The Art of Deception (2 page)

“Why did you ask him here now, of all times?”

“I've admired his work. So've you,” he pointed out when her mouth thinned. “He wrote such a nice letter about
Scarlet Moon
when it was exhibited at the Metropolitan last month.”

Her brow lifted, an elegant movement under a layer of soot. “You don't invite everyone who compliments your work.”

“Of course not, my sweet. That would be impossible. One must be…selective. Now I must get back to my work while the mood's flowing.”

“Something's going to flow,” she promised. “Papa, if you've a new scheme after you promised—”

“Kirby!” His round, smooth face quivered with emotion. His lips trembled. It was only one of his talents. “You'd doubt the word of your own father? The seed that spawned you?”

“That makes me sound like a gardenia, and it won't work.” She crossed her arms over her chest. Frowning, Fairchild poked at the unformed clay.

“My motives are completely altruistic.”

“Hah.”

“Adam Haines is a brilliant young artist. You've said so yourself.”

“Yes, he is, and I'm sure he'd be delightful company under different circumstances.” She leaned forward, grabbing her father's chin in her hand. “Not now.”

“Ungracious,” Fairchild said with disapproval. “Your mother, rest her soul, would be very disappointed in you.”

Kirby ground her teeth. “Papa, the Van Gogh!”

“Coming along nicely,” he assured her. “Just a few more days.”

Knowing she was in danger of tearing out her hair, she stalked to the tower window. “Oh, bloody murder.”

Senility, she decided. It had to be senility. How could he consider having that man here now? Next week, next month, but now? That man, Kirby thought ruthlessly, was nobody's fool.

At first glance she'd decided he wasn't just attractive—very attractive—but sharp. Those big camel's eyes gleamed with intelligence. The long, thin mouth equaled determination. Perhaps he was a bit pompous in his bearing and manner, but he wasn't soft. No, she was certain instinctively that Adam Haines would be hard as nails.

She'd like to do him in bronze, she mused. The straight nose, the sharp angles and planes in his face. His hair was nearly the color of deep, polished bronze, and just a tad too long for convention. She'd want to capture his air of arrogance and authority. But not now!

Sighing, she moved her shoulders. Behind her back, Fairchild grinned. When she turned back to him, he was studiously intent on his clay.

“He'll want to come up here, you know.” Despite the soot, she dipped her hands in her pockets. They had a problem; now it had to be dealt with. For the better part of her life, Kirby had sorted through the confusion her father gleefully created. The truth was, she'd have had it no other way. “It would seem odd if we didn't show him your studio.”

“We'll show him tomorrow.”

“He mustn't see the Van Gogh.” Kirby planted her feet, prepared to do battle on this one point, if not the others. “You're not going to make this more complicated than you already have.”

“He won't see it. Why should he?” Fairchild glanced up briefly, eyes wide. “It has nothing to do with him.”

Though she realized it was foolish, Kirby was reassured. No, he wouldn't see it, she thought. Her father might be a little…unique, she decided, but he wasn't careless. Neither was she. “Thank God it's nearly finished.”

“Another few days and off it goes, high into the mountains of South America.” He made a vague, sweeping gesture with his hands.

Moving over, Kirby uncovered the canvas that stood on an easel in the far corner. She studied it as an artist, as a lover of art and as a daughter.

The pastoral scene was not peaceful but vibrant. The brush strokes were jagged, almost fierce, so that the simple setting had a frenzied kind of motion. No, it didn't sit still waiting for admiration. It reached out and grabbed by the throat. It spoke of pain, of triumph, of agonies and joys. Her lips tilted because she had no choice. Van Gogh, she knew, could have done no better.

“Papa.” When she turned her head, their eyes met in perfect understanding. “You are incomparable.”

 

By seven, Kirby had not only resigned herself to their house guest, but was prepared to enjoy him. It was a basic trait of her character to enjoy what she had to put up with. As she poured vermouth into a glass, she realized she was looking forward to seeing him again, and to getting beneath the surface gloss. She had a feeling there might be some fascinating layers in Adam Haines.

