The Art of Deception (9 page)

It was never a job, but it wasn't always a pleasure. The need to paint was a demand that could be soft and gentle, or sharp and cutting. Not a job, but work certainly, sometimes every bit as exhausting as digging a trench with a pick and shovel.

Adam was a meticulous artist, as he was a meticulous man. Conventional, as Kirby had termed him, perhaps. But he wasn't rigid. He was as orderly as she wasn't, but his creative process was remarkably similar to hers. She might stare at a piece of wood for an hour until she saw the life in it. He would do the same with a canvas. She would feel a jolt, a physical release the moment she saw what she'd been searching for. He'd feel that same jolt when something would leap out at him from one of his dozens of sketches.

Now he was only preparing, and he was as calm and ordered as his equipment. On an easel he set the canvas, blank and waiting. Carefully, he selected three pieces of charcoal. He'd begin with them. He was going over his first informal sketches when he heard her footsteps.

She paused in the doorway, tossed her head and stared at him. With deliberate care, he set his pad back on the worktable.

Her hair fell loose and rich over the striped silk shoul
ders. At a movement, the gold hoops at her ears and the half-dozen gold bracelets on her arm jangled. Her eyes, darkened and sooty, still smoldered with temper. Without effort, he could picture her whirling around an open fire to the sound of violins and tambourines.

Aware of the image she projected, Kirby put both hands on her hips and walked into the room. The full scarlet skirt flowed around her legs. Standing in front of him, she whirled around twice, turning her head each time so that she watched him over her shoulder. The scent of wood smoke and roses flowed into the room.

“You want to paint Katrina's picture, eh?” Her voice lowered into a sultry Slavic accent as she ran a fingertip down his cheek. Insolence, challenge, and then a laugh that skidded warm and dangerous over his skin. “First you cross her palm with silver.”

He'd have given her anything. What man wouldn't? Fighting her, fighting himself, he pulled out a cigarette. “Over by the east window,” he said easily. “The light's better there.”

No, he wouldn't get off so easy. Behind the challenge and the insolence, her body still trembled for him. She wouldn't let him know it. “How much you pay?” she demanded, swirling away in a flurry of scarlet and silk. “Katrina not come free.”

“Scale.” He barely resisted the urge to grab her by the hair and drag her back. “And you won't get a dime until I'm finished.”

In an abrupt change, Kirby brushed and smoothed her skirts. “Is something wrong?” she asked mildly. “Perhaps you don't like the dress after all.”

He crushed out his cigarette in one grinding motion. “Let's get started.”

“I thought we already had,” she murmured. Her eyes were luminous and amused. He wanted to choke her every bit as much as he wanted to crawl for her. “You insisted on painting.”

“Don't push me too far, Kirby. You have a tendency to bring out my baser side.”

“I don't think I can be blamed for that. Maybe you've locked it up too long.” Because she'd gotten precisely the reaction she'd wanted, she became completely cooperative. “Now, where do you want me to stand?”

“By the east window.”

Tie score, she thought with satisfaction as she obliged him.

He spoke only when he had to—tilt your chin higher, turn your head. Within moments he was able to turn the anger and the desire into concentration. The rain fell, but its sound was muffled against the thick glass windows. With the tower door nearly closed, there wasn't another sound.

He watched her, studied her, absorbed her, but the man and the artist were working together. Perhaps by putting her on canvas, he'd understand her…and himself. Adam swept the charcoal over the canvas and began.

Now she could watch him, knowing that he was turned inward. She'd seen dozens of artists work; the old, the young, the talented, the amateur. Adam was, as she'd suspected, different.

He wore a sweater, one he was obviously at home in, but no smock. Even as he sketched he stood straight, as though his nature demanded that he remain always alert. That was one of the things she'd noticed about him first. He was always watching. A true artist did, she knew, but there seemed to be something more.

She called him conventional, knowing it wasn't quite true. Not quite. What was it about him that didn't fit into the mold he'd been fashioned for? Tall, lean, attractive, aristocratic, wealthy, successful, and…daring? That was the word that came to mind, though she wasn't completely sure why.

There was something reckless about him that appealed to her. It balanced the maturity, the dependability she hadn't known she'd wanted in a man. He'd be a rock to hold on to during an earthquake. And he'd be the earthquake. She was, Kirby realized, sinking fast. The trick would be to keep him from realizing it and making a fool of herself. Still, beneath it all, she liked him. That simple.

Adam glanced up to see her smiling at him. It was disarming, sweet and uncomplicated. Something warned him that Kirby without guards was far more dangerous than Kirby with them. When she let hers drop, he put his in place.

