Sedona Sunset

by Tanya Stowe

  Lara walked along the balcony that ran the length of the house, following as the bright circle sank behind the mountain. Its last rays caught the clouds and lit the sky in an explosion of orange and gold before it finally disappeared.

  Lara turned toward the house. Farther down the balcony, a man leaned against the low retaining wall with both hands. He was tall, with a dark complexion accented by a loose, full-sleeved white shirt. Longish hair hung just over his ears. Something about him intrigued Lara.

  European. He looked European. Experience was written in the lines of his face. He had a strong, straight nose and full, well-shaped lips. A broad, strong brow made his brown eyes look hooded. He turned toward her, and the wind ruffled his dark hair. A slight frown creased his forehead, making his gaze seem intense, focused on her.

  Lara shivered. Rubbing her hands along her arms, she turned and moved back inside. But she took the wrong set of French doors. This pair led into a small sitting area off the formal living room. Across from Lara, poised on a table, was La Guitarra.

  Lara’s father had made his fortune in antiques. She’d grown up around the family business so she recognized a fine piece when she saw it. She moved closer, studying the unusual instrument. Even if Brett hadn’t told her something about La Guitarra, she would have known it had a past. The aged wood spoke of a well-loved instrument.

  It would be unthinkable to add the oils of her hands to the guitar’s unfinished wooden surface. If Brett followed procedure—which he always did—the stand would be mounted on a sensor. Any lessening or adding of weight and alarms would ring throughout the house. But still, looking at the guitar’s dark surface, polished only by the touch of its players, her hand involuntarily raised.

  “Compelling, isn’t it?”

  Startled, Lara turned.

  The man from the balcony stood inside the French doors, leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed. He must have thought Lara was about to touch the guitar. Embarrassed, she clenched her fingers and lowered her hand.

  He motioned to the guitar. “I can never look at it without wanting to touch it,” he said.

  “I would never—”

  “But you wanted to.” He pushed away from the door and came toward her.

  Lara’s stomach jumped.

  The way he moved, loose-limbed and smooth, powerful. Almost predatory.

  It made her want to run. She backed up until she felt the table behind her.

  He towered over her, almost certainly well over six feet. Up close, his eyes proved strangely light, not brown after all, but a hazel color. A small cleft pierced his chin. His features were not classically handsome, but arresting. And he spoke in pure clean, American tones, without a trace of a European accent.

  “La Guitarra begs to be touched,” he said, jolting her from her examination. “Like most pieces of art. Its lines are pure, made for the hands.” His gaze traced over her shoulders and down one arm and suddenly, she didn’t think he spoke of the guitar.

  Flustered, she turned toward the instrument. “You seem to know a lot about art, Mr.—”

  “Alex. Call me Alex.”

  His too-familiar tone set her senses jumping and she struggled to harness them. Purposely turning away, she managed a half-haughty tone. “Since you know so much, you should also know that touching destroys some art.”

  “Ah, but not La Guitarra. It’s part of the legend.”

  She couldn’t resist. She had to look at him. When she did, he stepped closer so they were almost touching. She could feel his heat. He smelled of soap and something tart and intriguing. Something memorable she couldn’t name.

  Reaching across the space, he clasped her shoulders and turned her to face the guitar. He stood behind her, so near his breath moved the hair near the nape of her neck. His voice was low and rich as velvet. “Once, a young man—not a renowned luthier, but a simple peasant named Juan Miguel loved the music of his people,” he murmured and then stopped.

  In the silence, Lara could hear her own ragged breath. It sounded intimate, sensual. She rushed to cover it with a question. “A luthier?”

  “Someone who makes stringed instruments. Juan bought the finest wood and shaped a special guitar, using all the care and passion inside him. When he finished, he took it to an old gypsy woman for a spell. He asked that when he played, people would feel his love of life.”

  Lara’s gaze dropped to the hand resting on her left shoulder. It was warm and lean and strong. The kind of fingers that could coax music from a simple guitar and make a woman feel things she’d never felt before.

