Chapter 8
Alexis spent most of the next day at the gallery. Even with Peter there, all of her attention was on getting ready for the Aspen Arts Festival, which was the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day.
“Peter, will you let me show this painting in the festival or would you rather I not? Be aware that if you say yes, I’ll put an ad in the local papers and on Facebook and Instagram.
Plus with the Chamber of Commerce who will put it front and center on their website.
People will come in droves to see the painting and you.
” Since she knew he’d been hiding from the media and the public, she wanted him to be prepared.
He thought for a moment and then nodded. “I understand, and though I would prefer to stay out of the spotlight, it’s yours to display as you like. If it will bring people into the gallery, then by all means, use it.”
Horace chose that moment to come barreling through the door. “I heard about your…accident. I’m here to offer my gallery for any paintings you want to protect.”
She narrowed her eyes and fisted her hands on her hips. “Of course, you are. And you won’t admit that this is your doing, will you?”
His eyes widened, and his brows rose almost comically. Then he pointed at his chest. “Me? You think I did this?”
“Oh, not personally, but you hired someone. I want you out of my gallery. Now.”
Peter came up behind Alexis.
“You? What are you still doing here, Mr. Kincaid?” asked Horace.
“First, I’m here to give Alexis one of my paintings for the Festival coming up.”
“But you can’t.” Horace sputtered the words.
“He’s a friend of mine and has generously offered to show one of his paintings here.”
Horace’s face reddened, his rage evident. “You can’t. This is only for local artists.”
Alexis smiled. “But he is local. He’s a Colorado artist, and that meets the festival’s qualifications. They don’t have to be just from Aspen or the Western Slope.”
“This isn’t over, Alexis. Not by a long shot.
I’ll make you regret ever opening this place.
” Horace stomped back the way he’d come and made sure to slam the glass-and-wood door, shaking the building.
That’s the problem with having the gallery in an old Victorian house, it didn’t take a lot to make the building move.
She turned toward Peter. “I’m almost ready to take you up on your offer of security.”
He lifted an eyebrow and shoved his hands in his pockets. “What’s stopping you? It would be to protect my painting as well.”
“That’s true but the deputies who usually would provide that service, might be on Horace’s payroll and not only wouldn’t they provide security, but they are also liable to try to steal the painting for Horace.
Even though he couldn’t sell it legally, many private collectors exist who would rather remain anonymous and would buy it.
There are only two deputies that I completely trust. T.B.
Robertson and Miranda Jacobs, who you already met.
” She smiled. “All the women in town say the T. B. stands for tight butt.”
Peter shrugged off her concern with the wave of an arm. “I’ll bring in my own people. I can trust all of them. I pay them very well. Does your deputy know what his nickname is?”
She laughed. “His real name is Tyler Bradford and he has a great sense of humor. And besides, he does have a tight butt.”
“You sound like you know him very well.”
She nodded. “We’ve dated a couple of times. He’s actually built a lot like you with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and a tight butt. Add to that your amazing forearms from painting and you’re the complete package.”
Peter reddened and she knew it wasn’t from anger.
He dropped his chin a bit, and his eyes locked with hers. “That’s very flattering, but it’s not the art that makes my muscles. It comes from working the ranch. All of us work it as often as we can, and it takes muscle to throw bales of hay, trust me.”
“I can only imagine. I wouldn’t like that, though I would love to ride the horses.” She smiled and sighed.
“Maybe I’ll take you to my ranch someday and take you riding.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
He dropped his chin a tad and looked at her through half lidded eyes. “I never do.”
Two hours later she looked around the gallery.
The window was repaired and Peter had left, presumably to go back to his cabin.
She didn’t want to put up his painting yet.
Not with Horace escalating his harassment.
When would the police get involved? After he’d killed her?
She put a hand to her throat. Would he kill her?
He was becoming more threatening, even doing it in front of Peter.
I can’t let him win. I don’t know why he’s so hell bent on getting my gallery but won’t sell…
not ever. Everything I love is here. This is where my soul resides, where my heart is happiest. Seeing all this beautiful art and helping others to see it, too, is all I’ve ever wanted, and Horace Beecher is trying to take that from me. Well, he won’t succeed. Ever.
