The Art of Deception (11 page)

Kirby turned her head, just slightly, and watched Stuart walk into the room. Her fingers tightened on the glass, but she shrugged. Before the movement was complete, Melanie was at her side.

“I'm sorry, Kirby. I'd hoped he wouldn't come after all.”

In a slow, somehow insolent gesture, Kirby pushed her hair behind her back. “If it had mattered, I wouldn't have come.”

“I don't want you to be embarrassed,” Melanie began, only to be cut off by a quick and very genuine laugh.

“When have you ever known me to be embarrassed?”

“Well, I'll greet him, or it'll make matters worse.” Still, Melanie hesitated, obviously torn between loyalty and manners.

“I'll fire him, of course,” Harriet mused when her daughter went to do her duty. “But I want to be subtle about it.”

“Fire him if you like, Harriet, but not on my account.” Kirby drained her champagne.

“It appears we're in for a show, Adam.” Harriet tapped a coral fingertip against her glass. “Much to Melanie's distress, Stuart's coming over.”

Without saying a word, Kirby took Adam's cigarette.

“Harriet, you look marvelous.” The smooth, cultured voice wasn't at all like the tone Adam had heard in Fairchild's studio. “Africa agreed with you.”

Harriet gave him a bland smile. “We didn't expect to see you.”

“I was tied up for a bit.” Charming, elegant, he turned to Kirby. “You're looking lovely.”

“So are you,” she said evenly. “It seems your nose is back in joint.” Without missing a beat, she turned to Adam. “I don't believe you've met. Adam, this is Stuart Hiller. I'm sure you know Adam Haines's work, Stuart.”

“Yes, indeed.” The handshake was polite and meaningless. “Are you staying in our part of New York long?”

“Until I finish Kirby's portrait,” Adam told him and
had the dual satisfaction of seeing Kirby grin and Stuart frown. “I've agreed to let Harriet display it in the gallery.”

With that simple strategy, Adam won Harriet over.

“I'm sure it'll be a tremendous addition to our collection.” Even a man with little sensitivity wouldn't have missed the waves of resentment. For the moment, Stuart ignored them. “I wasn't able to reach you in Africa, Harriet, and things have been hectic since your return. The Titian woman has been sold to Ernest Myerling.”

As he lifted his glass, Adam's attention focused on Kirby. Her color drained, slowly, degree by degree until her face was as white as the silk she wore.

“I don't recall discussing selling the Titian,” Harriet countered. Her voice was as colorless as Kirby's skin.

“As I said, I couldn't reach you. As the Titian isn't listed under your personal collection, it falls among the saleable paintings. I think you'll be pleased with the price.” He lit a cigarette with a slim silver lighter. “Myerling did insist on having it tested. He's more interested in investment than art, I'm afraid. I thought you'd want to be there tomorrow for the procedure.”

Oh, God, oh, my God! Panic, very real and very strong, whirled through Kirby's mind. In silence, Adam watched the fear grow in her eyes.

“Tested!” Obviously insulted, Harriet seethed. “Of all the gall, doubting the authenticity of a painting from my gallery. The Titian should not have been sold without my permission, and certainly not to a peasant.”

“Testing isn't unheard-of, Harriet.” Seeing a hefty commission wavering, Stuart soothed, “Myerling's a businessman, not an art expert. He wants facts.” Taking a long drag, he blew out smoke. “In any case, the paperwork's
already completed and there's nothing to be done about it. The deal's a fait accompli, hinging on the test results.”

“We'll discuss this in the morning.” Harriet's voice lowered as she finished off her drink. “This isn't the time or place.”

“I—I have to freshen my drink,” Kirby said suddenly. Without another word, she spun away to work her way through the crowd. The nausea, she realized, was a direct result of panic, and the panic was a long way from over. “Papa.” She latched on to his arm and pulled him out of a discussion on Dali's versatility. “I have to talk to you. Now.”

Hearing the edge in her voice, he let her drag him from the room.

K
irby closed the doors of Harriet's library behind her and leaned back against them. She didn't waste any time. “The Titian's being tested in the morning. Stuart sold it.”

