The Art of Deception (16 page)

“You do nothing to change it,” Adam accused. Irrationally he wanted to sweep the cards aside, flatten the meticulously formed construction. He pushed his hands into his pockets, where they balled into fists. Just how much could he berate Fairchild, when he was deceiving Kirby in nearly the same way? “Why don't you give her some explanation? Something she could understand?”

“Ignorance is bliss,” Fairchild stated calmly. “In this case, the less Kirby knows, the simpler things are for her.”

“You've a hell of a nerve, Philip.”

“Yes, yes, that's quite true.” He balanced more cards, then went back to the subject foremost in his mind. “There've been dozens of men in Kirby's life. She could choose and discard them as other women do clothing. Yet, in her own way, she was always cautious. I think Kirby believed she wasn't capable of loving a man and had decided to settle for much, much less by agreeing to marry Stuart. Nonsense, of course.” Fairchild picked up his drink and studied his rambling card house. “Kirby has a great capacity for love. When she loves a man, she'll love with unswerving devotion and loyalty. And when she does, she'll be vulnerable. She loves intensely, Adam.”

For the first time, he raised his eyes and met Adam's.
“When her mother died, she was devastated. I wouldn't want to live to see her go through anything like that again.”

What could he say? Less than he wanted to, but still only the truth. “I don't want to hurt Kirby. I'll do everything I can to keep from hurting her.”

Fairchild studied him a moment with the pale blue eyes that saw deep and saw much. “I believe you, and hope you find a way to avoid it. Still, if you love her, you'll find a way to mend whatever damage is done. The game's on, Adam, the rules set. They can't be altered now, can they?”

Adam stared down at the round face. “You know why I'm here, don't you?”

With a cackle, Fairchild turned back to his cards. Yes, indeed, Adam Haines was sharp, he thought, pleased. Kirby had called it from the beginning. “Let's just say for now that you're here to paint and to…observe. Yes, to observe.” He placed another card. “Go up to her now, you've my blessing if you feel the need for it. The game's nearly over, Adam. Soon enough we'll have to pick up the pieces. Love's tenuous when it's new, my boy. If you want to keep her, be as stubborn as she is. That's my advice.”

 

In long, methodical strokes, Kirby pulled the brush through her hair. She'd turned the radio on low so that the hot jazz was hardly more than a pulse beat. At the sound of a knock, she sighed. “Rick, you really must go to bed. You'll hate yourself in the morning.”

Adam pushed open the door. He took a long look at the woman in front of the mirror, dressed in wisps of beige silk and ivory lace. Without a word, he closed and latched the door behind him.

“Oh, my.” Setting the brush on her dresser, Kirby turned around with a little shudder. “A woman simply isn't safe these days. Have you come to have your way with me—I hope?”

Adam crossed to her. Letting his hands slide along the silk, he wrapped his arms around her. “I was just passing through.” When she smiled, he lowered his mouth to hers. “I love you, Kirby. More than anyone, more than anything.” Suddenly his mouth was fierce, his arms were tight. “Don't ever forget it.”

“I won't.” But her words were muffled against his mouth. “Just don't stop reminding me. Now…” She drew away, inches only, and slowly began to loosen his tie. “Maybe I should remind you.”

He watched his tie slip to the floor just before she began to ease his jacket from his shoulders. “It might be a good idea.”

“You've been working hard,” she told him as she tossed his jacket in the general direction of a chair. “I think you should be pampered a bit.”

“Pampered?”

“Mmm.” Nudging him onto the bed, she knelt to take off his shoes. Carelessly she let them drop, followed by his socks, before she began to massage his feet. “Pampering's good for you in small doses.”

He felt the pleasure spread through him at the touch that could almost be described as motherly. Her hands were soft, with that ridge of callus that proved they weren't idle. They were strong and clever, belonging both to artist and to woman. Slowly she slid them up his legs, then down—teasing, promising, until he wasn't certain whether to lay back and enjoy, or to grab and take. Before he could do either, Kirby stood and began to unbutton his shirt.

“I like everything about you,” she murmured as she tugged the shirt from the waistband of his slacks. “Have I mentioned that?”

“No.” He let her loosen the cuffs and slip the shirt from him. Taking her time, Kirby ran her hands up his rib cage to his shoulders. “The way you look.” Softly she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “The way you feel.” Then the other. “The way you think.” Her lips brushed over his chin. “The way you taste.” Unhooking his slacks, she drew them off, inch by slow inch. “There's nothing about you I'd change.”

