LITMIR.BIZ

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      There was almost always a circus in town when his grandfather was around. And the memory of all those circuses, all those towns—all that adventure—made him smile, despite his fears that the potential investor was about to be scared off. Any sane woman would be.

      Especially if Mortimer came out brandishing his sword.

      “Not a circus. But there could be animals.”

      She merely gaped.

      “I don’t think there would be any dangerous ones,” he quickly added. “Though you can never be entirely sure. He did once rescue a tiger headed for the dinner table of some sick, twisted millionaire.”

      “He? Are you talking about Mr. Potts?” she asked, her eyes wide, as if she wasn’t sure if he was pulling her leg.

      He wasn’t. Though he’d like to, if it meant he actually got to touch one of those long, beautiful legs.

      “Es salaam aleikom!”

      He tore his attention off Sabrina Cavanaugh’s slender thighs and braced himself for introductions. This could be tricky.

      “What did he say?”

      “That’s hello. I think. Though he could be offering you some camel tongue,” Max muttered. Then he fell silent, watching Sabrina absorb Mortimer Potts.

      A mane of thick white hair blew around his grandfather’s shoulders, which were still strong and straight despite his age. His face was smooth, nearly unwrinkled, but dark and leathery after years in the blazing sun of Africa or South America. Even from several feet away, his blue eyes shone brilliantly—alight with intelligence and a genuine love of life—as he approached. His steps were firm, his legs never hinting that they’d been walking the earth for eight decades. Or that they suffered terribly with arthritis.

      Clothed in a traditional long, white tunic with a red sleeveless coat draped over it, and a colorful cloth resting lightly on top of his hair, he looked just like the Bedouin sheikh he imagined himself to be. The garb flowed around his tall, lanky form, each gust of wind molding it against his skinny legs.

      Max sent up a quick prayer that Mortimer was wearing something underneath this time.

      Sabrina stared, saying nothing, not even when his grandfather reached her side. She looked stunned—as robbed of speech as if her prissy poodle Giorgio had started singing “Like A Virgin.”

      He understood the reaction. His grandfather was a little…startling, at first. But he was not truly crazy—just a bit eccentric.

      And he was definitely not laughable.

      In fact, if she laughed at him, he’d let her find her own damn way back to town and she could take her money with her.

      Max, Morgan and Mike could laugh with the old man as much as they wanted. But heaven help anyone who laughed at him.

      If, however, she saw the man Max and his brothers saw—as she’d seen the beauty in the carousel—he might fall in love and propose. Not marriage—God, no. But…something.

      Probably something indecent.

      “You’ve arrived just in time. I’ll have my manservant fetch my pipe. Come smoke with me.”

      Max frowned. “You know you can’t do that anymore.”

      “What do the doctors know?”

      “I’m not talking about your health, I’m talking about the stuff you put in that pipe. It’s illegal in most countries, especially this one.”

      Mortimer rolled his eyes.

      “And,” Max added, “you don’t have a manservant anymore. Roderick spent one night with those clocks and hightailed it back to New York, remember?”

      His grandfather waved an airy hand, completely unconcerned by such banal things as his health, flighty butlers with superiority complexes, or his stature as a law-abiding citizen. That last part was questionable, anyway.

      “Did you put that thing up yourself?” Max asked, unable to figure out how Grandfather could have gotten this whole Middle Eastern scenario set up in the few hours since he’d left. Grandfather wasn’t, after all, a seventy-year-old anymore.

      Shaking his head, Mortimer explained. “Hired a few of the townies for the morning.”

      Oh, joy. Word was likely spreading already. Our new town patriarch is a wingnut. Hide the good china, stash the children and lock up the virgins.

      “Now, tell me, who have we here?” Grandfather asked. A smile that could only be described as wolfish appeared on the old man’s face, and a recognizable, flirtatious twinkle appeared in his eyes. Twenty years dropped off his age. Someone who didn’t know him would peg him as a man of sixty. A virile one.

      Oh, did Max ever want to be his grandfather when he was that old!

      “My name is Sabrina Cavanaugh,” she said, sticking out her hand and smiling at the old man. She appeared friendly, admiring.

      Grandfather had a way with women. And judging by the light in his eyes, he’d noticed that this particular woman had a smile that could bring a man to his knees. Even aged arthritic ones.

      “I am—”

      “Mortimer Potts,” Max interjected, nipping the long sheikh title in the bud.

      Grandfather offered him a slight, condescending smirk. “I suppose that will do for now.”

      Max watched closely as Mortimer and the newcomer took stock of each other. His grandfather was, as always, regal and proud in his eccentricity. And so far, Sabrina wasn’t running. In fact, she looked intrigued. The same way she’d looked at the carousel.

      He knew he was going to like this woman.

      “Mr. Potts, I am not a smoker, but I would very much like to see inside that tent. I’ve often wondered what they’re like.”

      “They’re so comfortable. Mountains of pillows, cool, silk draperies. Quite the thing for this dry, desert climate.”

      Not batting an eye, she offered him her arm. “I can’t wait to see it.”

      “Good. Then I’ll brew us some tea.”

      Max cleared his throat and shot the old man a warning glance, knowing Mortimer sometimes liked to get creative with what he put in his tea. “No weird spices.”

      Sabrina shook her head. “Oh, I’m so disappointed.”

      Great, just what Grandfather needed, a partner in crime. But Max knew how to scare the woman into behaving. “And none of that aphrodisiac powder, either.”

      This time she kept her mouth shut.

      Grandfather rolled his eyes. “My grandson can be tiresomely pedestrian at times. Too bad, he really needs to stop that. He has such promise, you know, being the most like me.”

      And that truth terrified him almost as much as it excited him. To think he might really be like his grandfather…it was also another reason Max was glad he no longer drank. Because, even sober, he could probably have far too much fun with the idea if he let himself go with it.

      Sabrina nodded her agreement. “He’s very…” Then her words trailed off as she looked back and forth between the two of them. “Grandson?”

      Mortimer nodded. So did Max.

      The color disappeared out of the blonde’s face so fast it was as if someone had doused her with a giant puff of talcum powder. Her mouth hung open, working a bit, but no sound came out. She stared at both of them, looking genuinely stunned, then began to shake her head.

      “Sorry, I never did tell you how I knew this old codger, did I?” he said, figuring she was just confused. Maybe puzzled, thinking he’d been keeping his relationship with Mortimer secret for some reason. He hadn’t. Max might think his grandfather

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