“Sold it!” Fairchild's eyes grew wide, his face pink. “Impossible. Harriet wouldn't sell the Titian.”

“She didn't. She was off playing with lions, remember?” Dragging both hands through her hair, she tried to speak calmly. “Stuart closed the deal, he just told her.”

“I told you he was a fool, didn't I? Didn't I?” Fairchild repeated as he started dancing in place. “I told Harriet, too. Would anyone listen? No, not Harriet.” He whirled around, plucked up a pencil from her desk and broke it in two. “She hires the idiot anyway and goes off to roam the jungle.”

“There's no use going over that again!” Kirby snapped at him. “We've got to deal with the results.”

“There wouldn't be any results if I'd been listened to. Stubborn woman falling for a pretty face. That's all it was.” Pausing, he took a deep breath and folded his hands. “Well,” he said in a mild voice, “this is a problem.”

“Papa, this isn't an error in your checkbook.”

“But it can be handled, probably with less effort. Any way out of the deal?”

“Stuart said the paperwork had been finalized. And it's Myerling,” she added.

“That old pirate.” He scowled a moment and gave Harriet's desk a quick kick. “No way out of it,” Fairchild concluded. “On to the next step. We exchange them.” He saw by Kirby's nod that she'd already thought of it. There was a quick flash of pride before anger set in. The round, cherubic face tightened. “By God, Stuart's going to pay for making me give up that painting.”

“Very easily said, Papa.” Kirby walked into the room until she stood toe to toe with him. “But who was it who settled Adam in the same room with the painting? Now we're going to have to get it out of his room, then get the copy from the gallery in without him knowing there's been a switch. I'm sure you've noticed Adam's not a fool.”

Fairchild's eyebrows wiggled. His lips curved. He rubbed his palms together. “A plan.”

Knowing it was too late for regrets, Kirby flopped into a chair. “We'll phone Cards and have him put the painting in my room before we get back.”

He approved this with a brief nod. “You have a marvelous criminal mind, Kirby.”

She had to smile. A sense of adventure was already
spearing through the panic. “Heredity,” she told her father. “Now, here's my idea….” Lowering her voice, she began the outline.

“It'll work,” Fairchild decided a few moments later.

“That has yet to be seen.” It sounded plausible enough, but she didn't underestimate Adam Haines. “So there's nothing to be done but to do it.”

“And do it well.”

Her agreement was a careless shrug of her shoulders. “Adam should be too tired to notice that the Titian's gone, and after I make the exchange at the gallery, I'll slip it back into his room. Sleeping pills are the only way.” She stared down at her hands, dissatisfied, but knowing it was the only way out. “I don't like doing this to Adam.”

“He'll just get a good night's sleep.” Fairchild sat on the arm of her chair. “We all need a good night's sleep now and again. Now we'd better go back or Melanie'll send out search parties.”

“You go first.” Kirby let out a deep breath. “I'll phone Cards and tell him to get started.”

Kirby waited until Fairchild had closed the doors again before she went to the phone on Harriet's desk. She didn't mind the job she had to do, in fact she looked forward to it. Except for Adam's part. It couldn't be helped, she reminded herself, and gave Cards brief instructions.

Now, she thought as she replaced the receiver, it was too late to turn back. The die, so to speak, had been cast. The truth was, the hastily made plans for the evening would prove a great deal more interesting than a party. While she hesitated a moment longer, Stuart opened the door, then closed it softly behind him.

“Kirby.” He crossed to her with a half smile on his
face. His patience had paid off now that he'd found her alone. “We have to talk.”

Not now, she thought on a moment's panic. Didn't she have enough to deal with? Then she thought of the way he'd humiliated her. The way he'd lied. Perhaps it was better to get everything over with at once.

“I think we said everything we had to say at our last meeting.”

“Not nearly everything.”

