Trask did not take his gaze off Alexa. “Translated, that probably means that no good deed goes unpunished.”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I see you standing on the wrong side of the guard rail,” Alexa said. “How long do you plan to be in town, Trask?”
“As long as it takes.”
Alexa could have sworn that she felt a chill wind blow across the café terrace. But the scalloped edge of the green awning did not so much as flutter.
He was playing games, she thought. Why? Were the rumors right after all? Had he returned to Avalon on a mission of vengeance?
Trask sampled his coffee. The hard line of his mouth curved in rueful dismay. “The quest goes on.”
Alexa tensed. “What quest?”
“I’ve been looking for a decent cup of coffee ever since I arrived in town. So far no luck.”
Foster laughed. “I’ve heard that people from Seattle have an obsession with coffee.”
Alexa raised her brows. “If you want coffee, Trask, you came to the wrong place. Café Solstice is known for its tea. The owner blends it himself.”
“Looks like I’ve got a problem,” Trask said.
“Could be.” Alexa had had enough. She scooped up the festival binder and rose to her feet. “You just said you don’t put much stock in metaphysics, Trask, but maybe the fact that both our scenery and our tea leaves you cold is a sign that you won’t be staying too long in Avalon.”
“Depends.”
“On what?” she snapped.
“On whether I find something else besides the scenery and the tea here. Something that won’t leave me cold.”
7
The Guardian drank the last of the herbal tea and watched the rays of the setting sun paint the canyons and spires of Avalon in shades of rust and blood.
Night descended. After a while, the outlines of reality shifted, altered, and took on new dimensions.
Here in this realm of enhanced consciousness the power and direction of the energy vortices were clear and easy to analyze if one was gifted, as the Guardian was, with the ability to see the deeper truths.
The vortices were in flux, as expected. Trask’s arrival, after all, had been anticipated for months. The harmonic balance of powers in the region had shifted violently. The negative energy fields were surging to the surface.
It was a dangerous state of affairs, this imbalance in the vortices. But the Guardian reveled in it, drew power from it.
The Guardian went deeper into the trance, found the place where the most volatile energy pulsed and seethed.
After a while, when the time was right, the Guardian surrendered to the swirling forces with a shuddering cry of raw, sexual release that reverberated endlessly against the cavern walls.
The climax was a real mind-blower. But then, it had been twelve years since the last really good one.
8
She kept her promise to Edward. She wore black to the opening night gala at the resort, and as soon as she was inside the lobby, she made every effort to fade into the woodwork.
Alexa drifted, ghostlike, along the fringes of the crowd and listened to the scraps of conversation around her. She was careful to keep a watchful eye on Trask, making certain that they were separated by a sea of people or a jungle of potted palms.
There were several familiar faces in the throng. She exchanged nods with some friends of Vivien’s and Lloyd’s and smiled at a couple of Elegant Relic customers. Although all the local VIPs were present, including the mayor and her husband, many of those in attendance were from out of town. In addition to the architect, design, and construction teams that had worked on the resort project, there were representatives of various sectors of the tour industry.
Travel writers from the Tucson and Phoenix papers were among the invitees, and the reporter from Twentieth-Century Artifact had arrived.
The sheer numbers present made it easy to remain unobtrusive. Alexa told herself that all she had to worry about was staying out of Trask’s path.
It was not difficult to know where he was in the room at any given moment. Some sixth sense warned her whenever the natural ebb and flow of the crowd brought him too close.
The odds of accidentally stumbling into him were minimal, she thought. Even if she had been trying to get close, she would have had to work at it. As the host for the occasion, he was constantly surrounded.
A tall, statuesque, middle-aged woman wearing a pair of red-framed reading glasses and a no-nonsense haircut hovered constantly at Trask’s elbow. Alexa concluded that she was Glenda Blaine, the Avalon Resorts, Inc., PR person Edward had mentioned.
Center of attention though he was, Trask was not the only major attraction in the room tonight. Many of those who could not get close to him formed a tight cluster around the charismatic figure of Webster Bell, the head of the Dimensions Institute.
Alexa halted near a pillar and watched Bell for a moment. She had spoken with him on occasion when he had visited his half-sister, Joanna, at her shop in Avalon Plaza. He had always been gallant and charming.
Webster would have been hard to miss in any gathering. He had what, in the theatrical world, was called presence. Tall and dynamic, he was endowed with a rugged, handsomely weathered face that would have done credit to one of the legendary gunslingers of old Arizona.
Bell was somewhere in his early sixties. He wore his silver hair in a ponytail secured with a black thong. His rakish black shirt and black trousers were set off with a wide silver and turquoise-studded belt. There was another loop of turquoise and silver around his throat. It matched the bracelet that circled his wrist.
Many in the crowd wore similar bracelets. They were fashionable among the locals and sold well to souvenir-seeking visitors. Alexa thought about the one that Foster had given her. It was an expensive version, made with real silver and quality turquoise, unlike the cheap imitations the tourists bought in large quantities. Presently, it was sitting in the bottom drawer of her jewelry case.
