Grand Passion

“If he billed you for fifteen grand, I think it's safe to say you were probably the biggest client he ever had.”
    Cleo frowned. “But do you think he deliberately ripped me off?”
    O'Reilly met her eyes. “I never heard that he was crooked. He just wasn't very big-time. Probably didn't have a head for the business side of things.”
    “I see.” Cleo felt stiff. She started to rub the back of her neck.
    Max put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. His thumb moved across the tense muscles. The strength in his fingers felt very good. Cleo could feel the warmth in his hand seeping into her.
    “Let's get out of here, Cleo,” Max said.
    “What about O'Reilly's fee?” she said stubbornly. “I think I need a contract or something. I told you, I don't want another fifteen-thousand-dollar surprise.”
    “I'll take the same deal you gave Max, here,” O'Reilly said. “Minimum wage plus tips and room and board while I'm here.”
    Cleo wrinkled her nose. “He told you about that?”
    “Yeah.”
    Cleo gave Max a disgusted look. “I suppose you thought it was all very funny, Mr. Hotshot hotel executive.”
    “No,” said Max. “I thought it was the best deal I'd been offered in a long, long time.”

Chapter

14

    T he old brick mansion had never seemed so cold. Max checked the thermostat before he went down-stairs into the wine cellar to find his best California Cabernet. It was a cold night, but the house should have been comfortably warm. The temperature was set at seventy-four degrees. Max frowned and nudged the setting up to seventy-six. It occurred to him that his attic room at the inn had never seemed chilly.
    He knew it was not the mansion that was cold, it was him. It was a familiar sensation. He had felt like this several times before in his life. The first occasion was when a social worker had explained to him that he was going to live with a very nice family. The last time had been when Jason had died.
    Tonight was another turning point. He could sense it. A fine tension had set all his nerve endings on red alert.
    This time the feeling was the worst it had ever been. This time there was too much at stake. Always before he had been able to walk away from what he knew he could not possess. He did not know how he would walk away from Cleo if she refused his offer of marriage.
    On his way back to the kitchen he paused to glance uneasily into the vast living room. Cleo stood with her back to him in front of the broad expanse of windows that overlooked the city and Elliott Bay. She was studying the lights of the downtown high-rises, which gleamed like bright jewels in the rain.
    Max watched her, aware of a deep sense of longing inside himself. She had been far too quiet during the drive from the coast. He had made several attempts to start a conversation, only to have each effort flounder.
    Cleo had been polite since they left the inn, but she seemed to be off somewhere in a world of her own. Max could not tell what she was thinking, and that fact was making him extremely edgy.
    He carried the Cabernet into the kitchen and uncorked it carefully. Long ago Jason had explained to him that a good Cab had to be treated with reverence.
    Max experienced a few qualms about his choice of wine as he poured the ruby-colored liquid into two glasses. Maybe he should have chosen champagne, instead. His mouth curved wryly as he realized that, despite Jason's teaching, there were still times when he was unsure of the proper thing to do.
    “What are you smiling about?” Cleo asked from the kitchen doorway.
    Startled by the question after several hours of near-silence, Max managed to screw up the deft little twisting movement that was designed to prevent the wine bottle from dripping. Two blood-red drops splashed on the polished granite countertop. He looked at them as he set down the bottle.
    “I was just thinking that there's one hell of a difference between being born into money and having to battle your way into it,” he said. He reached for a paper towel to wipe up the small drops of wine.
    “What's the difference?” Cleo asked, her gaze unreadable.
    Max shrugged. “A sense of assurance. The certainty that you always know the right thing to do or wear or serve.” He handed her one of the glasses. “When you're born into money, you absorb that kind of confidence from the cradle. When you fight your way into it, you never really acquire it.”
    “I suppose you're right.” Cleo delicately tasted her