Grand Passion

important. I came on ahead to get dinner started.” Daystar ground some pepper into the soup. “Any word yet on the whereabouts of Benjy?”
    Cleo arched her brows. “You mean Mr. Ben Atkins?”
    Daystar chuckled. “Oh, that's right. We're supposed to start calling the boy by his new name, aren't we?”
    “Max says if we don't, he won't bother to even try to bring Ben back. And, no, as far as I know, there's been no word on his whereabouts.”
    “Trisha doesn't think Max can find him,” Daystar said. “Or that Ben will agree to come back even if Max does locate him.”
    “We'll see.” Cleo turned her head as the back door opened and Andromeda bustled into the room. Water drops sparkled on her iridescent blue rain cape.
    “It's pouring out there.” Andromeda peeled off the shimmering cape and hung it in a closet. “Thought I'd never get rid of that silly man. What a waste of time. He simply wouldn't take no for an answer.”
    Daystar closed an oven door. “Salesman?”
    “You could say that.” Andromeda frowned. “Except that he wanted to buy, not sell. His name was Garrison Spark.”
    “Hah. I knew it,” Cleo muttered. “He was probably trying to steal you and the others for his own restaurant, wasn't he?”
    “Not exactly, dear.” Andromeda tied her apron around her waist. “He said he was an art dealer. He's looking for some paintings by a man named Luttrell.”
    Cleo widened her eyes. “Amos Luttrell?”
    “Yes, I believe that was it. Why? Have you heard of him?”
    “Uh, yes. As a matter of fact, I have.” Cleo frowned. “Max mentioned him.”
    Andromeda picked up a knife and went to work slicing red peppers. “Mr. Spark claims there are five paintings by this Luttrell person floating around out here on the coast somewhere. Says they're worth a fortune.”
    Daystar glanced at her. “How much is a fortune?”
    Andromeda shrugged. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
    Cleo's mouth dropped open. “ Fifty thousand dollars . Are you kidding?”
    The kitchen door swung open at that moment. Max loomed in the doorway. Sammy was right beside him, Lucky Ducky in hand.
    “We need another tray of hors d'oeuvres in the lounge,” Max said.
    “With olives,” Sammy said with an air of grave importance. “All the olives are gone.”
    Max glanced down at him. “That's because you ate them.”
    Sammy giggled. “Lucky Ducky ate them.”
    “I've got another tray ready to go,” Daystar said. “I'll send it right out.”
    Max glanced at Cleo. “Something wrong?”
    “Someone named Garrison Spark is looking for those paintings you mentioned the first night you arrived.”
    Max went utterly still. “Spark is here?”
    “Not here,” Cleo said. “He went to Cosmic Harmony. Andromeda talked to him. Max, Mr. Spark says those paintings are worth fifty thousand dollars.”
    “He lied,” Max said quietly. “They're worth a quarter of a million. In five years' time they'll be worth a million.”
    “Good lord,” Daystar breathed.
    Cleo was dazed. “A quarter of a million?”
    “Yes,” Max said. He looked at Andromeda. “What did you tell Spark?”
    Andromeda looked surprised by the edge in his voice. “I told him I had never heard of Amos Luttrell, let alone the paintings.”
    Cleo scowled at Max. “What's going on, Max? How could anyone think that Jason owned such valuable paintings?”
    His eyes met hers. “I think it's time I explained a few of the facts of life as they relate to Jason Curzon. I told you he was not a poor man. That's putting it mildly. He was Jason Curzon of Curzon International.”
    “The hotel chain?” Cleo was stunned. “Are you certain of that?”
    “Yes,” said Max. “I should know. I used to work for him.”

Chapter

6

    S o our Jason Curzon was really one of those Curzons? The head of the big hotel chain?” Cleo asked again later that night.
    She was perched on a stool at the bar, a cup of Andromeda's herbal tea in front of her. It was a typical, slow, midweek night in winter. It was late, and the low hum of conversation in the shadowed lounge had a relaxed, sleepy quality.
    Max was behind the bar, looking as professional as if he had spent his entire working life making espresso drinks and serving after-dinner sherry. He was, Cleo reflected, an amazingly adaptable man. He'd handled every task he'd been given with a calm, totally unruffled aplomb.
    “That's probably the twentieth time you've asked me that question.” Max picked up a newly washed glass and