Eye of the Beholder

the forgeries at McClelland."
    "What happened to the forger?"
    "McClelland?" Alexa glanced morosely at Dancing Satyr. "Disappeared and left me holding the bag."
    Trask said nothing for a while, but the calculating look in his eyes told Alexa that he was processing the information she had given him.
    He stirred eventually, sliding one palm along the polished veneer of a lacquered cabinet in an absent caress. "Can any part of your story be verified?"
    It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to produce a careless shrug. "It's possible that one or two of McClelland's clients, those who are grateful to me for saving them from buying a lot of very expensive, very fake early-twentieth-century art and antiques, might be willing to talk off the record."
    "Only one or two?"
    "Only one or two listened when I warned them not to trust McClelland. Edward Vale was among that rather select group. That's why he—"
    The Valkyrie -like figure of Glenda Elaine bustled up out of the stairwell before Alexa could finish.
    "There you are, sir." Glenda hurried toward him down the hall. "I've been looking everywhere for you. One of the Phoenix TV stations sent out a camera crew. I've scheduled an interview with you standing in front of those big marble birds at the foot of the lobby staircase in five minutes."
    Trask did not take his eyes off Alexa. "I'm a little busy at the moment, Glenda."
    "Sir, I worked very hard to pull in this interview for you." Glenda gave him a reproachful glare. "You told me you wanted all the media coverage you could get."
    Trask's jaw tightened. "I'll be down in a moment."
    "I need you to be there now, sir."
    To Alexa's astonishment, Trask inclined his head in an acquiescent gesture.
    "All right, Glenda. I'll come down."
    Apparently satisfied, Glenda swung around and strode off toward the stairs.
    Trask looked at Alexa. "You and I aren't finished. When this reception is over, I'll take you home. I want to talk to you."
    Without waiting for her to acknowledge the order, Trask turned and walked toward the stairs.
    Alexa waited until she was alone before she responded.
    "I don't think so," she whispered into the hushed silence of the empty hall. "I may have taken a few risks lately, but I haven't lost my mind. I'm not about to start accepting rides from strange men."
    She whirled around, seized Dancing Satyr in a fierce grip, hauled it into the closet, and slammed the door.

9

    Alexa was in bed but still wide awake when she heard the heavy growl of an engine in the drive. Outside the window, the twin beams of a pair of headlights sliced through the night. A moment later the vehicle came to a halt. The engine was switched off.
    She had known all along that he would follow her home.
    She tossed aside the covers, stood, and reached for the black and gold satin robe. A dark sense of inevitability settled on her as she thrust her feet into a pair of fluffy gold mules.
    She crossed the room to another one of her handful of treasured Deco-style pieces, a glorious green-glass-and-lacquered-wood dressing table. Designed in 1927 in the sophisticated tradition of Paul Frankl , it was a blatantly sensual thing with its sleek curves and gleaming surfaces. In Alexa's mind it transformed her bedroom into a fantasy version of a boudoir.
    She switched on a lamp and almost turned if off again when she saw her reflection in the oval mirror.
    She had scrubbed her face before retiring. Without even a vestige of liner to brighten them, her eyes appeared to be sunk deep in shadows. Her hair was wildly tangled from a lot of tossing and turning on the pillow. Tension had tightened her features.
    All in all, not a pretty sight, she decided. On the other hand, there was no point trying to impress Trask. It wasn't as if he was here to seduce her.
    She scowled at the mirror. Where had the word seduce come from? It had certainly never been a heavily used term in her personal vocabulary.
    An ill omen if ever there was one.
    Three demanding knocks rang out.
    It was like a scene out of a bad fairy tale, Alexa thought. Trask had followed her home from the ball but, as Edward had warned, he was no prince.
    On the other hand, she wasn't exactly Cinderella.
    Uneasily aware of her pulse, which was beating much too quickly, she left the bedroom and went down the short hall into the darkened living room.
    Another brusque knock echoed. She ignored it long enough to turn on a 1920s-style glass-and-chrome lamp. Then she went to the door and peered