The Art of Deception (14 page)

Soft sighs, low murmurs, skin against skin. Moonlight and the rose tint from the lamp competed, then merged, as the mattress yielded under their weight. Her mouth was hot and open, her arms were strong. As she moved under him, inviting, taunting, he forgot how small she was.

Everything. All. Now. Needs drove them both to take without patience, and yet… Somehow, beneath the passion, under the heat, was a tenderness neither had expected from the other.

He touched. She trembled. She tasted. He throbbed. They wanted until the air seemed to spark with it. With each second both of them found more of what they'd needed, but the findings brought more greed. Take, she seemed to say, then give and give and give.

She had no time to float, only to throb. For him. From him. Her body craved—
yearn
was too soft a word. She required him, something unique for her. And he, with a kiss, with a touch of his hand, could raise her up to planes she'd only dreamed existed. Here was the completion, here was the delight, she'd hoped for without truly believing in. This was what she'd wanted so desperately in her life but had never found. Here and now. Him. There was and needed to be nothing else.

He edged toward madness. She held him, hard and tight, as they swung toward the edge together. Together was all she could think. Together.

Quiet. It was so quiet there might never have been such a thing as sound. Her hair brushed against his cheek. Her hand, balled into a loose fist, lay over his heart. Adam lay in the silence and hurt as he'd never expected to hurt.

How had he let it happen? Control? What had made him think he had control when it came to Kirby? Somehow she'd wrapped herself around him, body and
mind, while he'd been pretending he'd known exactly what he'd been doing.

He'd come to do a job, he reminded himself. He still had to do it, no matter what had passed between them. Could he go on with what he'd come to do, and protect her? Was it possible to split himself in two when his road had always been so straight? He wasn't certain of anything now, but the tug-of-war he'd lose whichever way the game ended. He had to think, create the distance he needed to do so. Better for both of them if he started now.

But when he shifted away, she held him tighter. Kirby lifted her head so that moonlight caught in her eyes and mesmerized him. “Don't go,” she murmured. “Stay and sleep with me. I don't want it to end yet.”

He couldn't resist her now. Perhaps he never would. Saying nothing, Adam drew her close again and closed his eyes. For a little while he could pretend tomorrow would take care of itself.

 

Sunlight woke her, but Kirby tried to ignore it by piling pillows on top of her head. It didn't work for long. Resigned, she tossed them on the floor and lay quietly, alone.

She hadn't heard Adam leave, nor had she expected him to stay until morning. As it was, she was grateful to have woken alone. Now she could think.

How was it she'd given her complete trust to a man she hardly knew? No answer. Why hadn't she evaded his questions, skirted her way around certain facts as she was well capable of doing? No answer.

It wasn't true. Kirby closed her eyes a moment, knowing she'd been more honest with Adam than she was being with herself. She knew the answer.

She'd given him more than she'd ever given to any man. It had been more than a physical alliance, more than a few hours of pleasure in the night. The essence of self had been shared with him. There was no taking it back now, even if both of them would have preferred it.

Unknowingly, he'd taken her innocence. Emotional virginity was just as real, just as vital, as the physical. And it was just as impossible to reclaim. She, thinking of the night, knew that she had no desire to go back. Now they would both move forward to whatever waited for them.

Rising, she prepared to face the day.

 

Upstairs in Fairchild's studio, Adam studied the rural landscape. He could feel the agitation and drama. The serene scene leaped with frantic life. Vivid, real, disturbing. Its creator stood beside him, not the Vincent van Gogh who Adam would've sworn had wielded the brush and pallette, but Philip Fairchild.

“It's magnificent,” Adam murmured. The compliment was out before he could stop it.

“Thank you, Adam. I'm fond of it.” Fairchild spoke as a man who'd long before accepted his own superiority and the responsibility that came with it.

“Mr. Fairchild—”

“Philip,” Fairchild interrupted genially. “No reason for formality between us.”

Somehow Adam felt even the casual intimacy could complicate an already hopelessly tangled situation. “Philip,” he began again, “this is fraud. Your motives might be sterling, but the result remains fraud.”

