He took his hand off her shoulder. “Yes, you do.”
He wasn’t hurt by the rejection, he told himself. He was…surprised, maybe. Yes, that was it. Surprised. Here he had been telling himself that they were getting along well, assuming you didn’t count the occasional sniping. Now he wondered if he had been misreading her.
Or maybe deceiving himself. It wouldn’t be the first time. He had a history.
She turned away fromSuccubus. “I’m sorry. I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Let’s get out of here.”
“Fine by me.”
Cautiously he took her arm, not in an attempt to ease her tension this time, but to steer her toward the intersecting hallway. She did not resist his touch.
A small man loomed at the entrance. His shaved head gleamed. Behind the lenses of his wire-framed glasses his pale eyes were bright and intense. At the sight ofSuccubushe snorted.
“Utter trash,” he said. “Derivative, cartoonish, uninspired.”
“We agree,” Luke said. “Do you happen to know the name of the artist?”
“No, but I can safely predict he won’t go far, not with that sort of amateurish work. No gallery will display that shit.”
“This one did,” Sophy said.
“That tells you a lot about the quality of the rest of these installations. Third-rate.”
“You seem very sure of your verdict,” Luke said. “Are you an artist?”
“I’m an artcritic. Professional, I might add. The name is Marlon Whitley. And you are?”
“Larry and Susan Ainsley,” Luke said before Sophy could fumble the introduction.
She shot him a sidelong look that made it clear she was aware he hadn’t trusted her to keep the cover story straight, but she did not say anything.
Whitley’s birdy eyes tightened with speculation. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t I see the two of you coming out of the honeymoon suite earlier this evening?”
“That’s right,” Sophy said.
“Thought so. I’m on the same floor. Are you collectors?”
“We’re just starting out,” Luke said. “We’re both interested in light art but we’re discovering there’s a lot to learn.”
“That’s an understatement.” Marlon grunted. “I usually charge a minimum of five figures to provide a consultation but I’ll make an exception for a pair of honeymooners. Pro tip: none of the pieces in this gallery is worth buying at the auction. Take this installation, for example.” He gestured towardSuccubus. “Nothing but special effects with lights. Might as well be CGI. It’s certainly not art. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to the inn. I need a real drink. The champagne isn’t doing it for me.”
Twenty-Two
By the time they reachedthe lobby of the gallery, Sophy had regained control of her badly rattled nerves. Luke was impressed by her fast recovery. She had grit, as the Boss would have said.
They made their way outside into the brightly lit sculpture garden and walked along the glowing path that would take them back to the inn. There was a buzz in the atmosphere, he thought, and not all of it was coming from the unusual paranormal energy in the canyon. Some of it—the good stuff, the vibe that hit his senses like an exhilarating tonic—was generated entirely by Sophy.
“I realize you have a lot of questions,” she said.
“Oh, yeah.”
“So do I. Unfortunately I don’t have many answers. Remember that police sketch artist I told you about?”
“The jerk who called you a succubus and took off running when he saw you without your sunglasses?”
“That jerk. Yes.”
“You think he did that installation?”
