Grand Passion

locations, including the names of the specific officials who expected to be bribed before construction could begin on a new hotel; the reliability, or lack thereof, of certain members of Curzon management; sites that were ripe for development or, conversely, needed to be abandoned before they started losing money. Max had made himself an indispensable authority on all of those things.
    For all intents and purposes, he had been second-in-command at Curzon.
    In the process he had learned the correct way to drink tea in Japan, coffee in the Middle East, and champagne in France. He bought his shirts in London, his suits and shoes in Rome, and his ties in Paris. And he bought art and books wherever he found them.
    Curzon Hotels was a family-owned business that had been bequeathed to Jason and his brother, Dennison, by their father. Jason had always held the reins of the company, not only because he was the elder brother, but because he had the savvy intelligence required to manage the business. Dennison had not liked being relegated to second place, but he had tolerated it because there was no doubt that Jason was the natural leader in the family.
    Now, with Jason gone, Dennison was determined to demonstrate that he had as much business acumen as his brother.
    While he was alive, Jason had given Max the illusion that he was almost a member of the Curzon family. Three years ago Max had made the mistake of thinking he was going to become a real member, but that promise had dissolved in the ruins of his relationship with Kimberly Curzon, Dennison's daughter.
    Six weeks into the engagement, Kimberly had come to her senses and realized she could not marry a man with no background or family connections. She had married Roarke Winston, instead, the heir to a large industrial empire.
    Max had realized then that he would never be a member of the family.
    He had handed in his resignation the day after Jason had died of a massive heart attack. A week later he had set out to find the legacy Jason had spoken of on his deathbed.
    “Five Amos Luttrell paintings,” Jason had whispered after ordering his brother's family from the hospital room for a few minutes. “They're yours, Max. They don't go to the museum with the others. I wanted you to have them. Your inheritance from me. You understand? It's in my Will.”
    Max had gripped the old man's hand, hanging on to him as if he could draw him back from the brink. “Forget the Luttrells. You're going to pull through this, Jason. You're going to be okay.”
    “Bullshit. I'm eighty-three years old, and this is it. Better to go out this way than some of the ways a lot of my friends have gone. Been a good life for the most part. I had a fine wife for forty years, and I had a son I could be proud of.”
    “A son?” Max had been startled by the revelation. He had been told that Jason and his wife had never had children.
    “You, Max. You were the son I never had. And you're a damned good one.” Jason's gnarled fingers bit into Max's hand. “Those paintings and everything else you find out there on the coast with them are yours. Promise me you'll go get them.”
    “Take it easy, Jason.” Max could feel the unfamiliar dampness in his eyes. It was the first time he had cried since his mother had died. “You've got to rest.”
    “Left 'em with Cleo.”
    “What? The paintings? Who's Cleo?”
    Jason's answer had been lost in a wracking, wheezing cough. “Met her a year and a half ago. Amazing woman.” His frail fingers grasped Max's with unnatural strength. “Been meaning to introduce you. Never had a chance. You were always off somewhere. Europe, the islands. Always busy. Too late now. Time goes by so fast, doesn't it?”
    “Jason, try to get some rest.”
    “You find her, Max. You find her, and you'll find the paintings and everything else.”
    “Jason, for God's sake….”
    “Promise me you'll go after them.”
    “I promise. But don't worry about that now. You're going to be all right.”
    But Max had no longer been able to keep Jason back from the edge. Jason's hand had gone limp then, and the ghastly wheezing had finally stopped.
    Max pushed aside the memories. He had found the mysterious Cleo, and soon he would find his Luttrells. He picked up the plunger and took aim at the toilet bowl.
    “I'll help,” Sammy said.
    “I think it would be best if you supervised.”
    “Okay. I'm good at that. Cleo lets me supervise a lot.”
    Max went to work. Five minutes later, amid a