Eye of the Beholder (11 page)

“All right,” Trask said after an eternity. “I promise.”

He finished his tea and put down the cup. Then he got up and walked out the front door without once looking back.

Yes, indeed, Alexa thought as she listened to the sound of the Jeep's engine recede into the night. Lucky for Trask he hadn't come here bent on seduction.

No telling what might have happened, her being such a wild woman and all.

A few minutes later, when she went to put the empty cups into the sink, she discovered that her hands were still trembling slightly.

The thing about taking risks, she decided, was that it was hard on the nerves.

She was as aware of the attraction between them as he was. He had seen it in her fortune-telling eyes. He wondered what would have happened if he'd kissed her.

Dumb question. Trask tightened his hand on the
wheel and watched the narrow strip of pavement unwind in front of the Jeep. He should not even think about getting involved with Alexa Chambers.

She was Lloyd Kenyon's stepdaughter. And if that wasn't messy enough, she was a scandal-tainted art expert who, at the very least, associated with a known forger by the name of McClelland. She might well have made Avalon Resorts, Inc., the proud owner of the largest collection of fraudulent early-twentieth-century art and antiques on the West Coast. Hell, maybe the whole damn country.

When the reviews and articles appeared in the trade journals he could wake up one morning to find himself a laughingstock among corporate art collectors throughout the nation. The headline in the business sections of every major newspaper in the country etched itself in invisible letters on the windshield in front of his eyes.

AVALON RESORTS CEO VICTIM OF ART SCAM

No question about it. An affair with Alexa Chambers would seriously complicate an already labyrinthine situation.

He tried to analyze her motives.

Maybe she thought she could influence the direction of his investigation into Harry's death.

Maybe she figured that sleeping with him would be an effective way to deflect his attention from her stepfather.

Damn. He was still half erect.

Maybe she was right.

10
 

Alexa parked the Camry in the section of the Avalon Plaza parking lot reserved for shopkeepers and their employees, got out, and checked her watch.

There was time to pick up some tea and a muffin from Café Solstice before she opened Elegant Relic.

She slung the strap of the large black leather satchel that doubled as both purse and briefcase over her shoulder and started toward the café.

Avalon Plaza was a trendy architect's version of an eighteenth-century Spanish Colonial village. Vine-draped trellises shaded the terra cotta walks. Red tile roofs gleamed in the morning sun. Artistically worked wrought iron benches surrounded a sparkling yellow, blue, and white tiled fountain.

The shops in the Plaza catered to tourists and locals who were into the metaphysical aspects of the Avalon area. It wasn't where she had envisioned Elegant Relic when she first came up with the notion for the shop, but there had not been a lot of choice in the matter.

After making the decision to return to Avalon to lie low for a while following the debacle at McClelland, she had faced the problem of finding a suitable retail location. Business rental space had been at a premium in town due to the increased number of people moving into the vicinity and the surge in tourism.

Lloyd had put out some feelers for her. Luckily one of his business contacts had passed along a rumor that Avalon Plaza was looking for a new tenant.

Although not New Age or metaphysical in focus, Elegant Relic, with its gargoyles, medieval map reproductions, and imitations of ancient Egyptian jewelry, had settled in well with its neighbors.

After all, it was only for a year or two, she reminded herself, as she did every morning when she arrived at the Plaza.

“Peace and serenity, Alexa.”

Alexa glanced at the arched stucco doorway of Spheres Books and saw Dylan Fenn, the proprietor. He was a striking contrast to the faux-Spanish Colonial architecture of his shop. Unless, of course, short, razor-cut, platinum-tinted hair, a single gold earring, and a taste for 1960s tie-dye and platform sandals had been a fashion statement in the eighteenth-century Southwest.

She guessed Dylan to be somewhere in his forties, although it was hard to be certain. There was a curiously androgynous air about his pale, slender frame. If he had a love life of any kind, straight or gay, she had never seen any indication of it.

She reminded herself that she was hardly in a position to question the excitement quotient of other people's sex
lives. It had been so long since she'd had one herself, that she'd almost forgotten what a sex life felt like.

She halted on the sidewalk and smiled. “Good morning to you, too.”

Unlike half the town and all of her fellow shopkeepers, she had not picked up the habit of using the Dimensions Institute greeting, “peace and serenity.”

“What do you think of the display?” Dylan's turquoise and silver Dimensions bracelet gleamed in the sun as he swept out a hand to indicate the array of books on the other side of the shop window. “Is it a grabber?”

Alexa studied the window arrangement. It consisted of several dozen copies of
Living the Dimensions Way: Building a Life Based on the Principles of Peace and Serenity
. The books were artistically stacked in circles and pyramids.

A huge picture of Webster Bell in his signature black, silver, and turquoise dominated the display. The sign beneath the photo read,
Meet the Author.

“Looks good,” Alexa said. “I'm sure you'll have a line of people around the block for Bell's autographing this time, just like you did when his last book came out.”

“I hope so. This new book is a follow-on to last year's title. It goes deeper into the metaphysical concepts relating to the Dimensions diet and exercise programs.”

“You've read it already?”

“Sure.” Dylan's sky-blue eyes shone with pride. “Webster always makes certain that I get an advance copy from the publisher.”

“How
long have you been selling his books?”