She dropped into a high-backed chair, crossed her legs and tuned back in to her father's rantings.

“It hates me, fails me at every turn. Why, Kirby?” He spread his hands in an impassioned plea. “I'm a good man, loving father, faithful friend.”

“It's your attitude, Papa.” She shrugged a shoulder as she drank. “Your emotional plane's faulty.”

“There's nothing wrong with my emotional plane.” Sniffing, Fairchild lifted his glass. “Not a damn thing wrong with it. It's the clay that's the problem, not me.”

“You're cocky,” she said simply. Fairchild made a sound like a train straining up a long hill.

“Cocky?
Cocky?
What the devil kind of word is that?”

“Adjective. Two syllables, five letters.”

Adam heard the byplay as he walked toward the parlor. After a peaceful afternoon, he wondered if he was ready to cope with another bout of madness. Fairchild's voice was rising steadily, and as Adam paused in the doorway, he saw that the artist was up and shuffling again.

McIntyre was going to pay for this, Adam decided. He'd see to it that revenge was slow and thorough. When Fairchild pointed an accusing finger, Adam followed its direction. For an instant he was totally and uncharacteristically stunned.

The woman in the chair was so completely removed from the grimy, pigtailed chimney sweep, he found it nearly impossible to associate the two. She wore a thin silk dress as dark as her hair, draped at the bodice and slit up the side to show off one smooth thigh. He studied her profile as she watched her father rant. It was gently molded, classically oval with a very subtle sweep of
cheekbones. Her lips were full, curved now in just a hint of a smile. Without the soot, her skin was somewhere between gold and honey with a look of luxurious softness. Only the eyes reminded him this was the same woman—gray and large and amused. Lifting one hand, she tossed back the dark hair that covered her shoulders.

There was something more than beauty here. Adam knew he'd seen women with more beauty than Kirby Fairchild. But there was something… He groped for the word, but it eluded him.

As if sensing him, she turned—just her head. Again she stared at him, openly and with curiosity, as her father continued his ravings. Slowly, very slowly, she smiled. Adam felt the power slam into him.

Sex, he realized abruptly. Kirby Fairchild exuded sex the way other women exuded perfume. Raw, unapologetic sex.

With a quick assessment typical of him, Adam decided she wouldn't be easy to deceive. However he handled Fairchild, he'd have to tread carefully with Fairchild's daughter. He decided as well that he already wanted to make love to her. He'd have to tread
very
carefully.

“Adam.” She spoke in a soft voice that nonetheless carried over her father's shouting. “You seem to have found us. Come in, Papa's nearly done.”

“Done? I'm undone. And by my own child.” Fairchild moved toward Adam as he entered the room. “Cocky, she says. I ask you, is that a word for a daughter to use?”

“An aperitif?” Kirby asked. She rose with a fluid motion that Adam had always associated with tall, willowy women.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Your room's agreeable?” His face wreathed in smiles again, Fairchild plopped down on the sofa.

“Very agreeable.” The best way to handle it, Adam decided, was to pretend everything was normal. Pretenses were, after all, part of the game. “You have an…exceptional house.”

“I'm fond of it.” Content, Fairchild leaned back. “It was built near the turn of the century by a wealthy and insane English lord. You'll take Adam on a tour tomorrow, won't you, Kirby?”

“Of course.” As she handed Adam a glass, she smiled into his eyes. Diamonds, cold as ice, glittered at her ears. He could feel the heat rise.

“I'm looking forward to it.” Style, he concluded. Whether natural or developed, Miss Fairchild had style.

She smiled over the rim of her own glass, thinking precisely the same thing about Adam. “We aim to please.”

A cautious man, Adam turned to Fairchild again. “Your art collection rivals a museum's. The Titian in my room is fabulous.”

The Titian, Kirby thought in quick panic. How could she have forgotten it? What in God's name could she do about it? No difference. It made no difference, she reassured herself. It couldn't, because there was nothing to be done.

“The Hudson scene on the west wall—” Adam turned to her just as Kirby was telling herself to relax “—is that your work?”

