Eye of the Beholder (3 page)

But, then, what did he know about marriage? His own had been a carefully considered decision made with the same attention to detail he applied to all his business affairs. It had proved to be a spectacular failure.

Nathan and Sarah, however, seemed blissfully happy. Any day now they would become parents.

Parents
. It struck Trask as very strange to think of his little brother becoming a father.

From out of nowhere, he had a sudden, searing memory of standing with Nathan at Harry's funeral. That was when it had hit him for the first time that Nathan was now his responsibility. It would be
his job to make sure that his younger brother had a roof over his head, went to college, and got started in life.

Trask knew he would never forget the raw fear that had descended on him at that moment. He had just come from the lawyer's office, where it had been explained to him that Harry had died on the brink of bankruptcy. Every major possession left, including the house in Seattle, was in jeopardy.

With an effort of will, Trask blanked the screen inside his head. He wondered if he should be worried about the fact that the old images were coming back with increasing frequency.

He had thought that the disturbing mental snapshots had all faded to distant memories. They had not troubled him much in recent years, perhaps because he had been consumed with one major crisis after another. Back at the beginning there had been the basic problem of keeping Nathan and himself afloat financially. Simultaneously he'd had to deal with his brother's grief, as well as his own mixed bag of anger and guilt.

When the dust had settled after the bankruptcy, he had focused on his long-term goal, the creation of Avalon Resorts, Inc. He'd continued to work construction for a couple of years, the kind of hard, heavy jobs that had financed his and later Nathan's education. And then he'd gone to work for Carrington-Towne. His success with the dynamic hotel conglomerate had helped him launch Avalon Resorts, Inc.

The business had been a godsend in ways other than financial. It had provided an outlet for the restless
energy that burned within him. It had forced the shards of memories to the distant corners of his mind.

But now the unpleasant pictures were becoming sharper and more vivid again. All of them had one thing in common. They were connected to his father's death.

He didn't need a shrink to tell him that it was the plan to return to Avalon that was causing the images and the guilt that went with them to flash across the screen in his mind.

Nathan stared glumly out the window. “I don't like this, JL. I wish you weren't going down there. I've got a bad feeling about it.”

“You know Glenda wants me there. She says she's pulled in a lot of media because of the hotel's art collection, and she wants to take advantage of it.”

“I know.” Nathan massaged the back of his neck. “We'll get a tremendous amount of press out of that collection.”

“You'd better be right. When I think of what we paid that consultant…”

Nathan smiled wryly. “Edward Vale was worth every penny. He's one of the best corporate art consultants in the country. He's got contacts throughout the art world, and that's what it takes to pull together a great corporate art collection. Contacts.”

“All I care about is that the company gets its money's worth.”

“Does it ever worry you that you might be a little too focused on the bottom line, JL?”

Trask contemplated that briefly. “No.”

“We're talking about art here. There are reasons
other than the bottom line for putting together a great collection.”

“Not for a corporation.”

“What about the prestige factor?” Nathan swept out a hand as he warmed to his topic. “What about good corporate citizenship? Responsibility to the community?”

Trask grunted.

“What about the knowledge that Avalon Resorts, Inc., will be doing its share to make a fine collection of art and antiques available for viewing by thousands of people who might not otherwise have the opportunity? What about the duty to preserve and protect some of the most interesting objets d'art of the early twentieth century for generations to come?”

“We operate hotels. Bookings are the bottom line.”

Nathan gave him an exasperated look. “I'm not worried about the collection, I'm worried about your fixation with the new resort. I want you to swear to me on a stack of Avalon Resorts quarterly reports that you're not going back for revenge.”

“I'm going back to open the hotel that Dad dreamed of creating in Avalon,” Trask said softly.

He did not tell Nathan about the private investigator he had hired six months ago. He knew the information would only fuel his brother's concern.

He was not going back for revenge, Trask thought. He was going back to get the truth.

After he had the answers to his questions there would be plenty of time to think about revenge.

2
 

Avalon, Arizona
The present…

Alexa Chambers walked slowly around the slender bronze satyr set in the green marble and wood base. She paused to trail a palm across the muscular hindquarters of the half-man, half-goat figure. Her gaze fell on the satyr's lovingly detailed genitalia.

She grimaced and looked up quickly. She could have sworn the satyr gave her a lewd wink.

Something was wrong with the bronze. She recognized the craftsmanship all too well.

Anger hummed in her, but she forced herself to remain calm and professional. There was too much riding on this project. She could not screw up now.

“It's one of the best fakes I've ever seen, Edward,” she said evenly, “but it's definitely a fake. This is not an Icarus Ives piece.”

“A fake?” Edward Vale's chin dropped visibly. “Are you mad? I paid Paxton Forsyth a fortune for
Dancing Satyr.”

“It was Avalon Resorts' money, not your own. Call Forsyth, tell him you've had
Dancing Satyr
independently appraised, and you want to return it.”

Edward briefly closed his eyes. A shudder went through his elegant frame. “You know I can't do that. It would be as good as telling Forsyth that he had been fooled himself. Or, worse, that he'd deliberately misrepresented the piece. Either way, if word got out that I'd questioned his opinion, he'd be furious. He'd never deal with me again.”

Alexa met Edward's eyes over the top of the satyr's horned head. “Want me to talk to him for you?”

“No, no, for God's sake don't even think about it.” Edward flapped his professionally manicured hands wildly. “If you call Forsyth to tell him you think
Dancing Satyr
is a, uh, reproduction—”

“Not a reproduction, Edward. A fake. A forgery. A fraud.”

