar turned to stare at them. The expressions on their faces ranged from anxious and hopeful to grim and determined.
    “Well?” Daystar beetled her brows at Max. “Are you going to help us locate Benjy?”
    Andromeda and Sylvia watched Max with an ill-concealed expression of appeal. Trisha sniffed into her napkin and gazed at him uncertainly.
    Max surveyed the group sitting in the nook. His face was unreadable. “I can probably find Benjy for you.”
    The women traded relieved glances.
    “That's wonderful,” Andromeda said. “Will you talk to him? Try to get him to come home?”
    Max's jaw tightened. “I'll talk to him for you, but I'm not making any promises.”
    “We understand,” Cleo said quickly.
    Trisha stirred uneasily. “I'm not sure this is a good idea. I mean, I don't know if Benjy can handle this kind of pressure. What will I say to him if Max does find him and bring him home?”
    “For one thing,” Max said, “you will stop calling him Benjy.”
    A startled silence fell on the group. Cleo and the others gazed at him in mute astonishment.
    Cleo got her mouth closed first. “What are you talking about? Benjy is his name. Benjy Atkins.”
    “Not if he comes back here willingly and shoulders his responsibilities,” Max said. “If you're going to ask good old Benjy to become a man, the least you can do is to treat him like one. From now on, his name is Ben.”

    “Sure, Max, I can run that list of names through the computers,” Compton O'Reilly said on the other end of the phone. “But what the hell's going on? Is it true you've left Curzon International?”
    O'Reilly sounded amused, but that was nothing new, Max thought. He always sounded that way. Max was one of the few people who understood that O'Reilly's humorous approach to life was a facade. Since the death of his beloved wife and daughter in a plane accident five years ago, O'Reilly had retreated into a place where nothing seemed to bother him. Max would have envied him if he hadn't sensed that, for O'Reilly, the relentless amusement was a way to cover up the pain that still burned hot inside him.
    “I'm through with Curzon.” Max cradled the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he reached for a pen. “I've got a new