“There you are, Alexa.” Edward, resplendent in an all-white tux, materialized at her elbow. “Personally, I can’t usually abide the guru type, but I have to admit that Bell seems decent enough. He certainly cuts an impressive figure.”
Alexa grinned. “I suspect there’s a bit of the showman inside every successful guru.”
“True.” Edward popped a canapé into his mouth and munched. “I’m a little surprised to see that he was invited to Trask’s opening.”
“Professional courtesy,” Alexa said. “When you stop and think about it, he and Trask are both in the hotel business.”
“You have a point. From what I hear, the Dimensions Institute gets almost as many paying guests each year as a major resort.”
“Bell and Trask have something else in common,” Alexa said. “They’re both catering to the high end of the market. Being trendy has its price. It costs as much to stay at Dimensions for a week as it does to stay at an Avalon Resort.”
“Given the choice, I’ll take a week at an Avalon resort over two weeks at Dimensions, any day.” Edward shuddered. “At least at an Avalon hotel the client isn’t forced to eat tofu and meditate with crystals.”
“There is that.” Alexa turned around to face him. “Level with me, Edward. What is the art crowd saying about my collection tonight?”
“They’re going wild over it.” Edward chuckled. “You should hear the reporter from TCA. He’s raving about the depth and scope of the collection. No one knows it yet, but you, my dear, are a brilliant success. In the meantime, I, of course, am accepting all the credit.”
An exuberant anticipation bubbled up inside Alexa. “I can live with that for now.”
“I’m going to take a little group through the east wing to look at the Deskey textiles and the Steuben glass.” Edward cocked a brow. “Want to trail along behind us and listen in?”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll take my own private tour.”
“Just be sure you stay out of Trask’s path.”
/> “Don’t worry,” Alexa said. “He’s too busy with his guests to notice me tonight.”
“You’re probably right. Still, we wouldn’t want to take any chances.”
“Don’t worry, I have it on good authority that I’m the risk-averse type.”
“Who told you that?”
“My therapist.”
Edward gave her an amused, skeptical look. “If you’re so risk-averse, why are you here tonight?”
She tightened her hand around the strap of her small evening bag. “Because tonight is very, very important to me.”
Edward gave her a knowing look. “Some risks are worth taking, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry, Alexa. It’s all going to work out. You’ll see. In a few months, you’ll be back in business.”
“For myself, this time,” she vowed. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned since McClelland left me to the wolves, it’s that I much prefer to be my own boss.”
“I can’t blame you for leaping to that conclusion.” He started to saunter off.
“Edward?”
He stopped and looked back. “Hmm?”
She smiled. “Regardless of what happens to my career, I want to thank you for everything you’ve done.”
“My pleasure. Besides, we both know I owed you.” He raised his well-manicured hand in a small, negligent wave. “Well, I must be off. My tour group awaits.”
When he disappeared into the crowd, she turned and made her way in the opposite direction.
She slipped into the west wing and wandered slowly along the carpeted hall, pausing occasionally to savor some of the 1920s-era paintings she had chosen for this corridor. They were all Southwestern landscapes.
Deco art, she reflected, had been particularly suited to the dramatic play of light and shadow in the desert. The Santa Fe and Taos region had lured the most famous names such as Hartley, Dasburg, and Georgia O’Keeffe. But Avalon had attracted the attention of some very special artists, too.
At the end of the hall, she turned a corner and went up a flight of stairs. On the second floor she was relieved to find herself alone. The entire hotel with the exception of the spa was open tonight, but none of the other guests had migrated this far. She could take her time enjoying her own handiwork.
She moved slowly along the west wing hall. Her high heels sank deeply into the thick carpet. The sounds of music and laughter down below seemed to come from a great distance.
She was bending over a cabinet filled with a representative sampling of Modernist ceramics when she caught the unmistakable gleam of a bronze horn. The light from the 1920s-style wrought iron and etched glass sconces was subdued, but she could have sworn that a lecherous eye winked at her.
She straightened abruptly and stared, outraged, at the familiar bronze peeking out of the small reading alcove at the far end of the hall.
“Edward Vale, you son-of-a-bitch,” she breathed. “I take back everything I just said about being grateful. How could you do this to me, you little twerp?”
She hiked her long, narrow black skirt up above her knees and rushed the entire remaining length of the west wing.
She came to a halt in the alcove and glared at Dancing Satyr.
“I’ll strangle him,” she told the beast. “I swear, I will.”
She glanced around and saw what looked like the door of a closet or utility room. Perfect. She could hide the fake Icarus Ives sculpture inside until the reception ended.
Flinging her tiny black handbag onto the nearest chair, she seized the tail end of the figure with both hands and started to drag it across the carpet.
Despite her best efforts, the bronze shifted only a scant few inches in the direction of the closet.
She had forgotten how heavy it was. She could only be grateful that Edward had not had it bolted to the floor for security purposes as he had done with most of the other freestanding pieces.
