Eye of the Beholder

  A tingle of alarm zinged through Alexa. “What’s to think about? It’s a fake.”

  “According to you,” he murmured.

  Panic replaced alarm. “Edward, you know I’m never wrong about this kind of thing.”

  His gaze slid away from hers. “No one is right one hundred percent of the time. If push comes to shove, it’s Forsyth’s opinion against yours. As the corporate art consultant for Avalon Resorts, Inc., I have every right to go with Forsyth’s verdict. In fact, I’ve got a clear responsibility to credit his professional expertise.”

  Alexa straightened abruptly away from the Roman column. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to add this piece to the hotel’s collection.”

  “Why not?” Edward’s artificially tanned jaw set in mutinous lines. “It’s been certified by no less than Paxton Forsyth himself.”

  “Damn it, Edward, you can’t put Dancing Satyr into the Avalon Resort collection.”

  “Give me one good reason why it shouldn’t be added.”

  She took a step toward him. “I’ve given you the best possible reason. It’s not an Icarus Ives. It’s a fake.”

  “So you say.”

  “Yes, so I say.”

  She was stunned to realize that she was on the verge of losing her temper. This was crazy. She had to watch her step or risk destroying everything she hoped to gain with this venture.

  Edward had every right to take Forsyth’s opinion over hers, she told herself. As he had just pointed out, most people would say that he had a duty to take the reputable gallery’s opinion over hers.

  This was business, she reminded herself. Her future was at stake. She must stay calm. The last thing she wanted to do was jeopardize her new working relationship with Edward Vale.

  They had known each other since her days with the McClelland Gallery. When she’d learned that he had landed the plum assignment to select the Art Deco pieces that would be installed in the new Avalon Resort, she had approached him with her offer to consult anonymously.

  Edward had leaped at the opportunity to take advantage of her expertise. He knew better than anyone else just how good she was at her work. On top of that, he had reason to be grateful to her. She had saved him from becoming one of McClelland’s victims. He owed her, and he knew it.

  They had struck a bargain. She had been his secret consultant on the Avalon Resorts project. She had done all the work, but Edward would take all the credit, at least initially.

  If things went well and the reviews were favorable, he would leak the fact that she had assisted him on the project. The reviewers and others who considered themselves experts on the Art Deco style would not be able to retract their authoritative opinions without making themselves look like fools.

  Alexa’s vision of her potentially rosy future shimmered before her. With luck the reviews, articles, and feature stories in the major journals and publications that served the art world would bring in other consulting opportunities. Private collectors would seek her out. Museum curators and gallery owners would begin to call on her again.

  It would take time, but she was determined to shed the taint of fraud that had tarnished her career.

  Everything depended on this project, she thought. The glittering reception the hotel management planned to celebrate the opening of the new resort would attract a host of VIPs. There would be influential people not only from the tourism industry, but also from a variety of Southwest and West Coast museums and galleries.

  Edward had told her that a reporter for Twentieth-Century Artifact was scheduled to attend the reception. The journal was considered a bible to everyone involved in the business of buying and selling the art and antiques of the twentieth century. It was TCA’s “Insider’s Notes” column that had done the most damage to her reputation following the McClelland fiasco.

  No, she definitely could not afford to annoy Edward Vale.

  On the other hand, she could not abide the thought of Dancing Satyr in the Avalon Resort collection. She had invested too much time, energy, and sheer passion on that collection. It was perfect, and it was hers.

  “I understand your position.” She gave him her best shot at a placating smile. “But you’ve said yourself there will be a lot of experts at the hotel when it’s opened. Why take a chance that one of them will recognize Dancing Satyr as a fake?”

  Edward shook his head. “Highly unlikely that will happen. It’s good enough to fool me and Paxton Forsyth. What are the odds that there will be someone in the crowd who’s got your instincts? I’ve never met anyone else who’s got your feel.”

  She had nothing left to lose. It was time to grovel. “Please, Edward. I’m throwing myself on your mercy. Leave it out of the collection as a favor to me.”

  He looked pained. “This is business. I spent a good-sized chunk of my total budget on Dancing Satyr. Trask may not know art, but he does know money. Sooner or later someone will take a look at the invoices. What the hell am I supposed to say? ‘Sorry, Mr. Trask, I dropped a bundle of your money on a fake statue and had to throw it away’?”

  “We’ve got time.” Alexa tried for a cross between coaxing and persuasive. “It’s not as though Trask will personally inspect the invoices. This is a corporate project. Heck, he’ll probably never even see the bill. It will be handled by the company accountants, and it will take months to go through the process.”

  Edward hesitated. “I don’t know, Alexa. From what I’ve been told, Trask keeps an eye on every aspect of his business.”

  She cast about in desperation. “Look, I’ll make a deal with you. Promise me you’ll leave Dancing Satyr out of the collection until after the opening night reception.”

  “Alexa—”

  “Let the art critics and the gallery crowd see the good stuff that night. Give the media a chance to write the reviews. Wait until TCA tells the world that Avalon Resorts, Inc., houses a museum-caliber display of Art Deco. Then you can slip this stupid statue back into the collection if you really think it’s genuine.”