She straddled him and began to trace long, lingering kisses over his face and neck. “Once when I wondered about falling in love, I decided there simply wasn't a man I'd like well enough to make it possible.” Her mouth paused just above his. “I was wrong.”

Soft, warm and exquisitely tender, her lips met his. Pampering…the word drifted through his mind as she gave him more than any man could expect and only a few might dream of. The strength of her body and her mind, the delicacy of both. They were his, and he didn't have to ask. They'd be his as long as his arms could hold her and open wide enough to give her room.

Knowing only that she loved, Kirby gave. His body heated beneath hers, lean and hard. Disciplined. Somehow the word excited her. He knew who he was and what he wanted. He'd work for both. And he wouldn't demand that she lose any part of what she was to suit that.

His shoulders were firm. Not so broad they would overwhelm her, but wide enough to offer security when she needed it. She brushed her lips over them. There were muscles in his arms, but subtle, not something
he'd flex to show her his superiority, but there to protect if she chose to be protected. She ran her fingers over them. His hands were clever, elegantly masculine. They wouldn't hold her back from the places she had to go, but they would be there, held out, when she returned. She pressed her mouth to one, then the other.

No one had ever loved him just like this—patiently, devotedly. He wanted nothing more than to go on feeling those long, slow strokes of her fingers, those moist, lingering traces of her lips. He felt each in every pore. A total experience. He could see the glossy black fall of her hair as it tumbled over his skin and hear the murmur of her approval as she touched him.

The house was quiet again, but for the low, simmering sound of the music. The quilt was soft under his back. The light was dim and gentle—the best light for lovers. And while he lay, she loved him until he was buried under layer upon layer of pleasure. This he would give back to her.

He could touch the silk, and her flesh, knowing that both were exquisite. He could taste her lips and know that he'd never go hungry as long as she was there. When he heard her sigh, he knew he'd be content with no other sound. The need for him was in her eyes, clouding them, so that he knew he could live with little else as long as he could see her face.

Patience began to fade in each of them. He could feel her body spring to frantic life wherever he touched. He could feel his own strain from the need only she brought to him. Desperate, urgent, exclusive. If he'd had only a day left to live, he'd have spent every moment of it there, with Kirby in his arms.

She smelled of wood smoke and musky flowers, of
woman and of sex, ripe and ready. If he'd had the power, he'd have frozen time just then, as she loomed above him in the moonlight, eyes dark with need, skin flashing against silk.

Then he drew the silk up and over her head so that he could see her as he swore no man would ever see her again. Her hair tumbled down, streaking night against her flesh. Naked and eager, she was every primitive fantasy, every midnight dream. Everything.

Her lips were parted as the breath hurried between them. Passion swamped her so that she shuddered and rushed to take what she needed from him—for him. Everything. Everything and more. With a low sound of triumph, Kirby took him inside her and led the way. Fast, furious.

Her body urged her on relentlessly while her mind exploded with images. Such color, such sound. Such frenzy. Arched back, she moved like lightning, hardly aware of how tightly his hands gripped her hips. But she heard him say her name. She felt him fill her.

The first crest swamped her, shocking her system then thrusting her along to more, and more and more. There was nothing she couldn't have and nothing she wouldn't give. Senseless, she let herself go.

With his hands on her, with the taste of her still on his lips, Adam felt his system shudder on the edge of release. For a moment, only a moment, he held back. He could see her above him, poised like a goddess, flesh damp and glowing, hair streaming back as she lifted her hands to it in ecstasy. This he would remember always.

 

The moon was no longer full, but its light was soft and white. They were still on top of the quilt, tangled
close as their breathing settled. As she lay over him, Adam thought of everything Fairchild had said. And everything he could and couldn't do about it.

Slowly their systems settled, but he could find none of the answers he needed so badly. What answers would there be based on lies and half-truths?

Time. Perhaps time was all he had now. But how much or how little was no longer up to him. With a sigh, he shifted and ran a hand down her back.

Kirby rose on an elbow. Her eyes were no longer clouded, but saucy and clear. She smiled, touched a fingertip to her own lips and then to his. “Next time you're in town, cowboy,” she drawled as she tossed her hair over her shoulder, “don't forget to ask for Lulu.”

