Grand Passion

collection. “I'm not a very good example of modern art. I might work better in someone's butterfly collection or maybe an exhibit of carnival glass.”
    “I said I wanted to marry you, not collect you,” Max whispered savagely. He put his wine glass down carefully on the small inlaid table near the Sheraton chair. He was afraid that if he kept the fragile crystal in his hand he would snap the stem. He was gripping the carved hawk on his cane so tightly that the muscles in his wrist ached.
    “Is there a difference in your mind?” Cleo asked.
    “Yes, damn it. Cleo, you said you were angry this morning because I hadn't asked you properly. I'm trying to do it right.”
    “It wasn't just that you hadn't asked.”
    “Cleo.”
    Max took a step toward her and stopped abruptly when he saw her move back a pace. She was going to refuse . Anguish ripped through him. He felt more pain than he had ever known in his life. He could feel it gnawing at his vitals, eating him alive. This was worse than when Jason had died.
    Cleo's eyes were wide and luminous. When he took another step toward her, she held up a hand as if she were warding off the devil himself.
    “Max, why do you want to marry me?”
    “Because I want you.” The words were torn from him, leaving a raw, gaping wound. He wondered if he would bleed to death right there on the Oriental rug.
    Cleo's gaze seared Max's soul for a moment longer, and then, with a small, soft cry, she went into his arms.
    “All right,” she said into his shirt. “I'll marry you.”
    Max felt the wound inside him start to close. He was going to survive, after all. He let the cane fall to the rug as he folded Cleo tightly against him. The volatile emotions that had been raging through him were transmuted into a wild, desperate hunger.
    He needed her more than he had ever needed anything in his life.
    As if she sensed his need, Cleo raised her face to his. Max kissed her heavily. When he felt her response, he groaned and pulled her down onto the rug.
    “Max.”
    He tugged at her clothing, pulling off her shirt and yanking open the fastening of her jeans. He managed to get the denims off together with her silver shoes. Then he fumbled awkwardly with the zipper of his trousers. He didn't even bother trying to take them off. He knew he wouldn't be able to manage the task.
    Cleo reached up for him, parting her legs and opening her mouth for him. He fell on top of her like a starving man on a feast.
    A moment later he was where he needed to be, deep inside Cleo. She was warm and soft and snug, and he was home.

    Cleo opened her eyes and looked up at the canvases that peered down at her like so many dark, tormented eyes. Max's taste in art definitely did not tend toward the sweet or sentimental.
    The pictures that hung on the walls of his secret lair exhibited the same riveting combination of savagery and civilized polish that he did. And they were just as complicated and enigmatic as he was.
    Cleo knew that, for better or worse, she had just allowed herself to be collected by Max Fortune.
    The only things in this room that gave her hope were the inexpensive copies of the children's books that she had discovered amid the valuable tomes in his bookcase. She smiled.
    “Cold?” Max sat up slowly. His eyes darkened with satisfaction as he moved his hand possessively along the curve of her thigh.
    “A little.” Cleo looked up at him. “It's chilly in here.”
    “The room is climate controlled.”
    Cleo sat up and reached for her shirt. “To protect the canvases and the books?”
    “Yes.” Max watched her closely. “Cleo, I want to be married immediately.”
    She paused in the act of buttoning her shirt. “What's the rush?”
    “You know damn well what the rush is.” Max used the cane to get to his feet. He reached down to catch hold of her hand. “I don't want you changing your mind.”
    “I've got news for you, Max.” Cleo allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. “You won't be allowed to marry me in some hurried little ceremony at the court-house. The family won't stand for it. Sylvia, Andromeda, and the others will want it done right. And we can't preempt Trisha and Ben's wedding. It wouldn't be fair to steal the limelight from them.”
    Max zipped up his trousers. “I was afraid you'd say that.”
    Cleo made a face at him as she finished dressing. She was vastly relieved to see that his expression was once again one of general irritation. He was no longer wearing the