“Absolutely.” Fairchild bobbed his head in agreement. “Fraud, misrepresentation, a bald-faced lie
without a doubt.” He lifted his arms and let them fall. “I'm stripped of defenses.”

Like hell, Adam thought grimly. Unless he was very much mistaken, he was about to be treated to the biggest bag of pure, classic bull on record.

“Adam…” Fairchild drew out the name and steepled his hands. “You're an astute man, a rational man. I pride myself on being a good judge of character.” As if he were very old and frail, Fairchild lowered himself into a chair. “Then, again, you're imaginative and open-minded—that shows in your work.”

Adam reached for the coffee Cards had brought up. “So?”

“Your help with our little problem last night—and your skill in turning my own plot against me—leads me to believe you have the ability to adapt to what some might term the unusual.”

“Some might.”

“Now.” Accepting the cup Adam handed him, Fairchild leaned back. “You tell me Kirby filled you in on everything. Odd, but we'll leave that for now.” He'd already drawn his own conclusions there and found them to his liking. He wasn't about to lose on other points. “After what you've been told, can you find one iota of selfishness in my enterprise? Can you see my motive as anything but humanitarian?” On a roll, Fairchild set down his cup and let his hands fall between his bony knees. “Small, sick children, and those less fortunate than ourselves, have benefited from my hobby. Not one dollar have I kept, not a dollar, a franc, a sou. Never, never have I asked for credit or honor that, naturally, society would be anxious to bestow on me.”

“You haven't asked for the jail sentence they'd bestow on you, either.”

Fairchild tilted his head in acknowledgment but didn't miss a beat. “It's my gift to mankind, Adam. My payment for the talent awarded to me by a higher power. These hands…” He held them up, narrow, gaunt and oddly beautiful. “These hands hold a skill I'm obliged to pay for in my own way. This I've done.” Bowing his head, Fairchild dropped them into his lap. “However, if you must condemn me, I understand.”

Fairchild looked, Adam mused, like a stalwart Christian faced by pagan lions: firm in his belief, resigned to his fate. “One day,” Adam murmured, “your halo's going to slip and strangle you.”

“A possibility.” Grinning, he lifted his head again. “But in the meantime, we enjoy what we can. Let's have one of those Danishes, my boy.”

Wordlessly, Adam handed him the tray. “Have you considered the repercussions to Kirby if your…hobby is discovered?”

“Ah.” Fairchild swallowed pastry. “A straight shot to my Achilles' heel. Naturally both of us know that Kirby can meet any obstacle and find a way over, around or through it.” He bit off more Danish, enjoying the tang of raspberry. “Still, merely by being, Kirby demands emotion of one kind or another. You'd agree?”

Adam thought of the night, and what it had changed in him. “Yes.”

The brief, concise answer was exactly what Fairchild had expected. “I'm taking a hiatus from this business for various reasons, the first of which is Kirby's position.”

“And her position as concerns the Merrick Rembrandt?”

“A different kettle of fish.” Fairchild dusted his fingers on a napkin and considered another pastry. “I'd like to share the ins and outs of that business with you, Adam, but I'm not free to just yet.” He smiled and gazed over Adam's head. “One could say I've involved Kirby figuratively, but until things are resolved, she's a minor player in the game.”

“Are you casting as well as directing this performance, Papa?” Kirby walked into the room and picked up the Danish Fairchild had been eyeing. “Did you sleep well, darling?”

“Like a rock, brat,” he muttered, remembering the confusion of waking up on the sofa under her cape. He didn't care to be outwitted, but was a man who acknowledged a quick mind. “I'm told your evening activities went well.”

“The deed's done.” She glanced at Adam before resting her hands on her father's shoulders. The bond was there, unbreakable. “Maybe I should leave the two of you alone for a while. Adam has a way of digging out information. You might tell him what you won't tell me.”

“All in good time.” He patted her hands. “I'm devoting the morning to my hawk.” Rising, he went to uncover his clay, an obvious dismissal. “You might give Harriet a call and tell her all's well before you two amuse yourselves.”