She tightened her grip on the Satyr’s tail and leaned into her task. There were some side benefits to working in the art and antiques field. One of them was that one developed muscles when one spent one’s days handling hefty pieces of early-twentieth-century furniture.
She had not gone soft during the past year at Elegant Relic, she discovered. Evidently unpacking and arranging countless stone gargoyles and a few life-sized suits of sixteenth-century armor kept one fit, too.
She managed to get Dancing Satyr as far as the closet door before an all-too-familiar voice sent a chill up her spine.
“I’m not real fond of it, either,” Trask said. “But I apparently paid more for it than I did for my Jeep, so I’m afraid I can’t let you just cart it off, Ms. Chambers.”
Alexa saw the vision of her reconstructed future flash before her eyes.
“Oh, damn.” Very slowly she released her grip on Dancing Satyr.
She straightened and turned around to face Trask.
He stood on the thick carpet that had swallowed the sound of his approaching footsteps. He looked very large and very solid in the expensively cut tuxedo. The muted glow of the hall lamps gleamed on his dark hair and glinted on the icy shards at his temples. There was no expression at all in his eyes.
She sighed. “Nice party.”
He glanced meaningfully at the statue. “I’m surprised to hear you say that. I assumed that since you’re up here rearranging the furniture, you must be bored.”
She followed his gaze to Dancing Satyr. “It’s a long story.”
“Why don’t you give me the short version?”
Damned if she would allow him to intimidate her, she thought. “I wasn’t trying to steal it, you know.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I only wanted to get it out of sight before anyone sees it.” She waved a hand at the closet door. “I was going to stash it in there until later.”
He gave that a moment of what appeared to be thoughtful consideration.
“Why?” he asked eventually.
She hesitated. This was the tricky part, but the entire project had been a calculated risk from the start. Now she had no option but to fight for her future.
“There’s been a mistake. Dancing Satyr should never have been installed. It’s not a genuine Icarus Ives piece.”
“Are you telling me that I paid big bucks for a fake statue?”
“It’s just a little mix-up,” she said smoothly.
“I don’t like mix-ups that cost me money.”
“I’m sure everything will be straightened out very quickly after the reception. But in the meantime, I don’t want it in my, uh, I mean, in the hotel’s collection. At least not tonight when there are so many people from the art world here.”
“You don’t want it in the collection?” Trask eyed her with grave interest. “Why do you care what the art crowd thinks about my collection, Ms. Chambers?”
“Because I assembled it.” The fat was in the fire. There was no point playing any more games. “I was Edward Vale’s special Deco consultant on the project. I did not approve Dancing Satyr. Obviously there was a failure of communication somewhere along the line.”
“The same sort of communication failure that took place at the McClelland Gallery two years ago?”
Alexa was stunned into silence. Her mouth opened but nothing emerged. This was worse than she had imagined. He knew about the McClelland scandal.
He pinned her with cold eyes. “Well, Ms. Chambers? Do I have to wonder about the authenticity of any of the other items in my very expensive new collection of Art Deco?”
Fury flared, white-hot and intense. “Gee, I don’t know, Trask. Maybe you do. Just like I have to wonder whether or not you’re here in Avalon to open a resort or because you intend to take your revenge against Lloyd Kenyon.”
His brows rose. “So you do remember me. I couldn’t be sure the other day when we met at the Point. You played it pretty cool.”
“So did you.”
“Guess we’re both cool. Let’s return
to the subject of your reputation, which is not so cool. I understand that it was shredded two years ago when you were involved in that art forgery scam in Scottsdale.”
She held his gaze. “I had nothing to do with the McClelland forgeries. As a matter of fact, I was the one who blew the whistle.”
“Got any proof?”
“Probably not the sort you’d accept. There was no criminal investigation because none of McClelland’s clients wanted to press charges.”
“Convenient.”
“It’s a common enough reaction in the art world.”
He gave her an expression of polite disbelief. “What the hell kind of client would sit still for being conned?”
“The kind who values his or her own reputation,” she said.
“Meaning?”
“Look, the situation is not unlike what happens when a big business discovers that one of its employees has embezzled money from client accounts or that a hacker has gotten past its computer security. The corporation generally wants to keep things quiet because it fears the publicity of an arrest and trial. Clients and customers would question its ability to provide privacy and security.”
Trask’s eyes narrowed. “I’m aware of how things work in the business world.”
“They aren’t that much different in the art world. McClelland sold almost exclusively to high-priced art consultants and acknowledged experts who bought art and antiques for their own exclusive clientele.”
“I think I’m getting the picture,” Trask said. “No so-called expert likes to admit that he or she was fooled by a series of good forgeries.”
“Exactly. Bad for business. After the McClelland incident everyone involved had a vested interest in keeping as quiet as possible. Reputations and careers were at stake. McClelland, of course, counted on that attitude. There was no investigation, no trial, and no arrest. Just lots of rumors and innuendos.”