CHAPTER ONE
Seattle, March
Moira~
“What do you mean you’re selling the gallery?” Adrian Whitlock’s salon tan washed out to gray. His air of suave superiority evaporated.
“I mean that I am getting out of the art business,” Moira met her partner’s demand as calmly as she could.
She deeply regretted having to close her galleries and abandon her dreams. But even if Adrian was not at the root of her anxiety attacks, she could not continue a partnership with a crook. Whoever heard of a fairy with anxiety issues? The Fae were serene, deliberate, content. Lately she had been a rattled shadow of her former self.
“You can’t do that,” protested Adrian. “I own half this business.” Waves of something dangerous formed spikes in his aura.
“Not quite.” Suddenly Moira was shivering inside her elegant little black dress and cashmere blazer. She wasn’t cold, but she was afraid. Adrian was dangerous. More dangerous than she would have believed a year ago. First anxiety, now fear. It was more evidence that her decision was correct.
“We have a contract,” Adrian reminded her, his tone sharpening as he attempted to pierce her impassivity.
“Read it,” she advised with a smile as false as any of his. Two could play at being two-faced.
“My lawyer will,” he threatened.
She strengthened her psychic defenses. Better late than never. “You can waste your money, if you wish, Adrian, but your lawyer will inform you that pulling the plug is entirely my decision. I hold fifty-one percent of the stock in this gallery. One hundred percent of the Portland gallery. But, of course, if you want to make me an offer, I am obliged to listen. You do hold right of first refusal.”
“I’ll sue,” blustered Adrian. She was glad to see sweat dampen his high forehead. He was beginning to realize his game was over.
Moira assessed his aura once more. This was why she was so good at her chosen career. She could tell at a glance the genuine from the fake. The good from the bad. Except when it came to those born without consciences. Not even the Fae could help but be deceived by born liars.
She had been careful to select her business partner from the world of sensitives. Adrian was a psychic with a gift for perceiving the age and provenance of art. It had made him a mover and shaker in the art world. At least in the Pacific Northwest. How could she have gotten him so wrong?
Even now when it must be apparent that she had discovered what Adrian had been doing, he was projecting a facade of innocent honesty, deceptive in its apparent openness. But it was too late for him to fool her. She had examined the books, pulled the records of all transactions dealt with by her partner, confided in her accountant. The data were against him.
Adrian was pushing forgeries through her gallery. Had been since day one. Using her good name to deceive a long list of high-powered clients. They were good forgeries, but Fairchild Galleries didn’t deal in fakes or reproductions. And when Adrian’s affluent marks caught on to the worthlessness of the expensive art he had authenticated and sold them, she wanted her name to be long separated from his.
This fiasco was the price of trust. Just a year ago she had been flattered to have the famous Adrian Whitlock offer to buy into her gallery. With his money she had financed the Portland gallery. The start of her empire. That too was on the market. Fairchild’s Galleries was no longer worthy of its reputation.
She should have known better. Her first clue should have been that an egotist like Adrian was perfectly contented to let the gallery remain Fairchild’s, instead of wanting his name added. She would have gone for Fairchild and Whitlock like a shot. But he hadn’t even put it on the table.
Live and learn. If something seemed to be too good to be true, look harder.
Whitlock would not have been interested in her gallery if not for her spotless reputation for honesty, and her track record of picking the next great artist. He had bought both cheaply. She had a sinking feeling that if she went to the police with her suspicions – all right, her absolute conviction – that Adrian was running fakes through the gallery, she would wind up in jail or worse. It would turn out that he had set her up to take the fall.
Adrian’s persuasive voice sank in timbre. He assumed a sorrowful expression. He held her eyes with his guileless green ones. The ones she was now perfectly sure were tinted contacts. “Moira, you don’t want to do this. We’re making money hand over fist. Together we can go to the top. Become the finest art gallery in the Northwest. If you’re tired, you can take a vacation.”
That was the shame of it. They could have ascended to that pinnacle together. Moira looked around at the gallery she had poured so much energy and spirit into. It was a study in pale neutrals. Everything suggested affluence and effortless good taste, and encouraged buyers to imagine the art in their own designer spaces.
The oak floors had been bleached to the color of sand. Creamy leather covered the elegant benches. Ecru platforms were graced by sculptures made by Seattle’s most talented workers in clay, wood, and bronze. The seafoam walls were covered with salable paintings by artists she had personal discovered and launched.
Fairchild’s had a wait list a hundred names long of artists begging to be featured. The world could have been her oyster. Their oyster. But she had no intention of revealing her hard-won knowledge to Adrian. Let him think she was still his dupe. It was better he did not know that she had proof of his fraud.
Rage and regret burned in her heart like acid. But she suppressed those useless emotions. Kept her composure. She was Fae after all. “I have made my decision, Adrian. I’m selling. You have right of first refusal. I get to set the price. I’m getting out of the gallery business and going home.”
“But you live in Seattle.” He sounded genuinely bewildered.
Moira smiled. She hailed from a tiny island in the San Juans. West Haven was just a speck among the many islands of that strait. But it was home. She had no intention of telling this con artist anything about her refuge.
“I thought we had a future together,” he continued plaintively, infusing charm into every word. He smiled his most tantalizing smile. He was good.
But it was too late for charm. Several months too late. She had had hopes initially, but nothing had come of that first tentative buzz between them. It was as if after he seduced her into partnership, Adrian had lost interest in her. Probably he had. Men tended to when you were both short and round and smart. Or perhaps pretending interest had grown to be too much work. Same reason.
“Well, we don’t.” She was going home to West Haven. If she hooked up with anyone, it would be one of the trustworthy residents of West Haven. Provided a plump, antiquated fairy, spreading her wings for the first time, was to anyone’s taste.
Two weeks later she left Seattle with the money from her condo and the gallery securely invested in the Drake Income Fund and poised to grow. She drove her brand-new SUV onto the ferry to Friday Harbor. Look out, West Haven, Fairchild’s Art Supply is about to storm the town of Mystic Bay, population 2,874.