Grand Passion by Jayne Ann Krentz

ache that had settled into his groin. He should have had enough sense to stop reading after he'd finished chapter one.
    But he had been unable to resist continuing on to chapter two, even though the sensual fantasies in the book were so vibrantly female in nature that they felt alien. The fact that they were Cleo's fantasies was what had compelled him, seduced him, captivated him. In The Mirror , Max knew he had found another window through which he could view her.
    The glimpses he'd gotten tonight were going to keep him awake for a long time.
    He pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Old pain, familiar and unpleasant, lanced through his left thigh when he got to his feet. Automatically he glanced down at the scar. It looked as ugly as it always did, and it called up the usual memories.
    Memories of one of the few times that he had screwed up royally.
    Max reached for his cane to steady himself. He waited a minute, and gradually the pain eased. He made his way over to the window and looked out across the night-shrouded cove. Through the steady fall of rain he could see the lights of the Cosmic Harmony Women's Retreat winking in the distance.
    Max gazed at them for a long while, and then he glanced back over his shoulder at his newest temporary home. He had stayed in a lot of places over the years, from cheap, thin-walled trailers to European castles, but this was the first time he had lived in an attic.
    The large room under the eaves of the old inn was surprisingly cozy. It was also comfortable, so long as he remembered to duck the steeply sloped roof beams near the walls. Luckily there had apparently not been enough frilly Victoriana left over to waste on this portion of the inn. To his infinite relief, the furnishings up here were worn, rustic pieces that suited his taste for clean, straightforward shapes and forms.
    Max envisioned Cleo asleep in her canopied bed one floor below and immediately regretted it. The image only served to intensify the heavy feeling in his lower body. It was going to be a long night.
    His gaze fell on the coil of red ribbon lying on the desk, and his mouth tightened.
    He'd made a tactical error this morning when he had confronted Cleo with his assumptions about her role in Jason's life. He was rarely so clumsy.
    Having neatly wrecked his chances for insinuating himself easily into her odd household, Max had realized immediately that he'd needed a new pressure point. He'd had to find a way to convince Cleo to let him stay on at the inn. The incident with the red ribbon had provided him with a perfect excuse for hanging around.
    He had told her he'd have O'Reilly check out the guests who were staying at the inn, and he fully intended to do just that. But he was going to tell O'Reilly not to rush the check. Max needed time to search for the Luttrells.
    He scooped up the scarlet satin ribbon and let the ends trail through his fingers. The realization that someone had invaded Cleo's bedroom in order to deliberately frighten her sent a frisson of cold anger through him. Literary criticism had its place, but this particular critic had gone too far.
    He was definitely not in a mood to sleep, Max decided. It sounded quiet downstairs. This would be a good opportunity to take a look around the inn's basement. He'd already prowled through several upstairs rooms and found nothing. The basement was the sort of place someone like Cleo might have chosen to conceal five valuable paintings.
    Max shook his head in disgust at the thought of the magnificent Luttrells stashed in a damp basement.
    He crossed the room to the closet. As usual, he had brought a fully packed carryall with him. The habit of being ready to leave at a moment's notice had been formed when he was a boy and was too well entrenched to be broken now.
    Max tugged on a pair of dark trousers and one of the new white shirts he had recently received from his London tailor. For no good reason that he could think of, he