“Doesn't Hiller paint a bit?”

He saw her smile fade and tried not to regret it. “A bit.”

“Haven't you posed for him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The ice that came into her eyes wasn't what he wanted for the painting. The man and artist warred as he continued to sketch. “Let's say I didn't care much for his work.”

“I suppose I can take that as a compliment to mine.”

She gave him a long, neutral look. “If you like.”

Deceit was part of the job, he reminded himself. What he'd heard in Fairchild's studio left him no choice. “I'm
surprised he didn't make an issue of it, being in love with you.”

“He wasn't.” She bit off the words, and ice turned to heat.

“He asked you to marry him.”

“One hasn't anything to do with the other.”

He looked up and saw she said exactly what she meant. “Doesn't it?”

“I agreed to marry him without loving him.”

He held the charcoal an inch from the canvas, forgetting the painting. “Why?”

While she stared at him, he saw the anger fade. For a moment she was simply a woman at her most vulnerable. “Timing,” she murmured. “It's probably the most important factor governing our lives. If it hadn't been for timing, Romeo and Juliet would've raised a half-dozen children.”

He was beginning to understand, and understanding only made him more uncomfortable. “You thought it was time to get married?”

“Stuart's attractive, very polished, charming, and I'd thought harmless. I realized the last thing I wanted was a polished, charming, harmless husband. Still, I thought he loved me. I didn't break the engagement for a long time because I thought he'd make a convenient husband, and one who wouldn't demand too much.” It sounded empty. It had been empty. “One who'd give me children.”

“You want children?”

The anger was back, quickly. “Is there something wrong with that?” she demanded. “Do you think it strange that I'd want a family?” She made a quick, furious movement that had the gold jangling again. “This might come as a shock, but I have needs and
feelings almost like a real person. And I don't have to justify myself to you.”

She was halfway to the door before he could stop her. “Kirby, I'm sorry.” When she tried to jerk out of his hold, he tightened it. “I
am
sorry.”

“For what?” she tossed back.

“For hurting you,” he murmured. “With stupidity.”

Her shoulders relaxed under his hands, slowly, so that he knew it cost her. Guilt flared again. “All right. You hit a nerve, that's all.” Deliberately she removed his hands from her shoulders and stepped back. He'd rather she'd slapped him. “Give me a cigarette, will you?”

She took one from him and let him light it before she turned away again. “When I accepted Stuart's proposal—”

“You don't have to tell me anything.”

“I don't leave things half done.” Some of the insolence was back when she whirled back to him. For some reason it eased Adam's guilt. “When I accepted, I told Stuart I wasn't in love with him. It didn't seem fair otherwise. If two people are going to have a relationship that means anything, it has to start out honestly, don't you think?”

He thought of the transmitter tucked into his briefcase. He thought of McIntyre waiting for the next report. “Yes.”

She nodded. It was one area where she wasn't flexible. “I told him that what I wanted from him was fidelity and children, and in return I'd give him those things and as much affection as I could.” She toyed with the cigarette, taking one of her quick, nervous drags. “When I realized things just wouldn't work for either of us that way, I went to see him. I didn't do it carelessly, casually. It was very difficult for me. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, I understand that.”

It helped, she realized. More than Melanie's sympathy, more even than her father's unspoken support, Adam's simple understanding helped. “It didn't go well. I'd known there'd be an argument, but I hadn't counted on it getting so out of hand. He made a few choice remarks on my maternal abilities and my track record. Anyway, with all the blood and bone being strewn about, the real reason for him wanting to marry me came out.”

She took a last puff on the cigarette and crushed it out before she dropped into a chair. “He never loved me. He'd been unfaithful all along. I don't suppose it mattered.” But she fell silent, knowing it did. “All the time he was pretending to care for me, he was using me.” When she looked up again, the hurt was back in her eyes. She didn't know it—she'd have hated it. “Can you imagine how it feels to find out that all the time someone was holding you, talking with you, he was thinking of how you could be useful?” She picked up the piece of half-formed wood that would be her anger. “Useful,” she repeated. “What a nasty word. I haven't bounced back from it as well as I should have.”

He forgot McIntyre, the Rembrandt and the job he still had to do. Walking over, he sat beside her and closed his hand over hers. Under them was her anger. “I can't imagine any man thinking of you as useful.”

When she looked up, her smile was already spreading. “What a nice thing to say. The perfect thing.” Too perfect for her rapidly crumbling defenses. Because she knew it would take so little to have her turning to him now and later, she lightened the mood. “I'm glad you're going to be there Saturday.”

“At the party?”