Peter arrived back at the house he’d rented as it was nearing dusk. But his mind wasn’t on painting and the light was gone anyway. What did this T.B. Robertson mean to Alexis? They had dated, but did they still?
He ran his hands through his hair while he paced from the fireplace to the sofa and back again.
Why should he care whether she’d dated this unknown man?
It wasn’t as if he had a claim on her. She wasn’t his girlfriend, though he would like to change that.
She wasn’t interested in that sort of relationship.
He walked to his laptop on the dining room table and opened Facebook.
Then he searched for her to see if there were any pictures of her with a man.
When he found none, he closed the laptop Why was he so interested anyway?
Because Alexis was everything he’d ever wanted in a partner.
She was an artist and loved art. She was beautiful and kind… literally his angel.
Still, he hadn’t made his interest known. He’d walked away from each encounter they’d had, though he hadn’t wanted to. He knew he couldn’t be the man she needed. Someone steady, someone who could keep her safe…even from himself. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he was afraid he might.
His aversion to anything close to a relationship was Melody’s fault. He’d loved her but not completely. Until Alexis, he hadn’t even been tempted by a woman. But she brought out his protective nature and rebuffed him at every turn.
Was his attraction to Alexis so vibrant only because she’d saved his life? Would he be as attracted to her in another situation? He threw his head back and shouted to the world, though no one would hear him.
He was here in Aspen to avoid the media. His last showing has caused him a meltdown. He’d retreated into his own world, refusing to talk to anyone including his family. Finally, his brother, Cole, all six foot, two inches of him, had wrestled him to the floor in his own house. That still irked him.
Cole had made him talk and solved the problem by taking it on himself.
He put out a press release about a new Kincaid Industries acquisition and just like that, Peter wasn’t the Kincaid of interest any longer.
But the media was fickle, so he’d run, or rather dflown, to Aspen, to regroup.
He hated the media. He hated giving interviews.
So why was he so determined to help Alexis when he knew what could happen?
Did he hope his feelings for her would shield him somehow?
He stopped pacing and walked to his easel and picked up his palate and a brush as the sound of a vehicle pulling up reached him.
A knock sounded.
Peter sighed, put down his equipment, and walked to the front door. When he opened it, there were two men on his porch. One was burly with dark hair and a grim expression. The second man was short and wiry with sandy blond hair.
“Peter Kincaid?” asked the larger of the two men.
Peter held on to the door, ready to slam it shut, if needed. “I am.”
“Grab your coat, Mr. Kincaid. You are coming with us.”
“I most certainly am not.” Peter pushed the door to shut it.
But the first man easily held it open. “This isn’t a request, Mr. Kincaid. Our boss wants to talk to you.”
“He can come see me himself.” Peter stepped back, his hands fisted at his sides.
Mr. Burly shook his head. “That’s not happening. Now, get your coat or come without it. You have thirty seconds. I’d hate to see anything bad happen to Ms. Armstrong.”
Peter stiffened. “What does Alexis have to do with this?”
The man grinned. “Nothing…yet. It all depends on how cooperative you will be.”
“Fine, I’ll grab my coat.” He walked to the coat closet, took out his coat and donned it. Then he grabbed his keys and his phone from the bowl on the table by the door.
The smaller of the two men, who Peter thought of as Mr. Wiry, laughed. “Don’t know why you’re takin’ those. You ain’t drivin’ nowhere and you won’t be calling anyone.”
Peter shrugged. “What can I say, I’m an optimist.”
Mr. Wiry cackled.
Never having heard any sound like that, Peter could only stare.
“What you lookin’ at?” the man sneered.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” responded Peter as he followed the first man out of the door.
Mr. Wiry pulled up the rear of their little group.
They walked to a large black SUV parked in the driveway.
Mr. Burley climbed behind the wheel.
Peter headed for the passenger side.
The wiry man pushed him to the back. “You sit in the backseat.”
“Fine.” Peter climbed in and buckled up. Given the condition of the roads, he wouldn’t be surprised to have an accident, and he wanted to survive it.
