Grand Passion by Jayne Ann Krentz

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