Kirby held out her hand. “Have you any amusements in mind, Adam?”

“As a matter of fact…” He went with the impulse and kissed her as her father watched and speculated. “I had a session of oils and canvas in mind. You'll have to change.”

“If that's the best you can do. Two hours only,” she
warned as they walked from the room. “Otherwise my rates go up. I have my own work, you know.”

“Three.”

“Two and a half.” She paused at the second-floor landing.

“You looked like a child this morning,” he murmured, and touched her cheek. “I couldn't bring myself to wake you.” He left his hand there only a moment, then moved away. “I'll meet you upstairs.”

Kirby went to her room and tossed the red dress on the bed. While she undressed with one hand, she dialed the phone with the other.

“Harriet, it's Kirby to set your mind at rest.”

“Clever child. Was there any trouble?”

“No.” She wiggled out of her jeans. “We managed.”

“We? Did Philip go with you?”

“Papa was snoozing on the couch after Adam switched drinks.”

“Oh, dear.” Amused, Harriet settled back. “Was he very angry?”

“Papa or Adam?” Kirby countered, then shrugged. “No matter, in the end they were both very reasonable. Adam was a great help.”

“The test isn't for a half hour. Give me the details.”

Struggling in and out of clothes, Kirby told her everything.

“Marvelous!” Pleased with the drama, Harriet beamed at the phone. “I wish I'd done it. I'll have to get to know your Adam better and find some spectacular way of showing him my gratitude. Do you think he'd like the crocodile teeth?”

“Nothing would please him more.”

“Kirby, you know how grateful I am to you.”
Harriet's voice was abruptly serious and maternal. “The situation's awkward to say the least.”

“The contract's binding?”

“Yes.” She let out a sigh at the thought of losing the Titian. “My fault. I should've explained to Stuart that the painting wasn't to be sold. Philip must be furious with me.”

“You can handle him. You always do.”

“Yes, yes. Lord knows what I'd do without you, though. Poor Melly just can't understand me as you do.”

“She's just made differently.” Kirby stared down at the floor and tried not to think about the Rembrandt and the guilt it brought her. “Come to dinner tonight, Harriet, you and Melanie.”

“Oh, I'd love to, darling, but I've a meeting. Tomorrow?”

“Fine. Shall I call Melly, or will you speak with her?”

“I'll see her this afternoon. Take care and do thank Adam for me. Damn shame I'm too old to give him anything but crocodile teeth.”

With a laugh, Kirby hung up.

 

The sun swept over her dress, shooting it with flames or darkening it to blood. It glinted from the rings at her ears, the bracelets on her arms. Knowing the light was as perfect as it would ever be, Adam worked feverishly.

He was an artist of subtle details, one who used light and shadow for mood. In his portraits he strove for an inner reality, the truth beneath the surface of the model. In Kirby he saw the essence of woman—power and frailty and that elusive, mystical quality of sex. Aloof, alluring. She was both. Now, more than ever, he understood it.

Hours passed without him giving them a thought. His model, however, had a different frame of mind.

“Adam, if you'll consult your watch, you'll see I've given you more than the allotted time already.”

He ignored her and continued to paint.

“I can't stand here another moment.” She let her arms drop from their posed position, then wiggled them from the shoulders down. “As it is, I'll probably never pole-vault again.”

“I can work on the background awhile,” he muttered. “I need another three hours in the morning. The light's best then.”

Kirby bit off a retort. Rudeness was something to be expected when an artist was taken over by his art. Stretching her muscles, she went to look over his shoulder.

“You've a good hand with light,” she decided as she studied the emerging painting. “It's very flattering, certainly, rather fiery and defiant with the colors you've chosen.” She looked carefully at the vague lines of her face, the tints and hues he was using to create her on canvas. “Still, there's a fragility here I don't quite understand.”

“Maybe I know you better than you know yourself.” He never looked at her, but continued to paint. In not looking, he didn't see the stunned expression or the gradual acceptance.

Linking her hands together, Kirby wandered away. She'd have to do it quickly, she decided. It needed to be done, to be said. “Adam…”