Grand Passion

myself.”
    “So did I,” Sylvia said quickly.
    “I am so sorry I missed the big scene.” Andromeda sighed. “It sounds wonderfully romantic.”
    Cleo whirled around, her arms full of dirty tablecloths. “It was not romantic. It was a disaster. Max was lying there on the floor, injured. Roarke Winston had accused him of sleeping with Kimberly and was getting ready to hit him again. All George could do was slam the desk bell like a crazy person. Things were in complete chaos.”
    “And that's when Ben and the others arrived?” Andromeda asked cheerfully.
    “Yes.” Cleo dumped the dirty tablecloths into a pile. “And that's when Ben, in his infinite wisdom, announced that Max was going to marry me.”
    “And Max agreed,” Andromeda concluded happily.
    “It was not like he had a lot of choice under the circumstances,” Cleo said. “The man was under enormous pressure. After all, Roarke Winston was threatening to beat him to a pulp.”
    Andromeda looked thoughtful. “Somehow I don't think pressure bothers Max too much.”
    Sylvia nodded. “Andromeda's right. Max wouldn't say something like that, regardless of the circumstances, unless he meant it.”
    “I agree,” Trisha said.
    Cleo felt trapped. “I don't care if he did mean it.” She picked up the basket of dirty tablecloths. “Just because Max agreed to marry me doesn't mean I intend to marry him.”
    Andromeda frowned. “Whatever are you talking about, dear?”
    Cleo lifted her chin. “Don't you understand? There are two things wrong with this situation. First, Max has never asked me to marry him. Two, I'm not at all sure I would marry him even if he did ask me.”
    Sylvia, Trisha, and Andromeda stared at her. In the ensuing shocked silence, Daystar emerged from the kitchen. She stood, hands on hips, and eyed Cleo speculatively.
    “Why wouldn't you want to marry him?” Daystar asked bluntly. “It's as plain as the nose on your face that you love him.”
    “That does not mean that Max Fortune is good husband material,” Cleo said through gritted teeth.
    “I disagree,” Andromeda said calmly. “I'll admit I had a few qualms about him at first, but that was only because we didn't know much about him.”
    “Well, now we know a lot more about him, don't we?” Cleo retorted. “And a lot of what we've learned lately makes me have real doubts about marrying the man.”
    “Cleo, Max loves you,” Sylvia said quietly.
    Cleo tightened her grip on the basket of dirty tablecloths. “Don't be too sure of that. To be perfectly frank, I'm not sure Max knows how to love.”
    “Oh, dear,” Andromeda murmured. “Whatever do you mean?”
    Cleo sighed. “Max knows how to collect the things he wants, and I think that he does want me. At least for the moment. But wanting isn't the same thing as loving, and I have no wish to become a part of Max Fortune's collection of fine art.”
    Trisha stared at her. “Cleo, I'm sure you're wrong.”
    “Am I? I'm the one who's been sleeping with him. I know him better than any of you, and I'm here to tell you that Max has never once said anything about love. Kimberly Curzon-Winston may be right. He may not know the meaning of the word relationship .”
    “How would Ms. Curzon-Winston know anything about Max?” Sylvia demanded.
    “Because she was engaged to him at one time.”
    They all stared at her in amazement.
    Satisfied with the effects of her small bombshell, Cleo headed for the swinging door. When she reached it, she turned around and backed through it.
    She collided with Roarke Winston, who was on his way out of the kitchen into the dining room. The impact sent the tablecloths in the bin flying in a variety of directions.
    “Excuse me.” Roarke disentangled himself from a tablecloth. He smiled ruefully. “I seem fated to crash into you, Ms. Robbins. Sooner or later, I'm going to do some damage.”
    “Don't be ridiculous. And please call me Cleo.” She quickly collected the fallen tablecloths. “What were you doing in the kitchen, Mr. Winston? Or should that be Curzon-Winston?”
    Roarke's eyes darkened with annoyance. “No, it damn well is not Curzon-Winston. My wife can call herself anything she likes, but my name is just plain Winston. I'd rather you called me Roarke. And the answer to your question, Cleo, is that I went in there looking for you. Someone said you were helping to clear the dining room. I was on my way to find you.”
    “I see. What can I do for you?” Cleo put down the bin