Grand Passion

“Forget it.”
    Cleo nearly lost her balance on the stool as the deep emotions emanating from Max washed over her. She could also feel the equally powerful waves of the self-control he was exerting.
    “Max?” she prodded gently. “What did he say to you?”
    Max's eyes were stark when they met hers, but his voice was perfectly neutral. “He said something about me being the son he'd never had.”
    Cleo looked at him and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jason's dying words constituted the most important words Max had ever heard in his life. “Oh, Max….”
    Max's mouth curved with cool self-mockery, but his eyes did not change. “I knew at the time that Jason was exaggerating. Hell, I was his employee, not blood kin. Nobody knew that better than me.”
    “Yes, but if he called you his son he must have cared for you a great deal.”
    Max's smile vanished. He concentrated on polishing another glass. “He was dying. Deathbed conversations are probably always a little melodramatic. I'm sure he didn't expect me to take him literally.” He paused briefly, his gaze hardening. “But he did give me the Luttrells. There was no mistake about that.”
    She knew then that it had been a very, very long time since anyone other than Jason had told Max even indirectly that he was loved. She thought about the great love of her parents, which had bonded her small family together, and knew a searing sense of sorrow for all that Max had missed.
    “Those Luttrell paintings are more than just a valuable gift, aren't they? They're your inheritance from Jason,” Cleo said. “He wanted you to have them.”
    “He sent me out here to find them,” Max said in the same dangerously neutral tone. “He said he'd left them in your care.”
    “Hmm. I wonder what he meant by that.” Cleo glanced at the paintings of English hunt scenes that decorated the walls of the lounge. “Jason never even mentioned them to me.”
    “Is that right?”
    Cleo glowered at him. “What's that supposed to mean?”
    “Nothing.” Max smiled coolly, his expression speculative. “I'm just wondering what he meant, that's all.”
    “Well, I haven't got the foggiest idea,” Cleo said. She was about to pursue the point when she realized that Max's attention had shifted to the door of the lounge. Cleo turned her head to see what he was looking at.
    A man with the sharp, angular features of a tormented poet sauntered into the room. He was wearing a black pullover, black jeans, and black boots. His dark brown hair was swept straight back from his forehead and hung down to his shoulders. There was a distinctly smoldering quality to his heavy-lidded gaze.
    Cleo smiled at him.
    “Friend of yours?” Max asked softly.
    She leaned slightly across the bar. “That's Adrian Forrester. Harmony Cove's great unpublished writer. He arrived in town a year ago and told everyone he was an author, but so far he hasn't made a single sale. He comes in here once or twice a week.”
    Max's brows rose. “I take it you haven't told him about your success?”
    “Are you kidding? I seriously doubt that he would want to hear about it. I think it would depress him.” She sat back as Adrian approached.
    Adrian reached the bar and took the stool next to Cleo's with languid grace. He gave her the world-weary smile he had practiced to the point of perfection. A jaded Lord Byron consumed by ennui.
    “I thought I'd drop in for an espresso,” Adrian drawled. “I've been doing battle with a crucial scene in my book all day. Can't seem to get it the way I want it. Thought some caffeine and a change of atmosphere would help.”
    Cleo smiled consolingly. “Sure. Max, here, makes great espresso.”
    Adrian flicked Max a brief, dismissive glance. “Make it a double, pal. I need a jolt.”
    “I'll see what I can do,” Max said. “But I'm warning you, if you say ‘Play it again, Sam,’ I won't be responsible for the results.”
    “Huh?” Adrian's brow furrowed in confusion.
    “Forget it.” Max went to work at the gleaming espresso machine. Steam hissed.
    Adrian swung around on his stool to face Cleo. He nodded toward Max without much interest. “Someone new on staff?”
    “Yes,” Cleo said. She knew from experience that the only thing Adrian really liked to talk about was himself, so she changed the topic. “How's the writing going?”
    Adrian gave an eloquent shrug. “I've got a proposal out to a couple of major publishers. I'm expecting to hear from one of them