“Redundancy bores me,” she said mildly. “But if you insist, I'll say this. It's a pity you haven't the money to suit your looks. Your mistake, Stuart, was in not making me want you—not the way you wanted me.” Deliberately her voice dropped, low and seductive. She hadn't nearly finished paying him back. “You could deceive me about love, but not about lust. If you'd concentrated on that instead of greed, you might've had a chance. You are,” she continued softly, “a liar and a cheat, and while that might've been an interesting diversion for a short time, I thank God you never got your hands on me or my money.”

Before she could sweep around him, he grabbed her arm. “You'd better remember your father's habits before you sling mud.”

She dropped her gaze to his hand, then slowly raised it again. It was a look designed to infuriate. “Do you honestly compare yourself with my father?” Her fury came out on a laugh, and the laugh was insult itself. “You'll never have his style, Stuart. You're second-rate, and you'll always be second-rate.”

He brought the back of his hand across her face hard enough to make her stagger. She didn't make a sound. When she stared up at him, her eyes were slits, very dark,
very dangerous slits. The pain meant nothing, only that he'd caused it and she had no way to pay him back in kind. Yet.

“You prove my point,” Kirby said evenly as she brushed her fingers over her cheek. “Second-rate.”

He wanted to hit her again, but balled his hands into fists. He needed her, for the moment. “I'm through playing games, Kirby. I want the Rembrandt.”

“I'd take a knife to it before I saw Papa hand it over to you. You're out of your class, Stuart.” She didn't bother to struggle when he grabbed her arms.

“Two days, Kirby. You tell the old man he has two days or it's you who'll pay.”

“Threats and physical abuse are your only weapons.” Abruptly, with more effort than she allowed him to see, Kirby turned her anger to ice. “I've weapons of my own, Stuart, infinitely more effective. And if I chose to drop to gutter tactics, you haven't the finesse to deal with me.” She kept her eyes on his, her body still. He might curse her, but Stuart knew the truth when he heard it. “You're a snake,” she added quietly. “And you can't stay off your belly for long. The fact that you're stronger than I is only a temporary advantage.”

“Very temporary,” Adam said as he closed the door at his back. His voice matched Kirby's chill for chill. “Take your hands off her.”

Kirby felt the painful grip on her arms relax and watched Stuart struggle with composure. Carefully he straightened his tie. “Remember what I said, Kirby. It could be important to you.”

“You remember how Byron described a woman's revenge,” she countered as she rubbed the circulation back into her arms. “'Like a tiger's spring—deadly,
quick and crushing.'” She dropped her arms to her sides. “It could be important to you.” Turning, she walked to the window and stared out at nothing.

Adam kept his hand on the knob as Stuart walked to the door. “Touch her again and you'll have to deal with me.” Slowly Adam turned the knob and opened the door. “That's something else for you to remember.” The sounds of the party flowed in, then silenced again as he shut the door at Stuart's back.

“Well,” he began, struggling with his own fury. “I guess I should be grateful I don't have an ex-fiancée hanging around.” He'd heard enough to know that the Rembrandt had been at the bottom of it, but he pushed that aside and went to her. “He's a poor loser, and you're amazing. Most women would have been weeping or pleading. You stood there flinging insults.”

“I don't believe in pleading,” she said as lightly as she could. “And Stuart would never reduce me to tears.”

“But you're trembling,” he murmured as he put his hands on her shoulders.

“Anger.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She didn't care to show a weakness, not to anyone. “I appreciate the white-knight routine.”

He grinned and kissed the top of her head. “Any time. Why don't we…” He trailed off as he turned her to face him. The mark of Stuart's hand had faded to a dull, angry red, but it was unmistakable. When Adam touched his fingers to her cheek, his eyes were cold. Colder and more dangerous than she'd ever seen them. Without a word, he spun around and headed for the door.

“No!”
Desperation wasn't characteristic, but she felt it now as she grabbed his arm. “No, Adam, don't. Don't get involved.” He shook her off, but she sprinted to the
door ahead of him and stood with her back pressed against it. The tears she'd been able to control with Stuart now swam in her eyes. “Please, I've enough on my conscience without dragging you into this. I live my life as I choose, and what I get from it is of my own making.”

