Grand Passion (8 page)

“Tell me if I hurt you,” she whispered.

“I will.” Max took a deep breath and waited for the exquisite torture to begin.

Cleo put her hands on his thigh. For a while she did not move at all. She simply let the warmth of her palms soak through his trousers into his skin.

Max was startled by the amount of soothing heat she was generating. He looked down at Cleo's bent head. She was concentrating intently on her task. The delicate, sensual curve of her neck was within reach. All he had to do was move his hand a scant six inches or so, and he would be touching her. Max gripped the arms of the chair.

“You're very tense.” Cleo frowned as she pressed her fingertips gently into his hard, muscled flesh. “Try to relax. According to the massage therapist who taught me how to do this, the chief cause of soreness in the muscles is tension.”

“I'll try to remember that.”

She began to knead his thigh with long, smooth strokes. “How does that feel?”

“Good.” It was true, Max realized, surprised. No one had ever offered to massage his leg for him since his “accident.” He hadn't realized how soothing it would feel to have someone else work on the knotted muscles of his thigh.

“Andromeda is very good with herbs. I'll ask her to mix up something you can use as a muscle relaxant,” Cleo said.

Max winced at the thought. “Never mind. I generally use brandy when things get bad.”

“I think you'll find one of Cosmic Harmony's herbal teas will work just as well. The guests love them.”

Max didn't feel like arguing. He closed his eyes and focused on the sensual touch of Cleo's hands. Another window, he thought. Another glimpse into the intriguing depths of Cleopatra Robbins.

Long minutes passed during which Max's leg began to feel infinitely better. But the massage did nothing to diminish the driving need inside him. The sense of urgency was growing beyond control.

“Cleo, I've been reading
The Mirror
,” Max said.

Her hands stilled. Max swore silently, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

“I suppose you think it's pornography, just like Nolan did.”

“No,” Max said. “I think it's beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

“More than beautiful. It's fascinating.”

Cleo's hands began to move again on his thigh. “Really?”

Max opened his eyes and looked down at her averted face. “Reading it is like looking into a fine painting. There are hundreds of layers to see. Some are obvious, others aren't. Some can be described, but the most important ones can't be put into words at all. You have to feel them.”

Cleo flashed him a misty smile. “You sound like Jason when you talk like that. He said some people see art with another eye.”

“He called it the inner eye.”

“That's right.” She tilted her head a little to one side. “Is that how you see art?”

“Yes.”

“It sounds strange. Can you see into people the same way?”

“Not usually,” Max admitted. But I'm learning to see you that way, he thought. The knowledge went through him like wildfire. The more he knew about Cleo, the more he wanted her. This was exactly how he felt when he was in the presence of a fine painting that spoke directly to him.

He wanted her
.

“You're lucky you can't see into people the way you do art.” Cleo continued to stroke his leg. “I can sometimes, and it's very frustrating for the most part.”

He studied the sweet, vulnerable line at the nape of her neck. “Why do you say that?”

“Because it doesn't do much good. Even when you can see things about people, you usually can't change them.”

“You sound like you're talking from experience.”

“I am.” Cleo looked up, her eyes troubled. “The reason Trisha was sobbing her heart out tonight is because she just found out she's pregnant. She says Benjy left because she told him about the baby.”

“I see. I'm sorry about Trisha, she seems like a nice enough kid. But what does her situation have to do with what we were talking about?”

Cleo's shoulder rose and fell in a small shrug. “I knew the first time I saw Trisha and Benjy together that they would cling to each other. They're two of a kind. Two orphans in a storm. I wasn't surprised when their friendship turned into a romance. But I also knew it could lead to disaster.”

“Why?”

“Because both Benjy and Trisha have had to be so strong in order to just survive, that they're both very fragile when it comes to dealing with other people. Does that make sense?”

“I don't know,” Max said.

“Take my word for it. Adding a baby to the equation was just too much stress. Especially for Benjy. He's never had a father of his own, and I imagine the thought of becoming one himself terrified him. No wonder he disappeared for a while.”

Max touched a stray lock of Cleo's hair. She did not seem to notice. “You're not to blame for Trisha's situation.”

“My point is that I could see deeply enough into both Trisha and Benjy to know that this mess Trisha's in was almost bound to happen. But I couldn't do a thing to stop it. Knowing what was coming didn't do any good, did it? I couldn't avert the catastrophe.”

“It wasn't your responsibility to avert it,” Max said.

Cleo smiled wryly. “Trisha and Benjy are both part of the family. I should have been able to do something about the situation before it got out of hand.”

“I thought I was the one who took things too seriously.”

Her smile faded. “This is serious. Trisha and Benjy are both family. I care about them.”

He couldn't think of anything to say to that. Cleo obviously had an odd definition of family. On the other hand, Max thought, he couldn't think of a better one. He decided not to comment.

Cleo worked for a while in silence. Her fingers probed gently, seeking the depths of his taut muscles. “I'm glad you didn't think
The Mirror
was pornographic,” she said after a moment.

“It's just the opposite.” Max closed his eyes.

“You sound very certain of that.”

“You know what they say about pornography.” Max smiled faintly. “You know it when you see it.
The Mirror
isn't it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

He searched for a way to put his inner knowledge into words. “
The Mirror
is alive. It generates a variety of responses, not just a sexual reaction. It's an affirmation of life and the future. Pornography is static.”