  Edward bounced on his toes again while he considered her offer. Alexa waited, intensely aware of the swift beat of her own pulse.

  “I’ll think about it,” Edward said finally.

  Alexa breathed deeply and allowed herself to relax slightly.

  “Thanks.” She smiled. “You’ll be doing yourself a favor by leaving this piece out. Like I said, why take the risk that someone else might recognize that it’s a fake?”

  “You’re the only one who seems to think it’s not a genuine Ives.” He shot the cuff of his pale linen jacket and recoiled in apparent shock when he saw the face of his black and silver watch. “Look, I’ve got to run. There are a million things that have to be done to prepare for the reception.”

  “I understand.”

  “Give me a hand with this, will you?” Edward stooped to grasp the hindquarters of Dancing Satyr.

  “Sure.” Alexa took hold of the figure’s head. “Sheesh. Not exactly a lightweight piece, is it?”

  “No.” Edward backed cautiously through the cluttered stockroom toward the rear door. “By the way, the Clarice Cliff teapots arrived from Harbin’s this morning. They’ll be gorgeous in that display case in the east wing.”

  “Yes, I know. I chose them, remember? It took me months to hunt down a good representative selection. Then I had to pry them out of the collectors ‘hands.”

  “Bribe them, you mean.”

  “The good stuff rarely comes cheap.” Lugging her half of the bronze, she followed him through the maze of artistically broken columns, scrolled pedestals, and winged lions that littered the back room of Elegant Relic. “Edward, about Dancing Satyr…”

  “Get the door, will you?”

  “Right.”

  She lowered her end of the figure to the floor and hurried around Edward to open the rear door. She peered out into the alley that served the boutiques and galleries in Avalon Plaza. It was too early in the day for any of the other establishments to be open, but she never
theless took pains to be certain that there was no one around.

  It would not do for anyone to notice her and Edward carrying a large Art Deco–style statue out of Elegant Relic.

  She and Edward had not concealed the fact that they were acquainted with each other, but they had kept absolutely mum about the extent of their past and present association.

  “All clear.”

  She went back to help Edward hoist the statue.

  Together they carted it out to the unmarked white van that stood in the alley. Edward set his end down and slid open the vehicle’s side door.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready.”

  They maneuvered it into the van. Edward quickly slammed the door closed.

  Alexa dusted off her hands. “Edward?”

  “Yes?” He dug out his keys and started toward the front of the van.

  “There’s just one more thing,” she said very firmly.

  He glanced warily back over his shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “I haven’t received my invitation to the hotel opening yet. It should have come by now.”

  “Yes, I suppose it should have arrived,” he said vaguely.

  “I’d use the one that got sent to my mother and Lloyd since they’re both in Maui for a month. But it very clearly states that it’s for Mr. and Mrs. Kenyon.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Edward said much too glibly.

  “You promised, Edward.” It was time to get tough. Edward was very good at weaseling if he was given half a chance. “It was part of our arrangement, remember?”

  He sighed. “I know, I know. But it’s risky. What if Trask recognizes you and somehow puts you together with the McClelland forgery affair?”

  “I told you, Trask has only seen me once, and that was only for a few minutes twelve years ago. I was a scrawny teenager at the time, and he had other things on his mind. He wouldn’t remember me even if he did happen to see me at the reception. And there is no way he could tie me to the McClelland affair unless someone told him about it.”

  “I don’t know.” Edward looked dubious. “I hear he’s a take-no-prisoners kind of guy if he thinks he’s been crossed.”

  “No one’s crossed him. He’s getting what he’s paid for.”

  “Yes, of course,” Edward said quickly. “But you know that perception is everything in our business. If he even suspects that he’s been had, we’re doomed.”

  “Even if, by some hellacious bit of luck, Trask does see me at the reception and even if he does happen to recognize me and if he can associate me with the McClelland scandal, which is highly unlikely since he’s not into art, he’d still have no way of knowing that I was the expert who selected the art in his new hotel.”

  “Well…”

  “I haven’t said a word about working for you on this project, and I know you’ve kept quiet about it. Who’s going to tell Trask?”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  Sensing weakness, Alexa pounced. “Look, I give you my word I’ll wear black and stay out of sight behind the potted palms. There will be a huge crowd at the hotel on the night of the reception. Trask will never even know I’m there.”

  Edward studied her with an unusually thoughtful glint in his light gray eyes. “Are you sure you want to attend?”

  “Are you kidding?” She stared at him, outraged. “I’ve put several quarts of my life’s blood into assembling the Avalon Resort collection. Of course I want to be at the reception. I told you at the start that it was important to me.”

  “I thought maybe you might have changed your mind,” Edward mumbled.

  “What on earth made you think I’d do that?”

  Edward twitched his discretely padded shoulders. He was clearly uncomfortable. “During the past few days it has come to my attention that not everyone here in Avalon is thrilled to have Trask back in town, even for a short time.”

  “So?”

  Edward gave her a straight look as he opened the driver’s door. “So, according to the talk I heard, one of the people who apparently would rather not have Trask here is your stepfather.”

