Grand Passion

dried it with a white linen towel. “For the twentieth time, the answer is yes.”
    “He never said a word. Guess he didn't want us to know.” Cleo shook her head in silent amazement. “We always knew his last name was Curzon, but we never dreamed he was connected to the hotel family.”
    “He obviously liked being treated as just another member of your family,” Max said quietly. “He was apparently living out a pleasant little fantasy here on the coast. There was no harm in it.”
    “Of course not, it's just that it's so hard to believe that the head of one of the world's biggest hotel chains spent his weekends here at Robbins' Nest Inn. Sheesh.” Cleo made a face. “I had him unclogging toilets, too. He used to help Benjy—excuse me, I mean, Ben —with the plumbing all the time.”
    Max slanted her a strange glance. “You really didn't know who he was, did you?”
    “Never had a clue. Not even when we got the letter from a Mrs. Singleton telling us he had died.”
    “Roberta Singleton was his secretary. Knowing Jason, he had probably left her a list of people to notify in the event something happened to him.”
    “And we were on the list.” Cleo recalled the many long talks she'd had with Jason here in the lounge. “At least I know now why he had so many good suggestions about running this place. I nearly doubled my profit this past year, thanks to him. It was Jason's idea to put in the computerized billing system.”
    “Jason knew what he was doing when it came to running hotels.” Max picked up another glass. “He was the best in the business.”
    Cleo watched him closely. “No wonder you thought I was some kind of gold-digger when you first got here.”
    “Let's not reopen that subject.”
    “Suits me.” Cleo took a sip of her tea and frowned as she remembered another topic he had brought up that first night. “So you worked for him?”
    “Yes.”
    Cleo studied his expressionless face and knew intuitively that the single-word answer covered a lot of territory. “What exactly did you do for him?”
    “Odd jobs. Same as I do for you.”
    “Somehow I can't envision you tending bar and handling luggage for Curzon International,” Cleo said.
    “Why not? I do it here.”
    “You do have a knack for making yourself useful.” Cleo decided to abandon that subject. “What about those paintings you mentioned? Those Artie Lutefisks or whatever you called them.”
    Max gave her a pained look. “Luttrells. Amos Luttrells.”
    “Right. Luttrells. The night you arrived you seemed to think Jason might have left them here.”
    “That's what he told me.” Max's eyes were completely shuttered now. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
    Cleo tilted her head to one side. “Now this Garrison Spark person is looking for them. He must think they're here, too. Know anything about him?”
    “He owns a gallery in Seattle. Very exclusive. I worked for him for a while.”
    “Him too?” Cleo elevated one brow. “You do get around, don't you? What did you do for Mr. Spark?”
    “Crated paintings. Transported them. Delivered them to their owners. Strictly manual labor. I didn't work for Spark very long.” Max studied the reflection in the glass he was polishing. “He and I had a few differences of opinion on a couple of matters.”
    “What matters?”
    Max looked at her, his gaze steady. “Spark is very smart, and he knows a great deal about contemporary art. But he's not bothered by pesky little nuisances such as honesty and integrity. If he thinks he can pass off a fake to a client and get away with it, he'll do it.”
    “Really?” Cleo was fascinated. “I've never met a crooked art dealer. He sounds kind of exotic.”
    “He's got all the ethics of a snake.” There was a rough edge to Max's voice. “You heard what Andromeda said. He claimed the Luttrells were only worth fifty thousand.”
    “You're sure they're worth more?”
    Max's mouth tightened. “A lot more.”
    “And you're sure they belong to you?”
    “I'm damn sure they belong to me,” Max said very softly.
    “Did Jason actually give them to you?”
    “Yes.”
    “He just up and gave you a bunch of very valuable paintings?” Cleo persisted.
    “Yes.”
    “The two of you must have been awfully good friends,” she observed.
    “You could say that.” Max stacked the dried glasses in precise rows on the counter. “On his deathbed he said—” Max broke off abruptly and concentrated on arranging the glasses.