The Art of Deception (7 page)

“With what?”

“You heard me. With some luck, I'll have easy access throughout the house.”

McIntyre grunted in approval. “You won't have any trouble recognizing it?”

“If he's got it, and if it's in the house,
and
if by some miracle I can find it in this anachronism, I'll recognize it.” He switched off and, resisting the urge to throw the transmitter against the wall, dropped it back in the briefcase.

Clearing his mind, Adam rose and began to search the fireplace for the mechanism.

It took him nearly ten minutes, but he was rewarded with a groaning as a panel slid halfway open. He squeezed inside with a flashlight. It was both dank and musty, but he played the light against the wall until he found the inside switch. The panel squeaked closed and left him in the dark.

His footsteps echoed and he heard the scuttering sound of rodents. He ignored both. For a moment he stopped at the wall of Kirby's room. Telling himself he was only doing his job, he took the time to find the switch. But he wondered if she was already sleeping in the big four-poster bed, under the wedding ring quilt.

He could press the button and join her. The hell with
McIntyre and the job. The hell with everything but what lay beyond the wall. Procedure, he thought on an oath. He was sick to death of procedure. But Kirby had been right. Adam had a very firm grip on what was right and what was wrong.

He turned and continued down the passage.

Abruptly the corridor snaked off, with steep stone steps forking to the left. Mounting them, he found himself in another corridor. A spider scrambled on the wall as he played his light over it. Kirby hadn't exaggerated much about the size. The third story, he decided, was as good a place to start as any.

He turned the first mechanism he found and slipped through the opening. Dust and dustcovers. Moving quietly, he began a slow, methodical search.

Kirby was restless. While Adam had been standing on the other side of the wall, fighting back the urge to open the panel, she'd been pacing her room. She'd considered going up to her studio. Work might calm her—but any work she did in this frame of mind would be trash. Frustrated, she sank down on the window seat. She could see the faint reflection of her own face and stared at it.

She wasn't completely in control. Almost any other flaw would've been easier to admit. Control was essential and, under the current circumstances, vital. The problem was getting it back.

The problem was, she corrected, Adam Haines.

Attraction? Yes, but that was simple and easily dealt with. There was something more twisted into it that was anything but simple. He could involve her, and once involved, nothing would be easily dealt with.

Laying her hands on the sill, she rested her head on
them. He could hurt her. That was a first—a frightening first. Not a superficial blow to the pride or ego, Kirby admitted, but a hurt down deep where it counted; where it wouldn't heal.

Obviously, she told herself, forewarned was forearmed. She just wouldn't let him involve her, therefore she wouldn't let him hurt her. And that little piece of logic brought her right back to the control she didn't have. While she struggled to methodically untangle her thoughts, the beam of headlights distracted her.

Who'd be coming by at this time of night? she wondered without too much surprise. Fairchild had a habit of asking people over at odd hours. Kirby pressed her nose to the glass. A sound, not unlike Isabelle's growl, came from her throat.

“Of all the nerve,” she muttered. “Of all the bloody nerve.”

Springing up, she paced the floor three times before she grabbed a robe and left the room.

Above her head, Adam was about to reenter the passageway when he, too, saw the beams. Automatically he switched off his flashlight and stepped beside the window. He watched the man step from a late-model Mercedes and walk toward the house. Interesting, Adam decided. Abandoning the passageway, he slipped silently into the hall.

The sound of voices drifted up as he eased himself into the cover of a doorway and waited. Footsteps drew nearer. From his concealment, Adam watched Cards lead a slim, dark man up to Fairchild's tower studio.

“Mr. Hiller to see you, sir.” Cards gave the information as if it were four in the afternoon rather than after midnight.

“Stuart, so nice of you to come.” Fairchild's voice boomed through the doorway. “Come in, come in.”

After counting to ten, Adam started to move toward the door Cards had shut, but just then a flurry of white scrambled up the stairs. Swearing, he pressed back into the wall as Kirby passed, close enough to touch.