  “Juan was a vibrant man who loved life and when he played, everyone heard that love. Magic flowed from the guitar and captured all who heard it, including a beautiful young gypsy girl. Lucia could not resist him,” he whispered. “Juan played, and she danced. He played so her body moved like he played the guitar. The music and her movements were one. All of Juan’s passion could be seen in Lucia’s body. To watch them was to experience the magic between them.”

  Magic. Lara could feel it. Sparks sizzled and jumped. If he moved an inch forward, he would be close enough to kiss.

  “Soon Juan and Lucia’s fame grew. They played and danced through the famous courts of Spain. Lovely Lucia inevitably attracted the attention of a powerful nobleman. A man could not watch her dance without feeling desire. This nobleman tried to seduce her with money and jewels. When none could lure her away from Juan, the nobleman stole her. One night after a performance, masked men snatched Lucia from Juan’s arms and rode away. Juan confronted the nobleman, threatened his life, even appealed to the king and queen, but to no avail. Lucia disappeared.

  “Juan vowed never to play again. For the rest of his life, he searched for Lucia. La Guitarra sat untouched, unplayed…but it glowed with gypsy magic, begging to be released. Since that time it has passed through many hands and been played many times but never with the power it once possessed. It is said La Guitarra is searching for the lovers who will release the magic trapped inside.” He let her go and stepped back.

  Lara blinked.

  What had just happened? This stranger had practically seduced her with nothing more than the sound of his voice. Ridiculous. She had to get back in control. “Women must find your story impossible to resist.” She turned to face him.

  He laughed, low and rich. “If I needed it, I’m sure it would work.”

  True. This man didn’t need a romantic story to seduce women. His unusual brooding features would melt most of them…including her. Suddenly, she felt awkward, obvious. “Why did you tell me this?”

  “La Guitarra is magic,” he said, his voice soft. “It reaches out to some people. Not everyone feels compelled to touch it as you just did.”

  “I know the value of rare antiques. It doesn’t mean I’m hopelessly romantic.”

  He smiled. “Romantic? Perhaps not. Passionate? Definitely.”

  Lara laughed. “Now, there you are most definitely wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  His serious tone made the laughter die inside her.

  With his chin, he nodded toward the center of the house where most of the guests were gathered. “This house is full of charming people. Inside are incredible jewels, gowns women would kill for, and if your interests are as true as you say, antiquities to rival any collection. And yet, here you are, alone, on a balcony, watching one of nature’s most spectacular creations. A sunset.” He shook his head. “Trust me. I know true passion when I see it.”

  Before Lara could form a denial, his hand slid down her arm and cupped her hand in his. Reaching across the space, he pressed her palm to La Guitarra.

  Sensation flowed through Lara. The warmth of his body next to hers, the strength of his fingers, controlling her hand. The pure, silky smooth wood. Lara let her eyes close, and her lips part as he stroked her hand down the smooth curve of the guitar and over the sharp edge.

  Then abruptly, he loosened his hold and stepped away.

  Lara’s eyes flew ope
n.

  He cupped her chin and traced his thumb beneath her lower lip, never quite touching it. “Passion.” Smiling, he turned and left the room.

  Even after he’d gone, Lara could feel his touch. Unclenching her fingers, she shook them slightly. What had just happened?

  A sensual, enigmatic man had played her. Like an instrument. He’d touched her, and she’d responded. Lara’s face burned with humiliation. She heard the sounds of running feet.

  Three men dressed in dark clothing burst into the room.

  Brett had installed sensor alarms—silent alarms.

  The men stood just inside the door, searching the room.

  “Miss Fallon?”

  Lara recognized the man who spoke.

  Mike McGraff belonged to the security agency her father’s company used most often.

  Embarrassed, she gestured toward the table. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I slipped on the tile and bumped the table.”

  The men’s gazes darted around the room, unconvinced.