“You can send me long, smoldering looks and everyone'll think I jilted Stuart for you. I'm fond of petty revenge.”

He laughed and brought her hands to his lips. “Don't change,” he told her with a sudden intenseness that had her uncertain again.

“I don't plan on it. Adam, I— Oh, chicken fat, what're you doing here? This is a private conversation.”

Wary, Adam turned his head and watched Montique bounce into the room. “He won't spread gossip.”

“That isn't the point. I've told you you're not allowed in here.”

Ignoring her, Montique scurried over and with an awkward leap plopped into Adam's lap. “Cute little devil,” Adam decided as he scratched the floppy ears.

“Ah, Adam, I wouldn't do that.”

“Why?”

“You're only asking for trouble.”

“Don't be absurd. He's harmless.”

“Oh, yes, he is.
She
isn't.” Kirby nodded her head toward the doorway as Isabelle slinked through. “Now you're in for it. I warned you.” Tossing back her head, Kirby met Isabelle's cool look equally. “I had nothing to do with it.”

Isabelle blinked twice, then shifted her gaze to Adam. Deciding her responsibility had ended, Kirby sighed and rose. “There's nothing I can do,” she told Adam and patted his shoulder. “You asked for it.” With this, she swept out of the room, giving the cat a wide berth.

“I didn't ask him to come up here,” Adam began, scowling down at Isabelle. “And there can't be any harm in— Oh, God,” he murmured. “She's got me doing it.”

“L
et's walk,” Kirby demanded when the afternoon grew late and Fairchild had yet to budge from his studio. Nor would he budge, she knew, until the Van Gogh was completed down to the smallest detail. If she didn't get out and forget about her father's pet project for a while, she knew she'd go mad.

“It's raining,” Adam pointed out as he lingered over coffee.

“You mentioned that before.” Kirby pushed away her own coffee and rose. “All right then, I'll have Cards bring you a lap robe and a nice cup of tea.”

“Is that a psychological attack?”

“Did it work?”

“I'll get a jacket.” He strode from the room, ignoring her quiet chuckle.

When they walked outside, the fine misting rain fell
over them. Leaves streamed with it. Thin fingers of fog twisted along the ground. Adam hunched inside his jacket, thinking it was miserable weather for a walk. Kirby strolled along with her face lifted to the sky.

He'd planned to spend the afternoon on the painting, but perhaps this was better. If he was going to capture her with colors and brush strokes, he should get to know her better. No easy task, Adam mused, but a strangely appealing one.

The air was heavy with the fragrance of fall, the sky gloomy. For the first time since he'd met her, Adam sensed a serenity in Kirby. They walked in silence, with the rain flowing over them.

She was content. It was an odd feeling for her to identify as she felt it so rarely. With her hand in his, she was content to walk along as the fog moved along the ground and the chilly drizzle fell over them. She was glad of the rain, of the chill and the gloom. Later, there would be time for a roaring fire and warm brandy.

“Adam, do you see the bed of mums over there?”

“Hmm?”

“The mums, I want to pick some. You'll have to be the lookout.”

“Lookout for what?” He shook wet hair out of his eyes.

“For Jamie, of course. He doesn't like anyone messing with his flowers.”

“They're your flowers.”

“No, they're Jamie's.”

“He works for you.”

“What does that have to do with it?” She put a hand on his shoulder as she scanned the area. “If he catches me, he'll get mad, then he won't save me any leaves. I'll be quick—I've done this before.”

“But if you—”

“There's no time to argue. Now, you watch that window there. He's probably in the kitchen having coffee with Tulip. Give me a signal when you see him.”

Whether he went along with her because it was simpler, or because he was getting into the spirit of things despite himself, Adam wasn't sure. But he walked over to the window and peeked inside. Jamie sat at a huge round table with a mug of coffee in both frail hands. Turning, he nodded a go-ahead to Kirby.

She moved like lightning, dashing to the flower bed and plucking at stems. Dark and wet, her hair fell forward to curtain her face as she loaded her arms with autumn flowers. She should be painted like this, as well, Adam mused. In the fog, with her arms full of wet flowers. Perhaps it would be possible to capture those odd little snatches of innocence in the portrait.

Idly he glanced back in the window. With a ridiculous jolt of panic, he saw Jamie rise and head for the kitchen door. Forgetting logic, Adam dashed toward her.

“He's coming.”

Surprisingly swift, Kirby leaped over the bed of flowers and kept on going. Even though he was running full stride, Adam didn't catch her until they'd rounded the side of the house. Giggling and out of breath, she collapsed against him.

“We made it!”