Dylan's thin shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Ever since he started writing them. The first one came out about four years after he opened the Institute. Let me see, that would be—”

“Seven years ago, to be exact,” said a familiar voice. “Webster owes you a great deal, Dylan. I have a hunch you've sold more of his books than all of the shops in Tucson and Phoenix combined.”

Dylan grinned. “Peace and serenity, Joanna.”

Alexa turned to see Joanna Bell walking briskly toward them along the terra cotta sidewalk. She had a plastic container of Café Solstice tea in one hand. Stewart had created a special blend just for her. He called it Joanna's Rainbow.

Joanna was a few years younger than her half-brother, which put her somewhere in her mid-fifties, Alexa guessed. She was a striking woman with dark eyes and patrician features.

She wore her discreetly tinted hair in a sophisticated knot at the nape of her neck. Like Webster, she favored turquoise and silver jewelry. In addition to her Dimensions bracelet, she wore several silver and stone-studded bangles, a modern interpretation of a traditional squash blossom necklace, and enough rings to blind a deer on the highway at night.

“Hello, Joanna,” Alexa said.

Joanna smiled at her, but there was an oddly tense, searching expression in her eyes. “Didn't I see you at the Avalon Resort reception last night? Thought I caught a glimpse of you in the crowd, but I lost you again.”

“I just dropped in for a few minutes.”

“Did
you get a look at some of the art and antiques? Edward Vale did a magnificent job. I'm not a great fan of the Deco style, but I have to admit that it's perfectly suited to the Avalon Resort.”

Alexa hid her surprise with some effort. She told herself that it was a good sign that the other woman had noticed the hotel's collection. But it nonetheless struck her as strange. Until today the only art Joanna had ever shown any interest in was the craft of jewelry design.

Alexa studiously avoided the subject of her former career with anyone at Avalon Plaza. It was all part of the grand plan to keep a low profile until she made her comeback.

She was wondering how to change the topic before it strayed into dangerous territory when Dylan took the problem out of her hands.

“Were you okay with everything last night, Joanna?” he asked gently.

Alexa glanced at him, startled by the unmistakable note of concern in his voice.

“Yes, of course, Dylan.” Joanna gave him a wan smile. “Thank you for asking. I'm fine. It's been a long time, after all.”

Alexa suddenly felt very awkward. She glanced from one to the other, sensing undercurrents.

“You two will have to excuse me,” Joanna said quickly. “I've got a shop to open. Things are getting busy around here. The tourists are really starting to pour into town for the festival.”

“See you later.” Dylan watched her walk away toward the door of Crystal Rainbow.

“Am I missing something here?” Alexa asked. “Or is it any of my business?”

“What?”
Dylan blinked a couple of times and then shook his head. “Sorry. I just figured you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Joanna was engaged to Harry Trask, the guy who tried to turn the old Avalon Mansion into a resort twelve years ago. When he died in a car crash, she was pretty shaken up for a while. Had a bout with depression. I was a little worried about her last night. Didn't know if seeing Harry's son again after all this time would bring back some unhappy memories.”

At four o'clock that afternoon, Alexa found herself alone in Elegant Relic. Through the front window, she watched a truck bearing the logo
Avalon Herald
pause in front of the vending machine outside her shop. A young man hopped out of the back and filled the box with several copies of the town's only daily newspaper.

She grabbed some change from her satchel and raced outside. She plunked the money into the slot and seized a copy of the
Herald.

Back inside Elegant Relic, she opened the paper on the counter beside the cash register and scanned the front-page article on the Avalon Resort & Spa reception.

The
Herald
was a typical small-town paper. Cheerful and folksy in tone, it tended toward stories on local tourism, Avalon High School football games, and the annual Spring Festival. She told herself it did not matter whether or not the paper had said anything about her art collection at the new resort. She was pretty sure the
Herald
did not even have an art critic on the staff.

She reminded herself that it was entirely possible that whoever had covered the reception for the newspaper had not even noticed her spectacular collection.

She read through the entire article before she finally found a single sentence near the end.

… Several influential members of the Tucson and Phoenix art world turned out to view the hotel's collection of art and antiques from the early twentieth century.

“That's it?” Outrage poured through her. “That's all you turkeys can say about one of the finest collections of Deco in the country?”

A figure loomed in the open doorway of the shop. “Is this a private conversation or can anyone join in?”

She looked up at the sound of Trask's voice. Dressed in a work shirt and a pair of jeans, he looked as if he had just walked in off a construction site.

She blurted out the first words that came into her head. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.” He walked into the shop and halted in front of the display of stone gargoyles. He picked up one of the smaller figures, a fist-sized, goggle-eyed little monster with elfin ears and a pair of leathery-looking wings. “So this is what you do when you're not acting as a secret art consultant for Edward Vale.”

“I don't have much choice.” Alexa straightened and slowly refolded the newspaper. “Secret art consulting jobs are hard to come by.”

He walked through a maze of faux Greek urns
and came to a halt in front of the Egyptian-style chair that Alexa had privately dubbed Cleopatra's throne.

“Not exactly museum-quality art and antiques,” Trask said.

“No, they're not.” She heard a crackling sound and looked down to see that she had crumpled the newspaper in her hand. “I don't pretend that they are. Everything in this shop is clearly labeled as a replica.”

“Clearly labeled,” he repeated. “Unlike the proprietor.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing sinister. I just can't quite figure you out, that's all. Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

She stared at him, dimly aware that her mouth was hanging open. She got it closed with a monumental effort of will. “You think you can figure me out over dinner?”