  Lara stepped away from the table and the guitar. “I’ll get out of the way so you can reset the alarm.” Hurrying toward the door, she eased out of the room, straight into the noisy babble of the cocktail party.

  2

  Alex walked out of La Guitarra’s room and into another. A smile lingered on his lips. The past few moments easily qualified as the most pleasurable he’d enjoyed since arriving in Sedona. Until a few minutes ago, he’d considered this trip a waste, but the willowy blonde was intriguing. Her pale, fair features made her seem fragile and delicate. She’d pulled the sides of her hair back behind her ears, but the ends still managed to curl around her face in a coy, shy manner.

  Her conservative gown had a straight neck, not even revealing the hollow at the base of her throat. The short sleeves gave away nothing. Everything about her was understated and subdued. But still…

  The shimmery blue of her gown caught the blue of her eyes, made them intensely bright. When she moved, the gown’s silky texture revealed a shapely curve with a teasing hint of what lay beneath. A slit up the side of the gown, exposed a well formed leg, completely covered with a matching shimmery blue stocking.

  Modest, but tantalizing. Shy, but filled with a passionate curiosity for La Guitarra. Few people recognized its unique qualities. She had, and so had Troy Madrigal.

  Pausing, Alex looked around the room he’d entered. Troy was an unusual man with distinctive taste. A haven of earth tones, the man’s home wore the deep red of the rocks, along with beige and brown hues that pressed against pristine, sandstone walls and arching doorways. Exquisite.

  Right now, people were packed into the house. Voices rose and fell in a subdued monotone. Glasses clinked. Polite conversation was broken by occasional laughter. Women in luminous gowns draped over crème colored, overstuffed sofas. In a plush brown side chair, two couples held a private conversation. No one seemed interested in the beauty surrounding them.

  That’s why Alex preferred not to perform at social gatherings like this. They were designed for one thing…for people to see and be seen. Alex had no time or patience for the attitude. Not much could make him suffer through another one of these social wastelands, not even Troy Madrigal’s respect for La Guitarra. He would not be here if UNESCO had not asked him to look into this event.

  The UNESCO organization for the protection of cultural properties had received an anonymous tip that Fallon Enterprises was involved in a black market operation. It appeared UNESCO had good reason to be interested…at least in this home filled with South American effigies, Spanish Colonial polygraph carvings, Mexican textiles, even some very old, very distinctive Chaco pottery.

  If Alex wasn’t mistaken, not far away, set in the recessed wall and glass encased, was a clay water pitcher, a duck effigy in black design on white, probably made around 1100 AD. Alex was no expert on so-called “Anasazi” pottery, but he knew the black on white period pieces were the most valuable.

  This was a stunning example. He could see no marks, cracks or breaks. A nine-hundred-year old piece of pottery in perfect condition. It belonged in a museum.

  Instead, it was here, in Troy Madrigal’s home.

  It had to have been collected long before the Antiquities Act of 1906 protected ancient Indian sites and made it illegal to collect artifacts and pottery. Troy must have purchased this piece from a private collection created before the law or…he’d purchased it from the black market. UNESCO was wise to question his sources.

  Brett Fraser hurried past Alex, bumping his shoulder and barely remembering to apologize. Fraser headed toward La Guitarra’s room.

  Alex had been waiting for this. For his own sense of safety, he wanted to gauge the response time of the security team during the gatherings, so he’d placed the little blonde’s hand on the guitar and waited for the fireworks. He’d purposely stayed close to make sure she didn’t take any blame for the security breach.

  Alex wasn’t aware that Fraser was on the security link, let alone would be one of the first to respond. Interesting. Why was he involved and not Troy?

  Alex was about to intercept Fraser and make it clear he had instigated the alarm when Alex’s blonde came out of the room and closed the door. With her back against it, she faced Fraser and said something Alex couldn’t hear.

  Intrigued, Alex stepped closer, purposely eavesdropping from behind the archway.

  “La Guitarra is safe,” she said in a low voice. “I tripped the alarm.”