She'd expected him to grin, but he grabbed her hair and held her just as she was. There was no humor in his eyes, but the intensity she'd seen when he held a paint-brush. His muscles had tensed, she could feel it.

“Adam?”

“No, don't.” He forced his hand to relax, then stroked her cheek. It wouldn't be spoiled by the wrong word, the wrong move. “I want to remember you just like this. Fresh from loving, with moonlight on your hair.”

He was afraid, unreasonably, that he'd never see her like that again—with that half smile inches away from his face. He'd never feel the warmth of her flesh spread over his with nothing, nothing to separate them.

The panic came fast and was very real. Unable to stop it, Adam pulled her against him and held her as if he'd never let her go.

A
fter thirty minutes of posing, Kirby ordered herself not to be impatient. She'd agreed to give Adam two hours, and a bargain was a bargain. She didn't want to think about the time she had left to stand idle, so instead tried to concentrate on her plans for sculpting once her obligation was over. Her
Anger
was nearly finished.

But the sun seemed too warm and too bright. Every so often her mind would go oddly blank until she pulled herself back just to remember where she was.

“Kirby.” Adam called her name for the third time and watched as she blinked and focused on him. “Could you wait until the session's over before you take a nap?”

“Sorry.” With an effort, she cleared her head and smiled at him. “I was thinking of something else.”

“Don't think at all if it puts you to sleep,” he muttered, and slashed scarlet across the canvas. It was right, so right.
Nothing he'd ever done had been as right as this painting. The need to finish it was becoming obsessive. “Tilt your head to the right again. You keep breaking the pose.”

“Slave driver.” But she obeyed and tried to concentrate.

“Cracking the whip's the only way to work with you.” With care, he began to perfect the folds in the skirt of her dress. He wanted them soft, flowing, but clearly defined. “You'd better get used to posing for me. I've already several other studies in mind that I'll start after we're married.”

Giddiness washed over her. She felt it in waves—physical, emotional—she couldn't tell one from the other. Without thinking, she dropped her arms.

“Damn it, Kirby.” He started to swear at her again when he saw how wide and dark her eyes were. “What is it?”

“I hadn't thought…I didn't realize that you…” Lifting a hand to her spinning head, she walked around the room. The bracelets slid down to her elbow with a musical jingle. “I need a minute,” she murmured. Should she feel as though someone had cut off her air? As if her head was three feet above her shoulders?

Adam watched her for a moment. She didn't seem quite steady, he realized. And there was an unnaturally high color in her cheeks. Standing, he took her hand and held her still. “Are you ill?”

“No.” She shook her head. She was never ill, Kirby reminded herself. Just a bit tired—and, perhaps for the first time in her life, completely overwhelmed. She took a deep breath, telling herself she'd be all right in a moment. “I didn't know you wanted to marry me, Adam.”

Was that it? he wondered as he ran the back of his
hand over her cheek. Shouldn't she have known? And yet, he remembered, everything had happened so fast. “I love you.” It was simple for him. Love led to marriage and marriage to family. But how could he have forgotten Kirby wasn't an ordinary woman and was anything but simple? “You accused me of being conventional,” he reminded her, and ran his hands down her hair to her shoulders. “Marriage is a very conventional institution.” And one she might not be ready for, he thought with a quick twinge of panic. He'd have to give her room if he wanted to keep her. But how much room did she need, and how much could he give?

“I want to spend my life with you.” Adam waited until her gaze had lifted to his again. She looked stunned by his words—a woman like her, Adam thought. Beautiful, sensuous, strong. How was it a woman like Kirby would be surprised to be wanted? Perhaps he'd moved too quickly, and too clumsily. “Any way you choose, Kirby. Maybe I should've chosen a better time, a better place, to ask rather than assume.”

“It's not that.” Shaky, she lifted a hand to his face. It was so solid, so strong. “I don't need that.” His face blurred a moment, and, shaking her head, she moved away again until she stood where she'd been posing. “I've had marriage proposals before—and a good many less binding requests.” She managed a smile. He wanted her, not just for today, but for the tomorrows, as well. He wanted her just as she was. She felt the tears well up, of love, of gratitude, but blinked them back. When wishes came true it was no time for tears. “This is the one I've been waiting for all of my life, I just didn't expect to be so flustered.”

