The Art of Deception (15 page)

An inarticulate mutter. His back remained to her.

Kirby took a deep breath. “I love you.”

“Umm-hmm.”

Some women might've been crushed. Others would've been furious. Kirby laughed and tossed back
her hair. Life was never what you expected. “Adam, I'd like just a moment of your attention.” Though she continued to smile, her knuckles turned white. “I'm in love with you.”

It got through on the second try. His brush, tipped in coral, stopped in midair. Very slowly, he set it down and turned. She was looking at him, the half smile on her face, her hands linked together so tightly they hurt. She hadn't expected a response, nor would she demand one.

“I don't tell you that to put pressure on you, or to embarrass you.” Nerves showed only briefly as she moistened her lips. “It's just that I think you have a right to know.” Her words began to spill out quickly. “We haven't known each other for long, I know, but I suppose it just happens this way sometimes. I couldn't do anything about it. I don't expect anything from you, permanently or temporarily.” When he still didn't speak, she felt a jolt of panic she didn't know how to deal with. Had she ruined it? Now the smile didn't reach her eyes. “I've got to change,” she said lightly. “You've made me miss lunch as it is.”

She was nearly to the door before he stopped her. As he took her shoulders, he felt her tense. And as he felt it, he understood she'd given him everything that was in her heart. Something he knew instinctively had never been given to any other man.

“Kirby, you're the most exceptional woman I've ever known.”

“Yes, someone's always pointing that out.” She had to get through the door and quickly. “Are you coming down, or shall I have a tray sent up?”

He lowered his head to the top of hers and wondered how things had happened so quickly, so finally. “How
many people could make such a simple and unselfish declaration of love, then walk away without asking for anything? From the beginning you haven't done one thing I'd've expected.” He brushed his lips over her hair, lightly, so that she hardly felt it. “Don't I get a chance to say anything?”

“It's not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.” Turning her, he framed her face with his hands. “And I'd rather have my hands on you when I tell you I love you.”

She stood very straight and spoke very calmly. “Don't feel sorry for me, Adam. I couldn't bear it.”

He started to say all the sweet, romantic things a woman wanted to hear when love was declared. All the traditional, normal words a man offered when he offered himself. They weren't for Kirby. Instead he lifted a brow. “If you hadn't counted on being loved back, you'll have to adjust.”

She waited a moment because she had to be certain. She'd take the risk, take any risk, if she was certain. As she looked into his eyes, she began to smile. The tension in her shoulders vanished. “You've brought it on yourself.”

“Yeah. I guess I have to live with it.”

The smile faded as she pressed against him. “Oh, God, Adam, I need you. You've no idea how much.”

He held her just as tightly, just as desperately. “Yes, I do.”

T
o love and to be loved in return. It was bewildering to Kirby, frightening, exhilarating. She wanted time to experience it, absorb it. Understanding it didn't matter, not now, in the first rush of emotion. She only knew that although she'd always been happy in her life, she was being offered more. She was being offered laughter at midnight, soft words at dawn, a hand to hold and a life to share. The price would be a portion of her independence and the loyalty that had belonged only to her father.

To Kirby, love meant sharing, and sharing had no restrictions. Whatever she had, whatever she felt, belonged to Adam as much as to herself. Whatever happened between them now, she'd never be able to change that. No longer able to work, she went down from her studio to find him.

The house was quiet in the early-evening lull with the
staff downstairs making the dinner preparations and gossiping. Kirby had always liked this time of day—after a long, productive session in her studio, before the evening meal. These were the hours to sit in front of a roaring fire, or walk along the cliffs. Now there was someone she needed to share those hours with. Stopping in front of Adam's door, she raised a hand to knock.

The murmur of voices stopped her. If Adam had her father in another discussion, he might learn something more about the Rembrandt that would put her mind at ease. While she hesitated, the thumping of the front door knocker vibrated throughout the house. With a shrug, she turned away to answer.

Inside his room, Adam shifted the transmitter to his other hand. “This is the first chance I've had to call in. Besides, there's nothing new.”

“You're supposed to check in every night.” Annoyed, McIntyre barked into the receiver. “Damn it, Adam, I was beginning to think something had happened to you.”

“If you knew these people, you'd realize how ridiculous that is.”

“They don't suspect anything?”

“No.” Adam swore at the existence of this job.

“Tell me about Mrs. Merrick and Hiller.”

“Harriet's charming and flamboyant.” He wouldn't say harmless. Though he thought of what he and Kirby had done the night before, he left it alone. Adam had already rationalized the entire business as having nothing to do with his job. Not specifically. That was enough to justify his keeping it from McIntyre. Instead, Adam would tell him what Adam felt applied and nothing more. “Hiller's very smooth and a complete phony. I walked in on him and Kirby in time to keep him from shoving her around.”

“What was his reason?”

“The Rembrandt. He doesn't believe her father's keeping her in the dark about it. He's the kind of man who thinks you can always get what you want by knocking the other person around—if they're smaller.”