They drove out to the main road. Instead of taking a left and heading toward Aspen, they took a right and headed farther into the mountains..
Peter was beginning to think that he was in real trouble here.
They could find lots of places to dump his body along this road and it wouldn’t be found until spring…
if at all. Just as he was wondering about this the burly man made a right onto a long driveway.
Peter saw a large log home at the end of the driveway.
“Who lives here?”
Mr. Burly never looked away from the road. “You’ll see soon enough.” He pulled up to the front of the house and killed the engine. “Get out.”
Peter unbuckled his seatbelt and exited the SUV, while looking around for an escape, but he saw none.
Mr. Wiry and Mr. Burly came around the vehicle and escorted him up the stairs then the big man pounded on the door.
Peter’s jaw dropped when he saw the man who answered. “Mr. Beecher? You could have just called or come by yourself. You didn’t have to send your goons to get me.”
“I wasn’t sure you would agree to see me. I thought it was best for my associates to collect you for our little chat. Please, come in.” Horace stood back so the three men could enter. Then he walked forward. “Walter, close the door behind you.”
The wiry man, apparently Walter, did as he was told.
Peter looked behind him at the two men who brought him, then back at Beecher. “Do you need your associates to stay while we talk?”
Horace lifted a brow and then nodded. “You two wait outside the library until you’re called.
When the door had closed behind them, Peter realized escape was impossible, besides where would he go? He turned his attention to Beecher. “What do you want to discuss that is so important?”
“Have a seat Mr. Kincaid.” He pointed toward the sofa in front of the fireplace.
Peter couldn’t stop himself from admiring the room.
The walls were a pale tan which perfectly complimented the abundance of wood trim.
The fireplace was stone, not brick with a large screen television above it.
In front of it was a sofa and a recliner on the end facing the TV.
A reclaimed wood coffee table was in front of the recliner and the sofa.
At the other end of the room was a large mahogany desk with a leather Queen Anne chair in front of it.
Peter sat in the chair.
High tables graced the walls—some with flowers and some with artwork. He looked back at Horace as he sat behind the desk. “You have a lovely home, from what I’ve seen.”
“Thank you. Now, down to business. I want you to leave Alexis and her gallery alone. I have plans for both that don’t include you.”
Peter crossed his legs and did his best to look nonchalant. “And if I don’t?” He was a tiny bit grateful they were discussing Alexis and not a kidnapping for ransom.
“Then something very bad could happen to you.”
“You don’t scare me, Beecher. You won’t touch me and you know it.”
Horace’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you’re right. And in that case something bad could befall Alexis. Is that what you want?”
Peter clenched his teeth and controlled his anger, his desire to leap over the desk and end Beecher and his threats, now. “You won’t do anything to her.”
Now, Beecher leaned forward and placed his hands, palms down, on the desk.
. He looked ready to jump over it and throttle Peter.
But he stopped before he did, seemingly taking control of his anger.
“You won’t anger me and force me to kill you.
I need you to persuade Alexis to sell me her gallery.
Aspen has more than twenty art galleries, but it’s too small for two fine art galleries.
She knows this but won’t give up. You need to convince her if you want her to live. ”
Seething with anger, Peter leaned back in the chair and did his best to remain calm. “And what will you do to her if I can’t? She’s a very stubborn person.”
Beecher straightened and turned toward the fireplace. When he turned back, his expression was hard and ungiving. “I’ll eliminate her. There won’t be any choice then, so you’d better be persuasive, for all our sake. Mr. Avery come in please.”
The door opened and the man entered.
Beecher lifted a hand and waved it toward Peter.
Mr. Avery laid his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “This way Mr. Kincaid.”
Peter stood. “This hasn’t ended between us, Beecher.”
The man didn’t turn around. “For your sake, I hope it has.”
Following behind the large man, Peter headed for the door. He was fuming too much to pay much attention to the roads on the way back and, before he knew it, they were stopping in his driveway.
“It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen.” Peter slammed the SUVs door and stomped up the stairs to his porch.
Once inside, he hung his coat in the entryway closet and headed to the liquor cabinet. He’d never been much of a drinker, but this situation was changing that. Now, all he had to figure out was how to keep Alexis alive.