Relieved, he started to cross to her. “I'll take that as a good sign. Still, I wouldn't mind a simple yes.”

“I hate to do anything simple.”

She felt the room lurch and fade, then his hands on her shoulders.

“Kirby— Good God, there's gas leaking!” As he stood holding her up, the strong, sweet odor rushed over him. “Get out! Get some air! It must be the heater.” Giving her a shove toward the door, he bent over the antiquated unit.

She stumbled across the room. The door seemed miles away, so that when she finally reached it she had only the strength to lean against the heavy wood and catch her breath. The air was cleaner there. Gulping it in, Kirby willed herself to reach for the knob. She tugged, but it held firm.

“Damn it, I told you to get out!” He was already choking on the fumes when he reached her. “The gas is pouring out of that thing!”

“I can't open the door!” Furious with herself, Kirby pulled again. Adam pushed her hands away and yanked himself. “Is it jammed?” she murmured, leaning against him. “Cards will see to it.”

Locked, he realized. From the outside. “Stay here.” After propping her against the door, Adam picked up a chair and smashed it against the window. The glass cracked, but held. Again, he rammed the chair, and again, until with a final heave, the glass shattered. Moving quickly, he went back for Kirby and held her head near the jagged opening.

“Breathe,” he ordered.

For the moment she could do nothing else but gulp fresh air into her lungs and cough it out again. “Someone's locked us in, haven't they?”

He'd known it wouldn't take her long once her head had cleared. Just as he knew better than to try to evade. “Yes.”

“We could shout for hours.” She closed her eyes and concentrated. “No one would hear us, we're too isolated up here.” With her legs unsteady, she leaned against the wall. “We'll have to wait until someone comes to look for us.”

“Where's the main valve for that heater?”

“Main valve?” She pressed her fingers to her eyes and forced herself to think. “I just turn the thing on when it's cold up here…. Wait. Tanks—there are tanks out in back of the kitchen.” She turned back to the broken window again, telling herself she couldn't be sick. “One for each tower and for each floor.”

Adam glanced at the small, old-fashioned heater again. It wouldn't take much longer, even with the broken window. “We're getting out of here.”

“How?” If she could just lie down—just for a minute… “The door's locked. I don't think we'd survive a jump into Jamie's zinnias,” she added, looking down to where the chair had landed. But he wasn't listening to her. When Kirby turned, she saw Adam running his hand over the ornate trim. The panel yawned open. “How'd you find that one?”

He grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her forward. “Let's go.”

“I can't.” With the last of her strength, Kirby braced her hands against the wall. Fear and nausea doubled at the thought of going into the dark, dank hole in the wall. “I can't go in there.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

When he would've pulled her through, Kirby jerked away and backed up. “No, you go. I'll wait for you to come around and open the door.”

“Listen to me.” Fighting the fumes, he grabbed her
shoulders. “I don't know how long it'd take me to find my way through that maze in the dark.”

“I'll be patient.”

“You could be dead,” he countered between his teeth. “That heater's unstable—if there's a short this whole room would go up! You've already taken in too much of the gas.”

“I won't go in!” Hysteria bubbled, and she didn't have the strength or the wit to combat it. Her voice rose as she stumbled back from him. “I can't go in, don't you understand?”

“I hope you understand this,” he muttered, and clipped her cleanly on the jaw. Without a sound, she collapsed into his arms. Adam didn't hesitate. He tossed her unceremoniously over his shoulder and plunged into the passageway.

With the panel closed to cut off the flow of gas, the passage was in total darkness. With one arm holding Kirby in place, Adam inched along the wall. He had to reach the stairs, and the first mechanism. Groping, testing each step, he hugged the wall, knowing what would happen to both of them if he rushed and plunged them headlong down the steep stone stairway.

He heard the skitter of rodents and brushed spider-webs out of his face. Perhaps it was best that Kirby was unconscious, he decided. He'd get her through a lot easier carrying her than he would dragging her.

Five minutes, then ten, then at last his foot met empty space.

Cautiously, he shifted Kirby on his shoulder, pressed the other to the wall, and started down. The steps were stone, and treacherous enough with a light. In the dark, with no rail for balance, they were deadly. Fighting the need to rush, Adam checked himself on each step before going on to the next. When he reached the bottom, he
went no faster, but began to trace his hand along the wall, feeling for a switch.