He wanted to brush her aside and push through the crowd outside the door until he had his hands on Stuart. He wanted, more than he'd ever wanted anything, the pleasure of smelling the other man's blood. But she was standing in front of him, small and delicate, with tears in her eyes. She wasn't the kind of woman tears came easily to.

“All right.” He brushed one from her cheek and made a promise on it. Before it was over, he would indeed smell Stuart Hiller's blood. “You're only postponing the inevitable.”

Relieved, she closed her eyes a moment. When she opened them again, they were still damp, but no longer desperate. “I don't believe in the inevitable.” She took his hand and brought it to her cheek, holding it there a moment until she felt the tension drain from both of them. “You must've come in to see my portrait. It's there, above the desk.”

She gestured, but he didn't take his eyes from hers. “I'll have to give it a thorough study, right after I give my attention to the original.” He gathered her close and just held her. It was, though neither one of them had known it, the perfect gesture of support. Resting her head against his shoulder, she thought of peace, and she thought of the plans that had already been put into motion.

“I'm sorry, Adam.”

He heard the regret in her voice and brushed his lips over her hair. “What for?”

“I can't tell you.” She tightened her arms around his waist and clung to him as she had never clung to anyone. “But I am sorry.”

 

The drive away from the Merrick estate was more sedate than the approach. Kirby sat in the passenger seat. Under most circumstances, Adam would've attributed her silence and unease to her scene with Hiller. But he remembered her reaction at the mention of the sale of a Titian.

What was going on in that kaleidoscope brain of hers? he wondered. And how was he going to find out? The direct approach, Adam decided, and thought fleetingly that it was a shame to waste the moonlight. “The Titian that's been sold,” he began, pretending he didn't see Kirby jolt. “Has Harriet had it long?”

“The Titian.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Oh, years and years. Your Mrs. Birmingham's shaped like a zucchini, don't you think?”

“She's not my Mrs. Birmingham.” A new game, he concluded, and relaxed against the seat. “It's too bad it was sold before I could see it. I'm a great admirer of Titian. The painting in my room's exquisite.”

Kirby let out a sound that might have been a nervous giggle. “The one at the gallery is just as exquisite,” she told him. “Ah, here we are, home again. Just leave the car out front,” she said, half relieved, half annoyed, that the next steps were being put into play. “Cards will see to it. I hope you don't mind coming back early, Adam. There's Papa,” she added as she stepped from the car. “He must've struck out with Harriet. Let's have a nightcap, shall we?”

She started up the steps without waiting for his agreement. Knowing he was about to become a part of some hastily conceived plan, he went along. It's all too pat, he mused as Fairchild waited at the door with a genial smile.

“Too many people,” Fairchild announced. “I much prefer small parties. Let's have a drink in the parlor and gossip.”

Don't look so bloody anxious, Kirby thought, and nearly scowled at him. “I'll go tell Cards to see to the Rolls and my car.” Still, she hesitated as the men walked toward the parlor. Adam caught the indecision in her eyes before Fairchild cackled and slapped him on the back.

“And don't hurry back,” he told Kirby. “I've had enough of women for a while.”

“How sweet.” The irony and strength came back into her voice. “I'll just go in and eat Tulip's lemon trifle. All,” she added as she swept past.

Fairchild thought of his midnight snack with regret. “Brat,” he muttered. “Well, we'll have Scotch instead.”

Adam dipped his hands casually in his pockets and watched every move Fairchild made. “I had a chance to see Kirby's portrait in Harriet's library. It's marvelous.”

“One of my best, if I say so myself.” Fairchild lifted the decanter of Chivas Regal. “Harriet's fond of my brat, you know.” In a deft move, Fairchild slipped two pills from his pocket and dropped them into the Scotch.

Under normal circumstances Adam would've missed it. Clever hands, he thought as intrigued as he was amused. Very quick, very agile. Apparently they wanted him out of the way. He was going to find it a challenge to pit himself against both of them. With a smile, he
accepted the drink, then turned to the Corot landscape behind him.