Deceit by Fayrene Preston Page B

less the camera. Projecting the cool, poised look she was known for would be impossible.
    Clay would probably go up like a rocket when she told him, and although she wouldn’t let his reaction change her mind, she dreaded what she was about to do. She reached for the phone and dialed Clay’s room number. “Good morning,” she said when he answered. “This is Liana. ”
    “Good morning, Liana.”
    He’d been expecting her call—the strange impression flashed on and off in her mind like a light bulb. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to work today.”
    “Oh? What’s wrong?”
    He sounded very calm, very reasonable, she thought, somewhat amazed. But then again, he probably knew to the ounce how much she’d had to drink last night since he’d been filling her glass. “Nothing is really wrong. I think I just need some rest.”
    “That’s probably a good idea. Take it easy today.” “I feel really guilty about this delay, but—” “Hey, don’t feel bad. Fortunately our schedule has some flexibility built into it. Trust me, this won’t hurt the shoot at all, and the crew will bless you.”
    She blinked. “Well, okay, then. Thanks, Clay. I’ll work extra hard tomorrow.”
    “Just promise me you’ll relax today.”
    “I will, and thanks again. Good-bye.” She hung up the phone and gave a sigh of relief. The hardest part was over. Now all she had to do was decide how she was going to spend this day.
    She needed to be alone, to repair her nerves and rebuild her mental strength, but finding space where she could be alone would be easier said than done.
    To stay in her room all day would stifle her. And mingling with the guests at the hotel was out. She wouldn’t be able to bear their stares, their attempts at conversation, their requests for autographs. No, she had to get away from the hotel.
    She could take one of the rental cars and drive up the coast, but somehow exploring SwanSea’s grounds appealed to her more, and she’d noticed that not many people were taking advantage of the grounds that lay beyond the pool house and the tennis courts. She quickly dressed, slipping a violet cotton camisole over her head and tucking it into the waistband of a violet and periwinkle circular skirt. With sandals completing the outfit and her hair in a thick braid down her back, she left the room.

    In his suite, Richard disgustedly flung his razor into the bathroom sink and leaned toward the mirror to view the tiny amount of blood oozing from the nick on his jaw. Too much caffeine, he supposed. Now that he thought about it, he seemed to remember the doctor, during his last checkup, bluntly telling him to cut down on the coffee. Oh, well.
    Splashing water on his face, he cleaned the last vestiges of shaving cream from his cheeks and throat, then reached for a towel. A minute later, he strode into the bedroom where he downed yet more coffee, and as a concession to his churning stomach, ate a cold piece of toast.
    A fitful night’s sleep had driven him from his bed early. He’d worked awhile, read the paper, and dressed. What now, he wondered, definitely edgy and restless.
    He hadn’t had a vacation in eleven years, and he was learning that relaxing was certainly easier said than done. As a matter of fact, it took a great deal of determination. SwanSea offered any number of activities, but somehow nothing was holding his interest.
    Just being here was a social advantage, and the business contacts he could make, if he were so inclined, held great potential. The prospect of the art auction was also something to anticipate. Even though his collection was purely for investment purposes, he had developed something of an appreciation for art over the years.
    Still, taking everything into consideration, he couldn’t help but ask himself what the hell he was doing here.
    Suddenly he laughed out loud—a cutting, self-mocking laugh that turned back on him—because, deep down, he knew exactly what he was