  “Lloyd is not my stepfather,” she said automatically. “He’s the man my mother married after my parents were divorced. There’s a difference, at least as far as I’m concerned. And what do you know about Trask and Lloyd, anyway?”

  “As little as possible, I assure you.” Edward shot her a meaningful look as he got behind the wheel. “You know my motto. Never get too curious about the client. That way lies madness.”

  “Edward, who told you about Lloyd and Trask?”

  He inclined his head significantly at two of the other doors in the alleyway. “I overheard Joanna Bell and that fellow who owns the bookstore, Dylan Fenn, talking about it. I got the impression there was some bad blood between Trask and a couple of folks who had once been in a partnership with his father. True?”

  Alexa glanced at the doors in question. One was the rear entrance of Joanna’s Crystal Rainbow, a popular gallery that featured stone and crystal jewelry.

  Alexa had met Joanna shortly after Elegant Relic had opened. They were not close friends, but they had gotten to know each other as business neighbors. Joanna was the half-sister of the charismatic Webster Bell, owner and resident guru of the trendy metaphysical retreat called the Dimensions Institute.

  The second door was the rear exit of Spheres, a metaphysically oriented bookshop owned and operated by Dylan Fenn.

  Alexa turned back to Edward. “Whatever gossip you heard is more than a decade out of date. Forget it.”

  “Happy to oblige.” Edward turned the key in the van’s ignition. “As I said, my policy is not to get curious about the client.”

  “Edward, about my reception invitation…”

  “All right, all right.” He gave her a smile that showed off his nicely capped teeth. “If you’re sure you really want to go to the ball, Cinderella, I’ll arrange it. Just remember to stay out of sight while you’re there. I have it on good authority that, whatever else he may be, Trask is no prince.”

  “I’m not looking for a prince. All I want is to get back my career.”

  Understanding softened Edward’s expression. “I know, Alexa. Hang in there. If anyone can make it happen, you can.”

  She stood watching as Edward drove slowly out of the alley. After a while she turned and went back into the crowded stock room.

  She wondered why she had not told Edward that Dancing Satyr was not just a very skillful forgery. It was a McClelland piece.

  Mac was back in business.

  3

  She saw the Jeep first. A layer of desert grit dulled the dark green paint, evidence of a long drive. The vehicle was parked on the side of the road above Avalon Point. The sight of it brought her to a halt on the path.

  It was not unusual to see a tourist stopped here at the Point. The sun was about to set, and the view of the stark, red rock landscape with its towers and canyons was magnificent at this time of day.

  Alexa glanced around, searching for the Jeep’s driver.

  It took her a moment to find him. He stood deep in the long shadow cast by a stone outcropping.

  The first thing that struck her was that he was on the wrong side of the waist-high metal rail that had been erected a few years ago to protect sightseers. Alarm shot through her. He was much too close to the edge of the Point.

  He seemed oblivious to the vibrant beauty of the spectacular terrain set afire by the dying light. As Alexa watched, he gazed broodingly down into the brush-choked canyon. There was a dark intensity about him, as though he were engaged in reading omens and portents.

  Sometimes an overly ambitious amateur photographer took one too many risks in an attempt to get the perfect sunset shot.

  “Excuse me,” she said loudly. “That guard rail is there for a good reason. It’s dangerous to stand on the wrong side.”

  The man in the shadows turned unhurriedly to look at her.

  Her first thought was
that he could have stepped straight out of a Tamara de Lempicka painting.

  The artist who had become known as the quintessential Art Deco portraitist would have loved him, Alexa thought. De Lempicka had excelled at creating a dark, sinister, edgy energy around her subjects. She had been able to endow them with a highly charged sensuality and an icy, enigmatic aura.

  But in this man’s case, she thought, de Lempicka would not have had to invent the ominous illusion. The painter’s only task would have been to capture the unsettling reality of it.

  The jolt of recognition hit Alexa with such force she froze in mid-step.

  Trask.

  Twelve years older, harder, more dangerous, but unmistakably Trask. He looked even bigger than he had the last time. Lean and broad-shouldered, he still took up a lot of space. It was a wonder light did not bend to get around him.

  He contemplated her for a moment.

  “Thanks for the warning,” he said.

  He made no move to get back behind the guard rail. It figured, she thought. This man was accustomed to standing on the edge of cliffs. She could tell that just by looking at him.

  She realized she was holding her breath, waiting for him to recognize her. But he gave no indication that he remembered her from that long-ago scene in Lloyd’s hall. She told herself she should be enormously relieved.

  She released the breath she had been holding.

  A gust of wind broke the peculiar little trance that had gripped her. She managed to keep her polite-to-the-tourist smile firmly fixed in place.

  “You really should move back to the right side of that railing.” She was horrified by the slightly breathless quality she heard in her own words. Get a grip, Alexa. “Didn’t you see the sign?”

  “Yeah, I saw it.”

  His voice was low and resonant. The voice of a man who did not have to speak loudly in order to get the attention of others. The voice of a man who was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed.

  She had pushed her luck far enough. Time to take her leave before he recalled her face. No sense taking chances. She searched for a suitable exit line.