What the hell is this? he demanded, torn between frustration and the urge to laugh. Here he was, trapped in a doorway, while people crept up tower steps in the middle of the night. While he watched, Kirby gathered the skirt of her robe around her knees and tiptoed up to the tower.

It was a nightmare, he decided. Women with floating hair sneaking around drafty corridors in filmy white. Secret passages. Clandestine meetings. A normal, sensible man wouldn't be involved in it for a minute. Then again, he'd stopped being completely sensible when he'd walked in the front door.

After Kirby reached the top landing, Adam moved closer. Her attention was focused on the studio door. Making a quick calculation, Adam moved up the steps behind her, then melted into the shadows in the corner. With his eyes on her, he joined Kirby in the eavesdropping.

“What kind of fool do you think I am?” Stuart demanded. He stood beside Adam with only the wall separating them.

“Whatever kind you prefer. Makes no difference to me. Have a seat, my boy.”

“Listen to me, we had a deal. How long did you think it would take before I found out you'd double-crossed me?”

“Actually I didn't think it would take you quite so long.” Smiling, Fairchild rubbed a thumb over his clay hawk. “Not as clever as I thought you were, Stuart. You
should've discovered the switch weeks ago. Not that it wasn't superb,” he added with a touch of pride. “But a smart man would've had the painting authenticated.”

Because the conversation confused her, Kirby pressed even closer to the door. She tucked her hair behind her ear as if to hear more clearly. Untended, her robe fell open, revealing a thin excuse for a nightgown and a great deal of smooth golden skin. In his corner, Adam shifted and swore to himself.

“We had a deal—” Stuart's voice rose, but Fairchild cut him off with no more than a wave of his hand.

“Don't tell me you believe in that nonsense about honor among thieves? Time to grow up if you want to play in the big leagues.”

“I want the Rembrandt, Fairchild.”

Kirby stiffened. Because his attention was now fully focused on the battle in the tower, Adam didn't notice. By God, he thought grimly, the old bastard did have it.

“Sue me,” Fairchild invited. Kirby could hear the shrug in his voice.

“Hand it over, or I'll break your scrawny neck.”

For a full ten seconds, Fairchild watched calmly as Stuart's face turned a deep, dull red. “You won't get it that way. And I should warn you that threats make me irritable. You see…” Slowly he picked up a rag and began to wipe some excess clay from his hands. “I didn't care for your treatment of Kirby. No, I didn't care for it at all.”

Abruptly he was no longer the harmless eccentric. He was neither cherub nor gnome, but a man. A dangerous one. “I knew she'd never go as far as marrying you. She's far too bright. But your threats, once she told you off, annoyed me. When I'm annoyed, I tend to be vin
dictive. A flaw,” he said amiably. “But that's just the way I'm made.” The pale eyes were cold and calm on Stuart's. “I'm still annoyed, Stuart. I'll let you know when I'm ready to deal. In the meantime, stay away from Kirby.”

“You're not going to get away with this.”

“I hold all the cards.” In an impatient gesture, he brushed Stuart aside. “I have the Rembrandt, and only I know where it is. If you become a nuisance, which you're dangerously close to becoming, I may decide to keep it. Unlike you, I have no pressing need for money.” He smiled, but the chill remained in his eyes. “One should never live above one's means, Stuart. That's my advice.”

Impotent, intimidated, Stuart loomed over the little man at the worktable. He was strong enough, and furious enough, to have snapped Fairchild's neck with his hands. But he wouldn't have the Rembrandt, or the money he so desperately needed. “Before we're done, you'll pay,” Stuart promised. “I won't be made a fool of.”

“Too late,” Fairchild told him easily. “Run along now. You can find your way out without disturbing Cards, can't you?”

As if he were already alone, Fairchild went back to his hawk.

Swiftly, Kirby looked around for a hiding place. For one ridiculous moment, Adam thought she'd try to ease herself into the corner he occupied. The moment she started to cross the hall toward him, the handle of the door turned. She'd left her move too late. With her back pressed against the wall, Kirby closed her eyes and pretended to be invisible.

Stuart wrenched open the door and stalked from the
room, blind with rage. Without a backward glance he plunged down the steps. His face, Adam noted as he passed, was murderous. At the moment, he lacked a weapon. But if he found one, he wouldn't hesitate.