“Sounds like a gem.” But he'd heard the change in tone. If Adam was getting involved with the Fairchild woman… No. McIntyre let it go. That they didn't need. “I've got a line on Victor Alvarez.”

“Drop it.” Adam kept his voice casual, knowing full well just how perceptive Mac could be. “It's a wild-goose chase. I've already dug it up and it doesn't have anything to do with the Rembrandt.”

“You know best.”

“Yeah.” McIntyre, he knew, would never understand Fairchild's hobby. “Since we agree about that, I've got a stipulation.”

“Stipulation?”

“When I find the Rembrandt, I handle the rest my own way.”

“What do you mean your own way? Listen, Adam—”

“My way,” Adam cut him off. “Or you find someone else. I'll get it back for you, Mac, but after I do, the Fairchilds are kept out of it.”

“Kept out?” McIntyre exploded so that the receiver crackled with static. “How the hell do you expect me to keep them out?”

“That's your problem. Just do it.”

“The place is full of crazies,” McIntyre muttered. “Must be contagious.”

“Yeah. I'll get back to you.” With a grin, Adam switched off the transmitter.

Downstairs, Kirby opened the door and looked into
the myopic, dark-framed eyes of Rick Potts. Knowing his hand would be damp with nerves, she held hers out. “Hello, Rick. Papa told me you were coming to visit.”

“Kirby.” He swallowed and squeezed her hand. Just the sight of her played havoc with his glands. “You look mar-marvelous.” He thrust drooping carnations into her face.

“Thank you.” Kirby took the flowers Rick had partially strangled and smiled. “Come, let me fix you a drink. You've had a long drive, haven't you? Cards, see to Mr. Potts's luggage, please,” she continued without giving Rick a chance to speak. He'd need a little time, she knew, to draw words together. “Papa should be down soon.” She found a club soda and poured it over ice. “He's been giving a lot of time to his new project; I'm sure he'll want to discuss it with you.” After handing him his drink, she gestured to a chair. “So, how've you been?”

He drank first, to separate his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Fine. That is, I had a bit of a cold last week, but I'm much better now. I'd never come to see you if I had any germs.”

She turned in time to hide a grin and poured herself a glass of Perrier. “That's very considerate of you, Rick.”

“Have you—have you been working?”

“Yes, I've nearly done enough for my spring showing.”

“It'll be wonderful,” he told her with blind loyalty. Though he recognized the quality of her work, the more powerful pieces intimidated him. “You'll be staying in New York?”

“Yes.” She walked over to sit beside him. “For a week.”

“Then maybe—that is, I'd love to, if you had the time, of course, I'd like to take you to dinner.” He gulped down club soda. “If you had an evening free.”

“That's very sweet of you.”

Astonished, he gaped, pupils dilating. From the doorway, Adam watched the puppylike adulation of the lanky, somewhat untidy man. In another ten seconds, Adam estimated, Kirby would have him at her feet whether she wanted him there or not.

Kirby glanced up, and her expression changed so subtly Adam wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been so completely tuned in to her. “Adam.” If there'd been relief in her eyes, her voice was casual. “I was hoping you'd come down. Rick, this is Adam Haines. Adam, I think Papa mentioned Rick Potts to you the other day.”

The message came across loud and clear. Be kind. With an easy smile, Adam accepted the damp handshake. “Yes, Philip said you were coming for a few days. Kirby tells me you work in watercolors.”

“She did?” Nearly undone by the fact that Kirby would speak of him at all, Rick simply stood there a moment.

“We'll have to have a long discussion after dinner.” Rising, Kirby began to lead Rick gently toward the door. “I'm sure you'd like to rest a bit after your drive. You can find the way to your room, can't you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Kirby watched him wander down the hall before she turned back. She walked back to Adam and wrapped her arms around him. “I hate to repeat myself, but I love you.”

He framed her face with his hands and kissed her softly, lightly, with the promise of more. “Repeat yourself as often as you like.” He stared down at her, suddenly and completely aroused by no more than her smile. He pressed his mouth into her palm with a restraint that left her weak. “You take my breath away,”
he murmured. “It's no wonder you turn Rick Potts to jelly.”

“I'd rather turn you to jelly.”

She did. It wasn't an easy thing to admit. With a half smile, Adam drew her away. “Are you really going to tell him I'm a jealous lover with a stiletto?”

“It's for his own good.” Kirby picked up her glass of Perrier. “He's always so embarrassed after he loses control. Did you learn any more from Papa?”

“No.” Puzzled, he frowned. “Why?”

“I was coming to see you right before Rick arrived. I heard you talking.”

She slipped a hand into his and he fought to keep the tension from being noticeable. “I don't want to press things now.” That much was the truth, he thought fiercely. That much wasn't a lie.

“No, you're probably right about that. Papa tends to get obstinate easily. Let's sit in front of the fire for a little while,” she said as she drew him over to it. “And do nothing.”

He sat beside her, holding her close, and wished things were as simple as they seemed.

