Eye of the Beholder

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.
    "Are you lost? Can I give you directions?" she asked.
    He looked amused. "I know where I am."
    "Well, in that case," she said briskly, "I'll be on my way. It's getting late."
    He watched the breeze tangle her hair. "Can I give you a lift?"
    "What? No." Startled, she took a hasty step back, although he had made no move toward her. "I mean, thanks, but I live near here. I use this path for exercise." Lord, now she was babbling.
    His brows rose. "It's all right. I'm not a serial killer."
    She kept smiling. "Yeah, sure, that's what they all say."
    "I take it you're the type who doesn't take lifts from strangers?"
    "No intelligent person accepts rides from strangers in this day and age."
    "Maybe I'd better introduce myself. My name is Trask . My company owns the new resort here in Avalon."
    Stay cool, Alexa . "Nice to meet you, Mr. Trask ."
    "Just Trask ."
    "Yes, well, best of luck with the new resort." She retreated another step. "Everyone in town is very excited about it."
    "Is that so?"
    "Yes, it is."
    "I'm glad to hear that."
    She did not trust the cool amusement she saw in his eyes. She dropped her own polite smile.
    "Welcome to Avalon, Trask ."
    She turned quickly and walked swiftly away from him.
    "Better hurry," he said much too softly behind her. "I hear that night falls fast in the desert. It'll be dark soon."
    She resisted the sudden urge to break into a run. With grim determination she kept moving, listening intently for the sound of the Jeep's engine.
    She finally heard it come to life with a low, throaty growl. She did not look back, but neither did she take a deep breath until the sound receded into the distance.
    Then and only then, did she allow herself to quicken her step.
    Adrenaline rushed through her, creating a tingling in her hands and feet. She was both hot and cold. It was the sort of feeling one got after having had a very close call.
    The other shoe had finally dropped. Trask was back in Avalon.

4

    An hour later, dressed in a black satin robe splashed with an intricate, flowing Deco design worked in gold, Alexa stretched out on one of her most prized possessions, a chaise longue . The wrought iron piece was a sleek, 1920s-era creation, cushioned in black leather and ornamented with legs and arms in the shape of palm trees.
    The chaise longue had been a gift from her former employer, the person she had once considered her closest friend and mentor but who had ultimately betrayed her.
    Alexa's jaw tightened as she reached for the phone. Thoughts of McClelland had hung heavy on her mind all day, thanks to Edward. She pictured Dancing Satyr again as she picked up the phone. She had not been wrong. It was definitely one of Mac's pieces.
    How like McClelland to send a piece into the Paxton Forsyth Gallery, the very bastion of the twentieth-century arts and antiques establishment. It had been a test, no doubt. Mac had wanted to see if the bronze could get past Forsyth himself. Which, of course, it had.
    "Hello?" Vivien Kenyon's warm voice came dearly over the line.
    "It's me, Mom." Alexa took a sip of the wine.
    " Alexa , dear. Is anything wrong?"
    "No, of course not. Everything