  Fraser said something. He faced the blonde, with his back to Alex, so Alex could only catch words here and there.

  “I slipped,” she answered.

  Fraser touched her arm, seeming concern.

  “No, I’m not overtired. The tiles are slippery and I’m wearing two-inch spiky heels.”

  Alex glanced down. He’d already seen those spiky heels and how well they set off her tiny feet and her fine, shapely legs, but he didn’t mind taking another look.

  Fraser never even paused. He continued to talk, saying something about stress.

  Alex folded his arms and leaned against the arch. Was Fraser blind or just dead? How could he not look when she’d given him a blatant invitation?

  Fraser’s statement irritated her. “I’m fine,” she murmured, her voice low as she motioned toward the door. “You’d better check in with your watch dogs. They were resetting the alarm when I left.”

  She opened the door, leaving the man no room to argue, and closed it briskly. When she looked around the room, the mixture of boredom and disgust written on her features reflected Alex’s feelings about these events. He’d already formed a kinship with this woman. Her bored expression confirmed their emotional bond. But who was she?

  He’d been told Daniel Fallon’s daughter was scheduled to arrive today. Could the fragile beauty entranced with the sunset and compelled to touch La Guitarra be Fallon’s daughter? It didn’t make sense. She was far too sensitive, too real. Why would the daughter of one of the world’s most successful businessmen prefer sunsets to a social soiree?

  “Are you ready?”

  The question came from behind Alex. He refused to jump even though the question and the closeness of the speaker had been designed to startle him into a response. Lately, his assistant Carlos always appeared out of nowhere and moved stealthily. Too stealthily, in Alex’s opinion. Carlos’s behavior had become a problem. Alex would have to take action if something didn’t change.

  Maintaining his outward calm, Alex slowly turned. “Haven’t you learned yet? I’m always ready.”

  Carlos didn’t seem to appreciate the remark. He spun and marched back through the crowd.

  With one last glance at Fallon’s daughter, Alex followed.

  ~*~

  Lara took a deep, calming breath. She wouldn’t let another scene with Brett upset her. Stress alone had made their reunion stilted. Tomorrow would be better and everything would go as she’d planned. It had to. Her whole life, her future depended on it. Considering h
ow badly things had gone so far, the thought made Lara tremble.

  A waiter walked by with a tray of champagne glasses. She took one. As she sipped, she strolled around the room. She knew almost everyone there, how much money they had, how many marriages they’d been through and who had the worst taste in clothing. They had all been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. They’d oohed! and ahhed! over her as she grew from a little girl to a young lady. By her mother’s side, she’d heard the most intimate details of their lives, but she couldn’t remember a single, solitary, real conversation with one of them.

  Brett was right. Something had changed. She wasn’t sure what or how it had happened. She felt oddly vulnerable here with the people she’d known all of her life.

  She looked for Troy or Eliza, hoping to find sanctuary with one of them. She walked through one room and into another. Eliza was nowhere to be seen and Troy was deep in discussion with a man Lara didn’t know. He had the same European look about him as the man she’d encountered on the balcony, only this man was shorter, with long hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  “He’s a Spaniard. His name is Carlos Bertoleo.”

  Lara jumped and turned.

  Rupert Townsend, a former suitor of her mother’s and a constant thorn in her father’s side, was a distinguished-looking older man with a shock of white hair. He held out his hand.

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. Townsend.”

  He cupped her hand in both of his and lifted it to his lips. “And you my dear, are a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stale room.”

  Lara’s stomach churned. Easing her hand away, she said, “I look like my mother, Mr. Townsend, but I’m not her.”

  Townsend laughed. “Indeed, you are not. There was only one of your mother. But I’d still like to get to know you better.”

  “I would probably bore you.”

  “I doubt that very seriously, my dear.” Turning, he nodded toward Troy and the man. “You must have been very interested in something over there not to hear me approach.”

  “I’m interested in everything here. We are celebrating the opening of my mother’s school.”