Eye of the Beholder

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