“Just,” he agreed. His own heart was thudding—from the race? Maybe. He was breathless—from the game? Perhaps. But they were wet and close and the fog was rising. It didn't seem he had a choice any longer.

With his eyes on hers, he brushed the dripping hair back from her face. Her cheeks were cool, wet and
smooth. Yet her mouth, when his lowered to it, was warm and waiting.

She hadn't planned it this way. If she'd had the time to think, she'd have said she didn't want it this way. She didn't want to be weak. She didn't want her mind muddled. It didn't seem she had a choice any longer.

He could taste the rain on her, fresh and innocent. He could smell the sharp tang of the flowers that were crushed between them. He couldn't keep his hands out of her hair, the soft, heavy tangle of it. He wanted her closer. He wanted all of her, not in the way he'd first wanted her, but in every way. The need was no longer the simple need of a man for woman, but of him for her. Exclusive, imperative, impossible.

She'd wanted to fall in love, but she'd wanted to plan it out in her own way, in her own time. It wasn't supposed to happen in a crash and a roar that left her trembling. It wasn't supposed to happen without her permission. Shaken, Kirby drew back. It wasn't going to happen until she was ready. That was that. Nerves taut again, she made herself smile.

“It looks like we've done a good job of squashing them.” When he would've drawn her back, Kirby thrust the flowers at him. “They're for you.”

“For me?” Adam looked down at the mums they held between them.

“Yes, don't you like flowers?”

“I like flowers,” he murmured. However unintentionally, she'd moved him as much with the gift as with the kiss. “I don't think anyone's given me flowers before.”

“No?” She gave him a long, considering look. She'd been given floods of them over the years, orchids, lilies, roses and more roses, until they'd meant little more than
nothing. Her smile came slowly as she touched a hand to his chest. “I'd've picked more if I'd known.”

Behind them a window was thrown open. “Don't you know better than to stand in the rain and neck?” Fairchild demanded. “If you want to nuzzle, come inside. I can't stand sneezing and sniffling!” The window shut with a bang.

“You're terribly wet,” Kirby commented, as if she hadn't noticed the steadily falling rain. She linked her arm with his and walked to the door that was opened by the ever-efficient Cards.

“Thank you.” Kirby peeled off her soaking jacket. “We'll need a vase for the flowers, Cards. They're for Mr. Haines's room. Make sure Jamie's not about, will you?”

“Naturally, miss.” Cards took both the dripping jackets and the dripping flowers and headed back down the hall.

“Where'd you find him?” Adam wondered aloud. “He's incredible.”

“Cards?” Like a wet dog, Kirby shook her head. “Papa brought him back from England. I think he was a spy, or maybe it was a bouncer. In either case, it's obvious he's seen everything.”

“Well, children, have you had a nice holiday?” Fairchild bounced out of the parlor. He wore a paint-streaked shirt and a smug smile. “My work's complete, and now I'm free to give my full attention to my sculpting. It's time I called Victor Alvarez,” he murmured. “I've kept him dangling long enough.”

“He'll dangle until after coffee, Papa.” She sent her father a quick warning glance Adam might've missed if he hadn't been watching so closely. “Take Adam in the parlor and I'll see to it.”

She kept him occupied for the rest of the day. Deliberately, Adam realized. Something was going on that she didn't want him getting an inkling of. Over dinner, she was again the perfect hostess. Over coffee and brandy in the parlor, she kept him entertained with an in-depth discussion on baroque art. Though her conversations and charm were effortless, Adam was certain there was an underlying reason. It was one more thing for him to discover.

She couldn't have set the scene better, he mused. A quiet parlor, a crackling fire, intelligent conversation. And she was watching Fairchild like a hawk.

When Montique entered, the scene changed. Once again, the scruffy puppy leaped into Adam's lap and settled down.

“How the hell did he get in here?” Fairchild demanded.

“Adam encourages him,” Kirby stated as she sipped at her brandy. “We can't be held responsible.”

“I should say not!” Fairchild gave both Adam and Montique a steely look. “And if that—that creature threatens to sue again, Adam will have to retain his own attorney. I won't be involved in a legal battle, particularly when I have my business with Senhor Alvarez to complete. What time is it in Brazil?”

“Some time or other,” Kirby murmured.

“I'll call him immediately and close the deal before we find ourselves slapped with a summons.”

Adam sat back with his brandy and scratched Montique's ears. “You two don't seriously expect me to believe you're worried about being sued by a cat?”

Kirby ran a fingertip around the rim of her snifter. “I don't think we'd better tell him about what happened last year when we tried to have her evicted.”