“My… Oh, yes.” She smiled as she remembered. She'd deal with the Titian at the first opportunity. “I'd forgotten that. It's sentimental, I'm afraid. I was home from school and had a crush on the chauffeur's son. We used to neck down there.”

“He had buck teeth,” Fairchild reminded her with a snort.

“Love conquers all,” Kirby decided.

“The Hudson River bank is a hell of a place to lose your virginity,” her father stated, suddenly severe. He swirled his drink, then downed it.

Enjoying the abrupt paternal disapproval, she decided to poke at it. “I didn't lose my virginity on the Hudson River bank.” Amusement glimmered in her eyes. “I lost it in a Renault in Paris.”

Love conquers all, Adam repeated silently.

“Dinner is served,” Cards announced with dignity from the doorway.

“And about time, too.” Fairchild leaped up. “A man could starve in his own home.”

With a smile at her father's retreating back, Kirby offered Adam her hand. “Shall we go in?”

In the dining room, Fairchild's paintings dominated. An enormous Waterford chandelier showered light over mahogany and crystal. A massive stone fireplace thundered with flame and light. There were scents of burning wood, candles and roasted meat. There was Breton lace and silver. Still, his paintings dominated.

It appeared he had no distinct style. Art was his style, whether he depicted a sprawling, light-filled landscape or a gentle, shadowy portrait. Bold brush strokes or delicate ones, oils streaked on with a pallet knife or misty watercolors, he'd done them all. Magnificently.

As varied as his paintings were his opinions on other artists. While they sat at the long, laden table, Fairchild spoke of each artist personally, as if he'd been transported back in time and had developed relationships with Raphael, Goya, Manet.

His theories were intriguing, his knowledge was impressive. The artist in Adam responded to him. The practical part, the part that had come to do a job, remained cautious. The opposing forces made him uncomfortable. His attraction to the woman across from him made him itchy.

He cursed McIntyre.

Adam decided the weeks with the Fairchilds might be interesting despite their eccentricities. He didn't care for the complications, but he'd allowed himself to be pulled in. For now, he'd sit back and observe, waiting for the time to act.

The information he had on them was sketchy. Fairchild was just past sixty, a widower of nearly twenty years. His art and his talent were no secrets, but his personal life was veiled. Perhaps due to temperament. Perhaps, Adam mused, due to necessity.

About Kirby, he knew almost nothing. Professionally, she'd kept a low profile until her first showing the year before. Though it had been an unprecedented success, both she and her father rarely sought publicity for their work. Personally, she was often written up in the glossies and tabloids as she jetted to Saint Moritz with this year's tennis champion or to Martinique with the current Hollywood golden boy. He knew she was twenty-seven and unmarried. Not for lack of opportunity, he concluded. She was the type of woman men would constantly pursue. In another century, duels would have been fought over her. Adam thought she'd have enjoyed the melodrama.

From their viewpoint, the Fairchilds knew of Adam only what was public knowledge. He'd been born under comfortable circumstances, giving him both the time and means to develop his talent. At the age of twenty,
his reputation as an artist had begun to take root. A dozen years later, he was well established. He'd lived in Paris, then in Switzerland, before settling back in the States.

Still, during his twenties, he'd traveled often while painting. With Adam, his art had always come first. However, under the poised exterior, under the practicality and sophistication, there was a taste for adventure and a streak of cunning. So there had been McIntyre.

He'd just have to learn control, Adam told himself as he thought of McIntyre. He'd just have to learn how to say no, absolutely no. The next time Mac had an inspiration, he could go to hell with it.

When they settled back in the parlor with coffee and brandy, Adam calculated that he could finish the job in a couple of weeks. True, the place was immense, but there were only a handful of people in it. After his tour he'd know his way around well enough. Then it would be routine.

Satisfied, he concentrated on Kirby. At the moment she was the perfect hostess—charming, personable. All class and sophistication. She was, momentarily, precisely the type of woman who'd always appealed to him—well-groomed, well-mannered, intelligent, lovely. The room smelled of hothouse roses, wood smoke and her own tenuous scent, which seemed to blend the two. Adam began to relax with it.