 

Hours went by before they sat in the parlor again, but they were no longer alone. After an enormous meal, Fairchild and Rick settled down with them to continue the ongoing discussion of art and technique. Assisted by two glasses of wine and half a glass of brandy, Rick began to heap praise on Kirby's work. Adam recognized the warning signals of battle—Fairchild's pink ears and Kirby's guileless eyes.

“Thank you, Rick.” With a smile, Kirby lifted her brandy. “I'm sure you'd like to see Papa's latest work.
It's an attempt in clay. A bird or something, isn't it, Papa?”

“A bird? A bird?” In a quick circle, he danced around the table. “It's a hawk, you horrid girl. A bird of prey, a creature of cunning.”

A veteran, Rick tried to soothe. “I'd love to see it, Mr. Fairchild.”

“And so you will.” In one dramatic gulp, Fairchild finished off his drink. “I intend to donate it to the Metropolitan.”

Whether Kirby's snort was involuntary or contrived, it produced results.

“Do you mock your father?” Fairchild demanded. “Have you no faith in these hands?” He held them out, fingers spread. “The same hands that held you fresh from your mother's womb?”

“Your hands are the eighth wonder of the world,” Kirby told him. “However…” She set down her glass, sat back and crossed her legs. Meticulously she brought her fingers together and looked over them. “From my observations, you have difficulty with your structure. Perhaps with a few years of practice, you'll develop the knack of construction.”

“Structure?” he sputtered. “Construction?” His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. “Cards!” Kirby sent him an easy smile and picked up her glass again. “Cards!”

“Yes, Mr. Fairchild.”

“Cards,” Fairchild repeated, glaring at the dignified butler, who stood waiting in the doorway.

“Yes, Mr. Fairchild.”

“Cards!”
He bellowed and pranced.

“I believe Papa wants a deck of cards—Cards,” Kirby explained. “Playing cards.”

“Yes, miss.” With a slight bow, Cards went to get some.

“What's the matter with that man?” Fairchild muttered. In hurried motions, he began to clear off a small table. Exquisite Wedgwood and delicate Venetian glass were dumped unceremoniously on the floor. “You'd think I didn't make myself clear.”

“It's so hard to get good help these days,” Adam said into his glass.

“Your cards, Mr. Fairchild.” The butler placed two sealed decks on the table before gliding from the room.

“Now I'll show you about construction.” Fairchild pulled up a chair and wrapped his skinny legs around its legs. Breaking the seal on the first deck, he poured the cards on the table. With meticulous care, he leaned one card against another and formed an arch. “A steady hand and a discerning eye,” Fairchild mumbled as he began slowly, and with total intensity, to build a house of cards.

“That should keep him out of trouble for a while,” Kirby declared. Sending Adam a wink, she turned to Rick and drew him into a discussion on mutual friends.

An hour drifted by over brandy and quiet conversation. Occasionally there was a mutter or a grumble from the architect in the corner. The fire crackled. When Montique entered and jumped into Adam's lap, Rick paled and sprang up.

“You shouldn't do that. She'll be here any second.” He set down his glass with a clatter. “Kirby, I think I'll go up. I want to start work early.”

“Of course.” She watched his retreat before turning to Adam. “He's terrified of Isabelle. Montique got into his room when he was sleeping and curled on his pillow.
Isabelle woke Rick with some rather rude comments while she stood on his chest. I'd better go up and make sure everything's in order.” She rose, then bent over and kissed him lightly.

“That's not enough.”

“No?” The slow smile curved her lips. “Perhaps we'll fix that later. Come on, Montique, let's go find your wretched keeper.”

“Kirby…” Adam waited until both she and the puppy were at the doorway. “Just how much rent does Isabelle pay?”

“Ten mice a month,” she told him soberly. “But I'm going to raise it to fifteen in November. Maybe she'll be out by Christmas.” Pleased with the thought, she led Montique away.

“A fascinating creature, my Kirby,” Fairchild commented.

Adam crossed the room and stared down at the huge, erratic card structure Fairchild continued to construct. “Fascinating.”

“She's a woman with much below the surface. Kirby can be cruel when she feels justified. I've seen her squash a six-foot man like a bug.” He held a card between the index fingers of both hands, then slowly lowered it into place. “You'll notice, however, that her attitude toward Rick is invariably kind.”

Though Fairchild continued to give his full attention to his cards, Adam knew it was more than idle conversation. “Obviously she doesn't want to hurt him.”

“Exactly.” Fairchild began to patiently build another wing. Unless Adam was very much mistaken, the cards were slowly taking on the lines of the house they were in. “She'll take great care not to because she knows his
devotion to her is sincere. Kirby's a strong, independent woman. Where her heart's involved, however, she's a marshmallow. There are a handful of people on this earth she'd sacrifice anything she could for. Rick's one of them—Melanie and Harriet are others. And myself.” He held a card on the tops of his fingers as if weighing it. “Yes, myself,” he repeated softly. “Because of this, the circumstances of the Rembrandt are very difficult for her. She's torn between separate loyalties. Her father, and the woman who's been her mother most of her life.”