“Static?”

He spread the fingers of one hand wide and then let them relax. “It's one-dimensional. No past, no future, no depth, no emotion, except for a short-term sexual response which wears off very fast. I'm not saying it's good or bad; it's just boring after about ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” Cleo repeated very innocently.

Max heard the laughter in her voice. He raised his lashes and gazed at her through narrowed eyes. “Okay, fifteen, if it's really well-done pornography.”

She laughed softly. Her fingers continued to move on his thigh. “How is your leg feeling now?”

“Much better.” It was the truth.

“You're not an artist, are you, Max?”

“No.”

“So what did you do for a living before you came here?”

“This and that,” Max said. “Odd jobs for the most part.”

“What kind of odd jobs?”

He hesitated, uncertain of how much to tell her. If she knew he had worked for Jason she might think that he had merely been an employee and therefore had no real claim to the Luttrells. She might even conclude that she had more of a right to them than he did. Max preferred her to know only part of the truth, that he had been Jason's friend. It put him on an even footing with her. After all, Cleo had been no more and no less than Jason's friend, too. She would not be able to salve her conscience by telling herself that her relationship with Jason was closer than Max's had been and that therefore she had more of a right to the Luttrells.

Max realized at that moment that somewhere along the line he had decided that Cleo did have a conscience.

“I worked for an art dealer once,” Max offered as an example of the odd jobs he had performed.

“It must have paid very well,” Cleo said.

“Yes.” He knew she was thinking about the Jaguar and probably about his expensive clothes. He decided it was time to change the topic. “But I'm not in that line of work anymore.”

“How did you meet Jason?”

“We shared a mutual interest,” Max said.

“Art?”

“Yes.” He hoped she would stop there.

Cleo paused. “Max, were you telling me the truth when you said that Jason was rich?”

“Yes.” He wished he could read her mind. For the life of him he could not tell if she was playing the innocent brilliantly or if she really was innocent. He'd had very little experience with innocence of any kind. He didn't trust himself to recognize it on sight.

Cleo pursed her lips in a thoughtful expression. “I always sensed that there were a lot of things we didn't know about Jason. But he didn't seem to want us to know them, so I never asked. I figured he'd get around to telling us in his own good time.”

“Perhaps he would have. But time ran out for him.” Maybe she really was what she seemed to be, Max thought, irritated at not being able to decide.

It was then that he realized with stunning clarity that he wanted her to be as innocent as she appeared. He did not want to discover she was nothing more than the conniving little art thief that all the available evidence indicated she was.

He wanted something more, too. He wanted her to want him.

Max had been certain last night that Cleo was aware of him in a deeply sensual way, just as he was aware of her. He had seen the unguarded reaction in her eyes during those first, fleeting moments. But he detected nothing overtly sensual in the way she touched his thigh tonight. Her fingers were gentle and soothing, not deliberately seductive.

He tried to reconcile the picture of the woman who knelt beside him with the image he had of the woman who had written
The Mirror
. There was a paradox involved here, and it fascinated him. Max had a mental vision of fire frozen in ice.

All his male instincts told him that Cleo Robbins was not very experienced, and yet
The Mirror
had burned with a searing, passionate sensuality.

Max was suddenly, intensely aware of the length of satin stuffed into his pocket.

“Cleo?”

“Yes?”

Max could not think of a way to put the question he wanted to ask into words. Instead he reached into his pocket and slowly drew out the length of scarlet ribbon.

Cleo's hands stopped moving on his leg. She stared, transfixed, at the ribbon in his hand. Max saw the sudden, deep stillness in her. He wondered if she was afraid of him.

The abrupt need to protect her was so strong, it caused his hand to shake. “Don't be frightened.”

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with silent questions. “I'm not afraid of you.”

“I'm glad.” The ribbon dangled from his fingers, almost touching the floor. He caught hold of the loose end with his other hand. The satin gleamed softly as he stretched it out to form a gentle loop. “I told you I'm reading
The Mirror
.”

“Yes.” Her voice was only a whisper.

“I'm on chapter two.”

“Are you?” Cleo touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth. She glanced at the ribbon again.

“I know that the woman in
The Mirror
thinks she will recognize her phantom lover when she sees him, even though she has never seen his face clearly in the glass.”

“Yes, she'll know him.” Cleo's eyes were deep, fathomless pools of uncertainty and yearning behind the lenses of her glasses.

“What I don't know yet is how she will let him know that she recognizes him,” Max said softly.

“She won't have to tell him. Not with words, at any rate.”

“But he'll know that she knows?”

“Yes,” Cleo breathed.

The blood roared, wild and hot, through Max's veins. He could not recall feeling so intensely alive in his entire life, not even when he contemplated his magnificent collection of books and art. He was balanced on the dangerous edge between joy and agony.

Without a word, because there were no words, Max raised the loop of red satin. He slipped it slowly down over Cleo's head.

She did not move.
Fire frozen in ice waiting to be freed
.

Max settled the length of inexpensive scarlet ribbon around Cleo's throat as if it were a necklace composed of priceless rubies. He tugged gently on the ends of the ribbon, drawing her to him. Cleo leaned forward as if caught in a spell.

Max released the ends of the ribbon and plucked Cleo's glasses from her nose. He set them down on the floor beside his chair. His eyes never left hers.