Kirby stood, still and silent, as the footsteps receded. She sucked in a deep breath, then let it out on a huff. What now?
What now?
she thought, and wanted to just bury her face in her hands and surrender. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and went in to confront her father.

“Papa.” The word was quiet and accusing. Fairchild's head jerked up, but his surprise was quickly masked by a genial smile.

“Hello, love. My hawk's beginning to breathe. Come have a look.”

She took another deep breath. All of her life she'd loved him, stood by him. Adored him. None of that had ever stopped her from being angry with him. Slowly, keeping her eyes on him, she crossed the front panels of her robe and tied the sash. As she approached, Fairchild thought she looked like a gunslinger buckling on his six-gun. She wouldn't, he thought with a surge of pride, intimidate like Hiller.

“Apparently you haven't kept me up to date,” she began. “A riddle, Papa. What do Philip Fairchild, Stuart Hiller and Rembrandt have in common?”

“You've always been clever at riddles, my sweet.”

“
Now,
Papa.”

“Just business.” He gave her a quick, hearty smile as he wondered just how much he'd have to tell her.

“Let's be specific, shall we?” She moved so that only the table separated them. “And don't give me that blank, foolish look. It won't work.” Bending over, she stared
directly into his eyes. “I heard quite a bit while I was outside. Tell me the rest.”

“Eavesdropping.” He made a disapproving tsk-tsk. “Rude.”

“I come by it honestly. Now tell me or I'll annihilate your hawk.” Sweeping up her arm, she held her palm three inches above his clay.

“Vicious brat.” With his bony fingers, he grabbed her wrist, each knowing who'd win if it came down to it. He gave a windy sigh. “All right.”

With a nod, Kirby removed her hand then folded her arms under her breasts. The habitual gesture had him sighing again.

“Stuart came to me with a little proposition some time ago. You know, of course, he hasn't a cent to his name, no matter what he pretends.”

“Yes, I know he wanted to marry me for my money.” No one but her father would've detected the slight tightening in her voice.

“I didn't bring that up to hurt you.” His hand reached for hers in the bond that had been formed when she'd taken her first breath.

“I know, Papa.” She squeezed his hand, then stuck both of hers in the pockets of her robe. “My pride suffered. It has to happen now and again, I suppose. But I don't care for humiliation,” she said with sudden fierceness. “I don't care for it one bloody bit.” With a toss of her head, she looked down at him. “The rest.”

“Well.” Fairchild puffed out his cheeks, then blew out the breath. “Among his other faults, Stuart's greedy. He needed a large sum of money, and didn't see why he had to work for it. He decided to help himself to the Rembrandt self-portrait from Harriet's gallery.”

“He
stole
it?” Kirby's eyes grew huge. “Great buckets of bedbugs! I wouldn't have given him credit for that much nerve.”

“He thought himself clever.” Rising, Fairchild walked to the little sink in the corner to wash off his hands. “Harriet was going on her safari, and there'd be no one to question the disappearance for several weeks. Stuart's a bit dictatorial with the staff at the gallery.”

“It's such a treat to flog underlings.”

“In any case—” lovingly, Fairchild draped his hawk for the night “—he came to me with an offer—a rather paltry offer, too—if I'd do the forgery for the Rembrandt's replacement.”

She hadn't thought he could do anything to surprise her. Certainly nothing to hurt her. “Papa, it's Harriet's Rembrandt,” she said in shock.

“Now, Kirby, you know I'm fond of Harriet. Very fond.” He put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Our Stuart has a very small brain. He handed over the Rembrandt when I said I needed it to do the copy.” Fairchild shook his head. “There wasn't any challenge to it, Kirby. Hardly any fun at all.”

“Pity,” she said dryly and dropped into a chair.

“Then I told him I didn't need the original any longer, and gave him the copy instead. He never suspected.” Fairchild linked his hands behind his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I wish you'd seen it. It was superlative. It was one of Rembrandt's later works, you know. Rough textures, such luminous depth—”