Grand Passion

card into the wastebasket. “Can't help you. For the last time, I know nothing about the Luttrells.”
    Spark smiled coolly. “I sincerely doubt that you know much about Max Fortune, either. If you did, you would be extremely cautious. The man is dangerous, Ms. Robbins.”
    “Look, Mr. Spark, I'm getting a little bored with this hunt-the-missing-picture game. Jason Curzon did not leave those paintings here at the inn. Believe me, if he had, I would have run across them by now.”
    Spark looked even more amused. “The question in my mind is not whether Curzon left those paintings here, but rather how much do you want for them?”
    “What?” Cleo stared at him in amazement. “I just told you that I don't know where they are. And if I did know, I would give them to Max before I gave them to you. He's got first dibs.”
    “I see the clever Mr. Fortune has charmed his way into your good graces.” Spark shook his head ruefully. “Either that or he has played on your sympathies with a hard-luck story. I fear I must tell you quite frankly that giving the pictures to Max Fortune would be an extremely foolish thing to do.”
    “Why?” Cleo shot back.
    “Because he has no legal or moral claim to them. He's after them simply because they are brilliant works that he wishes to add to his collection. I should warn you, Ms. Robbins, that Fortune will stop at nothing when it comes to obtaining a painting he desires for his private collection. He can be quite ruthless.”
    “What about you, Mr. Spark? How far will you go?”
    Spark's eyes mirrored reluctant respect. “I can be just as tenacious as Fortune, my dear, but I tend to take a rather different approach.”
    “What approach?”
    “I shall be quite happy to pay you a fair price for the Luttrells.”
    “Really?” Cleo eyed him skeptically. “Max says they're worth a quarter of a million.”
    Spark chuckled indulgently. “Fortune always did have a flair for exaggeration. Fifty thousand is a much more realistic estimate. Although I'll grant you that in five years the figure could be much higher. However, five years is a long time to wait, isn't it? I am prepared to give you twenty-five thousand for those paintings today.”
    “Forget it.”
    “You're a hard bargainer, Ms. Robbins. Very well, make it thirty.”
    “Don't you ever give up?”
    “No,” Spark said. “I don't. And neither does Max Fortune. How much has he offered?”
    “He hasn't offered a cent,” Cleo said honestly.
    “He will,” Spark said. “Unless, of course, he can talk you out of them for nothing. He's not above trying that tactic. Presumably you will not allow him to do so, however. Call me when he makes his final offer. I will top it.”
    “There will be no final offer, Mr. Spark, because there are no Luttrells laying around Robbins' Nest Inn. In case you hadn't noticed, I prefer a different sort of art.”
    Spark glanced disparagingly at Jason's seascapes. “So I see.”
    “It's all in the eye of the beholder, isn't it, Mr. Spark?”
    Spark turned back to Cleo. “Ms. Robbins, if you are by any chance holding out because you believe that you can sell the paintings yourself on the open market, allow me to disabuse you of that notion. It takes contacts to sell that kind of art. I have those contacts. You do not. Please keep that in mind when you make your decision.”
    Spark turned on his heel and walked out.

    The lights of Robbins' Nest Inn glowed with welcoming warmth through the sleeting rain. Max studied them as they drew closer. He was aware of a strange sense of unreality. If he used his imagination, he could almost make believe he really was returning home after a long, exhausting, but successful journey. Home to a hot meal, a loving family, and a woman who would fly straight into his arms the instant she realized he had arrived.
    But that kind of unrealistic imagination was not his strongest suit. He was far better at envisioning the logical, pragmatic consequences of failure. And there was no getting around the fact that he was returning as a failure. Ben was not with him, and there was no guarantee that he would return on his own in the near future.
    Max slowed the Jaguar as he turned into the inn's parking lot. He was not eager for what awaited him. But at least he was packed and ready to leave, as always. The difference this time was that he would be leaving something important behind him.
    The inn's lot was nearly full. Max glanced curiously at the vehicles that