“We don't know that.” He eyed the figure. “It could be an honest copy, some artist's homage to Icarus Ives created years ago that accidentally got passed off as the real thing.”

“If you believe that, I've got a genuine Avalon energy vortex tuning fork that I can sell you.”

Edward groaned. “We both know that you can't call Paxton Forsyth. If you do he'll suspect that you're my Deco authority on this project. I would be ruined.”

Alexa propped one shoulder against the plaster replica of a Roman column that stood behind her. She folded her arms.

“Ruined?”

“Let's be honest here, Alexa. Neither of us can afford to take any risks at this delicate stage. From
all accounts Trask has got a thing about getting his money's worth. He approved me as art consultant on this project on the basis of my reputation. If he gets word that you're working with me, he might very well explode.”

“How bloody inconvenient.”

Edward bounced a little on the toes of his beige oxfords. He fixed her with a grim look. “More to the point, he'll probably fire me and we'll both be out our commissions.”

Alexa pursed her lips. “I guess that is the bottom line, isn't it?”

“It certainly is. And Trask is said to be very big on bottom lines.” Edward gave her a pleading look. “I don't suppose there's any chance that you're wrong about
Dancing Satyr?”

Alexa gave a ladylike snort. “Take a good look at the thing.”

“I did take a good look at it when I bought it from Forsyth. I didn't see a damn thing wrong with it.” Edward glared at the bronze. “It's a magnificent satyr. A perfect example of the French influence on American sculpture during the Deco period.”

“That's the whole point,” Alexa said softly. “It's a little too good.”

Edward blinked and then scowled. “I beg your pardon?”

She waved a disgusted hand at the bronze. “Look at the finesse of the zigzag design worked into the hair. And the sense of balance in the Egyptian-style pose of the arms. The energy in the arrangement of the feet or hooves or whatever it is satyrs have. What about the, shall we say, earthy expression on the features?”

“A sense of
sophisticated sensuality is a classic element of the Art Deco style,” Edward reminded her quickly.

“Deco sensuality is icy and dark. This is too warm and lively. Besides, Ives's work is more heavy-handed than this.” Alexa paused, searching for the right words. “It's colder.”

“Are you sure?” Edward studied the figure.

“I'm sure.” There was no point in being self-deprecating about it. When it came to this kind of thing, she was almost never wrong. Edward knew that better than most.

“The provenance is impeccable.” Edward sounded as though he was trying to convince himself rather than her. “After all, the piece came from the Paxton Forsyth Gallery. He's been dealing to the most important collectors for over thirty years. His reputation is—”

“I know,” Alexa interrupted. “His reputation is everything that mine is not.”

Edward drew himself up, an impressive sight in his off-white linen jacket and matching, pleated trousers. Alexa allowed herself a tiny spark of pure envy. Edward was one of those rare individuals whose innate sense of style allowed him to actually wear summer-weight linen suits without looking like an unmade bed.

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” he said, “yes. Your reputation is downright shaky, and we both know it. Damn it, Alexa, there are times when we in the trade have to consider the pragmatic angle.”

“Pragmatic?”

“You know what I'm trying to say here. Trask is a corporate collector. We both know that guys like
him buy art to get publicity and to impress their fellow corporate honchos. It's an image thing.”

“I can just see Trask out on the golf course with his corporate buddies,” Alexa mused. “‘My hotel's art collection is bigger than your hotel's art collection.'”

Edward's mouth twisted. “Crude but accurate. Corporate art collections are trophies for CEOs, just like new, young wives. The point is, Trask will never question a work purchased through the Paxton Forsyth Gallery and neither will anyone else.”

“Because the Forsyth reputation is unassailable.”

“Exactly. No offense, but the truth is Trask would have every reason to discount your professional opinion.” He swept out a hand to indicate Alexa's cluttered stock room. “I mean, just look at what you're doing for a living these days. The word
tacky
comes to mind.”

Alexa refused to acknowledge the hit. She did not even wince. But then, she reflected, she'd had a lot of practice keeping her expression cool and unfazed whenever the subject of her past arose.

It had been a little more than a year since the art forgery scandal that had crushed her budding career as an expert in early-twentieth-century art and antiques. In the blink of an eye, she had lost her most important asset in the world of art, her reputation as an honest dealer.

Following the humiliating debacle at the once-prestigious McClelland Gallery in Scottsdale, she had returned to Avalon to lick her wounds and plot her comeback. Step One of her big plan was to go to ground while the worst of the gossip dissipated.

Her small business, Elegant Relic, was only a
stopgap measure designed to occupy her time and energy while she schemed to make her triumphant return to the art world.

The shop specialized in inexpensive replicas of ancient, medieval, and gothic relics. She did a lively trade with the New Age and metaphysical types, as well as people who were fascinated by the symbolism and pageantry of the past.

She could not complain, she thought. She had even learned to take some satisfaction in the success of Elegant Relic. As Lloyd had promised, she had learned a lot about running her own business in the process. She had certainly come a long way since the disaster at McClelland.

Like the replicas she sold, she was very good at presenting a false facade to the world. She could fake a cool nonchalance about her former career. But deep inside, the hunger to reestablish herself smoldered.

Edward Vale and the Avalon Resort & Spa collection of Art Deco was her ticket back to the world she loved. She must not blow this golden opportunity.