“No!” Fairchild leaped up and shuffled before he darted to the door. “I won't discuss it. I won't remember it. I'm going to call Brazil.”

“Ah, Adam…” Kirby trailed off with a meaningful glance at the doorway.

Adam didn't have to look to know that Isabelle was making an entrance.

“I won't be intimidated by a cat.”

“I'm sure that's very stalwart of you.” Kirby downed the rest of her drink then rose. “Just as I'm sure you'll understand if I leave you to your courage. I really have to reline my dresser drawers.”

For the second time that day, Adam found himself alone with a dog and cat.

A half hour later, after he'd lost a staring match with Isabelle, Adam locked his door and contacted McIntyre. In the brief, concise tones that McIntyre had always admired, Adam relayed the conversation he'd overheard the night before.

“It fits,” McIntyre stated. Adam could almost see him rubbing his hands together. “You've learned quite a bit in a short time. The check on Hiller reveals he's living on credit and reputation. Both are running thin. No idea where Fairchild's keeping it?”

“I'm surprised he doesn't have it hanging in full view.” Adam lit a cigarette and frowned at the Titian across the room. “It would be just like him. He mentioned a Victor Alvarez from Brazil a couple of times. Some kind of deal he's cooking.”

“I'll see what I can dig up. Maybe he's selling the Rembrandt.”

“He hardly needs the money.”

“Some people never have enough.”

“Yeah.” But it didn't fit. It just didn't fit. “I'll get back to you.”

Adam brooded, but only for a few moments. The sooner he had something tangible, the sooner he could untangle himself. He opened the panel and went to work.

 

In the morning, Kirby posed for Adam for more than two hours without the slightest argument. If he thought her cooperation and her sunny disposition were designed to confuse him, he was absolutely right. She was also keeping him occupied while Fairchild made the final arrangements for the disposal of the Van Gogh.

Adam had worked the night before until after midnight, but had found nothing. Wherever Fairchild had hidden the Rembrandt, he'd hidden it well. Adam's search of the third floor was almost complete. It was time to look elsewhere.

“Hidden with respect and affection,” he remembered. In all probability that would rule out the dungeons and the attic. Chances were he'd have to give them some time, but he intended to concentrate on the main portion of the house first. His main objective would be Fairchild's private rooms, but when and how he'd do them he had yet to determine.

After the painting session was over and Kirby went back to her own work, Adam wandered around the first floor. There was no one to question his presence. He was a guest and he was trusted. He was supposed to be, he reminded himself when he became uncomfortable. One of the reasons McIntyre had drafted him for this particular job was because he would have easy access to the Fairchilds and the house. He was, socially and profes
sionally, one of them. They'd have no reason to be suspicious of a well-bred, successful artist whom they'd welcomed into their own home. And the more Adam tried to justify his actions, the more the guilt ate at him.

Enough, he told himself as he stared out at the darkening sky. He'd had enough for one day. It was time he went up and changed for Melanie Burgess's party. There he'd meet Stuart Hiller and Harriet Merrick. There were no emotional ties there to make him feel like a spy and a thief. Swearing at himself, he started up the stairs.

“Excuse me, Mr. Haines.” Impatient, Adam turned and looked down at Tulip. “Were you going up?”

“Yes.” Because he stood on the bottom landing blocking her way, he stood aside to let her pass.

“You take this up to her then, and see she drinks it.” Tulip shoved a tall glass of milky white liquid into his hand. “All,” she added tersely before she clomped back toward the kitchen.

Where did they get their servants? Adam wondered, frowning down at the glass in his hands. And why, for the love of God, had he let himself be ordered around by one? When in Rome, he supposed, and started up the steps again.

The
she
obviously meant Kirby. Adam sniffed doubtfully at the glass as he knocked on her door.

“You can bring it in,” she called out, “but I won't drink it. Threaten all you like.”

All right, he decided, and pushed her door open. The bedroom was empty, but he could smell her.

“Do your worst,” she invited. “You can't intimidate me with stories of intestinal disorders and vitamin deficiencies. I'm healthy as a horse.”

The warm, sultry scent flowed over him. Glass in
hand, he walked through and into the bathroom where the steam rose up, fragrant and misty as a rain forest. With her hair pinned on top of her head, Kirby lounged in a huge sunken tub. Overhead, hanging plants dripped down, green and moist. White frothy bubbles floated in heaps on the surface of the water.

“So she sent you, did she?” Unconcerned, Kirby rubbed a loofah sponge over one shoulder. The bubbles, she concluded, covered her with more modesty than most women at the party that night would claim. “Well, come in then, and stop scowling at me. I won't ask you to scrub my back.”