The first one stuck. He had to concentrate just to breathe. Kirby swayed on his shoulder as he maneuvered the sharp turn in the passage. Swearing, Adam moved forward blindly until his fingers brushed over a second lever. The panel groaned open just enough for him to squeeze himself and his burden through. Blinking at the sunlight, he dashed around dust-covered furniture and out into the hall.

When he reached the second floor and passed Cards, he didn't break stride. “Turn off the gas to Kirby's studio from the main valve,” he ordered, coughing as he moved by. “And keep everyone away from there.”

“Yes, Mr. Haines.” Cards continued to walk toward the main stairway, carrying his pile of fresh linens.

When Adam reached her room, he laid Kirby on the bed, then opened the windows. He stood there a moment, just breathing, letting the air rush over his face and soothe his eyes. His stomach heaved. Forcing himself to take slow, measured breaths, he leaned out. When the nausea passed, he went back to her.

The high color had faded. Now she was as pale as the quilt. She didn't move. Hadn't moved, he remembered, since he'd hit her. With a tremor, he pressed his fingers to her throat and felt a slow, steady pulse. Quickly he went into the bathroom and soaked a cloth with cold water. As he ran it over her face, he said her name.

She coughed first, violently. Nothing could've relieved him more. When her eyes opened, she stared at him dully.

“You're in your room,” he told her. “You're all right now.”

“You hit me.”

He grinned because there was indignation in her voice. “I thought you'd take a punch better with a chin like that. I barely tapped you.”

“So you say.” Gingerly she sat up and touched her chin. Her head whirled once, but she closed her eyes and waited for it to pass. “I suppose I had it coming. Sorry I got neurotic on you.”

He let his forehead rest against hers. “You scared the hell out of me. I guess you're the only woman who's received a marriage proposal and a right jab within minutes of each other.”

“I hate to do the ordinary.” Because she needed another minute, she lay back against the pillows. “Have you turned off the gas?”

“Cards is seeing to it.”

“Of course.” She said this calmly enough, then began to pluck at the quilt with her fingers. “As far as I know, no one's tried to kill me before.”

It made it easier, he thought, that she understood and accepted that straight off. With a nod, he touched a hand to her cheek. “First we call a doctor. Then we call the police.”

“I don't need a doctor. I'm just a little queasy now, it'll pass.” She took both his hands and held them firmly. “And we can't call the police.”

He saw something in her eyes that nearly snapped his temper. Stubbornness. “It's the usual procedure after attempted murder, Kirby.”

She didn't wince. “They'll ask annoying questions and skulk all over the house. It's in all the movies.”

“This isn't a game.” His hands tightened on hers. “You could've been killed—would've been if you'd been in there alone. I'm not giving him another shot at you.”

“You think it was Stuart.” She let out a long breath. Be objective, she told herself. Then you can make Adam be objective. “Yes, I suppose it was, though I wouldn't have thought him ingenious enough. There's no one else who'd want to hurt me. Still, we can't prove a thing.”

“That has yet to be seen.” His eyes flashed a moment as he thought of the satisfaction he'd get from beating a confession out of Hiller. She saw it. She understood it.

“You're more primitive than I'd imagined.” Touched, she traced her finger down his jaw. “I didn't know how nice it would be to have someone want to vanquish dragons for me. Who needs a bunch of silly police when I have you?”

“Don't try to outmaneuver me.”

“I'm not.” The smile left her eyes and her lips. “We're not in the position to call the police. I couldn't answer the questions they'd ask, don't you see? Papa has to resolve the business of the Rembrandt, Adam. If everything came out now, he'd be hopelessly compromised. He might go to prison. Not for anything,” she said softly. “Not for anything would I risk that.”

“He won't,” Adam said shortly. No matter what strings he'd have to pull, what dance he'd have to perform, he'd see to it that Fairchild stayed clear. “Kirby, do you think your father would continue with whatever he's plotting once he knew of this?”

“I couldn't predict his reaction.” Weary, she let out a long breath and tried to make him understand. “He might destroy the Rembrandt in a blind rage. He could go after Stuart single-handed. He's capable of it. What good would any of that do, Adam?” The queasiness was passing, but it had left her weak. Though she didn't
know it, the vulnerability was her best weapon. “We have to let it lie for a while longer.”