Eye of the Beholder

chinos, but he had not yet zipped them. She glimpsed a wedge of white.
    Another ring sounded. Pull yourself together, Alexa. And for heaven's sake stop staring at the man's briefs.
    "Answer it." Trask came toward her through the shadows. Moonlight glinted on the fierce planes of his face. "Make sure he knows you're not alone."
    She reached out and picked up the phone.
    "Who is this?" she demanded.
    "Think he'll still want to go to bed with you after he finds out about the McClelland Gallery forgeries?"
    Alexa froze. "What do you know about McClelland?"
    "Enough." The voice was muffled and distorted again. "This will be your last warning. Stay away from Trask or he will be told everything."
    "He's right here. Why don't you tell him everything right now and save yourself the time and—"
    Alexa broke off, wincing when the caller slammed the receiver down in her ear.
    "Let me have that." Trask took the phone from her hand and quickly punched in the code to activate last call return.
    Alexa held the sheet to her throat and waited tensely. Eventually someone picked up the phone on the other end.
    "I know this is a pay phone," Trask said roughly. "Did you see whoever it was who just used it?" There was a pause. "Kids? Are you sure there aren't any adults around? Did anyone just drive off?"
    Alexa listened as he went through the same litany of questions she had asked the night she had tried to trace the call. She was not surprised when he got nowhere. Eventually he hung up the phone and turned to look at her.
    "Another all-night convenience store," he said. "No one saw whoever used the pay phone last."
    "Why am I not surprised?" Alexa muttered.
    "Who would notice anyone using a pay phone at a convenience store unless he tied up the line for a long time?"
    "What did he say this time?"
    "The caller? He was a little more direct and to the point than usual." She tightened her grip on the sheet. "He didn't mention dark vortices and approaching storms. He tried blackmail instead."
    "The McClelland scandal?"
    "Uh-huh." She watched him out of the corner of her eye.
    "Interesting that Bell knows about that." Trask sounded thoughtful.
    "As I keep reminding you, we don't know for sure that Webster Bell is the one making those calls. Besides, everyone in Avalon recognizes him on sight. I don't see how he could skulk around twenty-four-hour convenience stores late at night without being noticed."
    Trask eyed the phone. "He could be using someone else to do the dirty work."
    "In any event, the McClelland scandal isn't exactly a state secret. At least not in the art world."
    "But someone outside that world would have to do a little digging to find it, right?"
    "I should think so, given that the story is over a year old now. There hasn't been an article in the trade press on the McClelland forgeries in months." She shuddered. "Believe me, I'd know."
    "Yeah, you probably would."
    "You're a good example." Her brows rose. "You didn't even find out about the McClelland scandal until after you bought a fortune in early-twentieth-century art and antiques. And you're what most people would call pretty sharp about not getting conned."
    "I don't claim to be sharper than the average guy when it comes to avoiding a con, but I'm probably a lot meaner than some folks if I find out I've been had."
    She was dismayed to realize that his not-so-casual warning had the power to hurt her. What had she been thinking? That their adventures together during the past few days had formed a deep and lasting bond? Sheer fantasy, as Trask would be the first one to tell her.
    "I'll keep that in mind," she whispered.
    He did not move. He just continued to watch her from the shadows near the bed. But there was a disturbing stillness in him now that had not been there a moment ago.
    "For the record," he said quietly, "I don't give a damn if it turns out that I'm the new owner of the best collection of fake Art Deco in the known universe."
    For an instant, she felt nothing at all. And then fierce rage flowed into all the empty places inside her.
    "Just what the hell do you mean by that?" she demanded.
    "You heard me." He took a step closer to the bed. "I'm trying to tell you that what's going on between us isn't connected to that damn art collection."
    "What is this? Am I supposed to be grateful?"
    He stopped at the edge of the bed. "I'm trying to explain something here."
    "I know that." She scrambled to her knees and gathered the sheet around her as if it were a chainmail