The Art of Deception Read online

  Adam noticed that Melanie turned a delicate pink at her mother’s flamboyance. Unable to resist, he lifted Harriet’s hand to his lips. “Do I need permission to flirt with you?”

  “Guard your heart, Harriet,” Kirby warned as she set out drinks.

  “Mind your own business,” Harriet tossed back. “By the way, Adam, I’d like you to have my necklace of crocodile teeth as a token of my appreciation.”

  “Good heavens, Mother.” Melanie sipped at her blackberry brandy. “Why would Adam want that hideous thing?”

  “Sentiment,” she returned without blinking an eye. “Adam’s agreed to let me exhibit Kirby’s portrait, and I want to repay him.”

  The old girl’s quick, Adam decided as she sent him a guileless smile, and Melanie’s been kept completely in the dark about the hobby her mother shares with Fairchild. Studying Melanie’s cool beauty, Adam decided her mother knew best. She’d never react as Kirby did. Melanie could have their love and affection, but secrets were kept within the triangle. No, he realized, oddly pleased. It was now a rectangle.

  “He doesn’t have to wear it,” Harriet went on, breaking into his thoughts.

  “I should hope not,” Melanie put in, rolling her eyes at Kirby.

  “It’s for good luck.” Harriet sent Kirby a glance, then squeezed Adam’s arm. “But perhaps you have all the luck you need.”

  “Perhaps my luck’s just beginning.”

  “How quaintly they speak in riddles.” Kirby sat on the arm of Melanie’s chair. “Why don’t we ignore them?”

  “Your hawk’s coming along nicely, Mr. Fairchild,” Rich hazarded.

  “Aha!” It was all Fairchild needed. Bursting with good feelings, he treated Rick to an in-depth lecture on the use of calipers.

  “Rick’s done it now,” Kirby whispered to Melanie. “Papa has no mercy on a captive audience.”

  “I didn’t know Uncle Philip was sculpting.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Kirby said quickly. “You’ll never escape.” Pursing her lips, she looked down at Melanie’s elegant dark rose dress. The lines flowed fluidly with the flash of a studded buckle at the waist. “Melly, I wonder if you’d have time to design a dress for me.”

  Surprised, Melanie glanced up. “Oh course, I’d love to. But I’ve been trying to talk you into it for years and you’ve always refused to go through the fittings.”

  Kirby shrugged. A wedding dress was a different matter, she mused. Still, she didn’t mention her plans with Adam. Her father would know first. “I usually buy on impulse, whatever appeals at the time.”

  “From Goodwill to Rive Gauche,” Melanie murmured. “So this must be special.”

  “I’m taking a page from your book,” Kirby evaded. “You know I’ve always admired your talent, I just knew I wouldn’t have the patience for all the preliminaries.” She laughed. “Do you think you can design a dress that’d make me look demure?”

  “Demure?” Harriet cut in, pouncing on the word. “Poor Melanie would have to be a sorceress to pull that off. Even as a child in that sweet little muslin you looked capable of battling a tribe of Comanches. Philip, you must let me borrow that painting of Kirby for the gallery.”

  “We’ll see.” His eyes twinkled. “You’ll have to soften me up a bit first. I’ve always had a deep affection for that painting.” With a hefty sigh, he leaned back with his drink. “Its value goes below the surface.”

  “He still begrudges me my sitting fee.” Kirby sent her father a sweet smile. “He forgets I never collected for any of the others.”

  “You never posed for the others,” Fairchild reminded her.

  “I never signed a release for them, either.”

  “Melly posed for me out of the goodness of her heart.”

  “Melly’s nicer than I am,” Kirby said simply. “I like being selfish.”

  “Heartless creature,” Harriet put in mildly. “It’s so selfish of you to teach sculpture in the summer to those handicapped children.”

  Catching Adam’s surprised glance, Kirby shifted uncomfortably. “Harriet, think of my reputation.”

  “She’s sensitive about her good deeds,” Harriet told Adam with a squeeze for his knee.

  “I simply had nothing else to do.” With a shrug, Kirby turned away. “Are you going to Saint Moritz this year, Melly?”

  Fraud, Adam thought as he watched her guide the subject away from herself. A beautiful, sensitive fraud. And finding her so, he loved her more.

  By the time Harriet and Melanie rose to leave, Kirby was fighting off a raging headache. Too much strain, she knew, but she wouldn’t admit it. She could tell herself she needed only a good night’s sleep, and nearly believe it.

  “Kirby.” Harriet swirled her six-foot shawl over her shoulder before she took Kirby’s chin in her hand. “You look tired, and a bit pale. I haven’t seen you look pale since you were thirteen and had the flu. I remember you swore you’d never be ill again.”

  “After that disgusting medicine you poured down my throat, I couldn’t afford to. I’m fine.” But she threw her arms around Harriet’s neck and held on. “I’m fine, really.”

  “Mmm.” Over her head, Harriet frowned at Fairchild. “You might think about Australia. We’ll put some color in your cheeks.”

  “I will. I love you.”

  “Go to sleep, child,” Harriet murmured.

  The moment the door was closed, Adam took Kirby’s arm. Ignoring her father and Rick, he began to pull her up the stairs. “You belong in bed.”

  “Shouldn’t you be dragging me by the hair instead of the arm?”

  “Some other time, when my intentions are less peaceful.” He stopped outside her door. “You’re going to sleep.”

  “Tired of me already?”

  The words were hardly out of her mouth when his covered it. Holding her close, he let himself go for a moment, releasing the needs, the desires, the love. He could feel her heart thud, her bones melt. “Can’t you see how tired I am of you?” He kissed her again with his hands framing her face. “You must see how you bore me.”

  “Anything I can do?” she murmured, slipping her hands under his jacket.

  “Get some rest.” He took her by the shoulders. “This is your last opportunity to sleep alone.”

  “Am I sleeping alone?”

  It wasn’t easy for him. He wanted to devour her, he wanted to delight her. He wanted, more than anything else, to have a clean slate between them before they made love again. If she hadn’t looked so weary, so worn, he’d have told her everything then and there. “This may come as a shock to you,” he said lightly. “But you’re not Wonder Woman.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re going to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow.” He took her hands and the look, the sudden intenseness, confused her. “Tomorrow, Kirby, we have to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Tomorrow,” he repeated before he could change his mind. “Rest now.” He gave her a nudge inside. “If you’re not feeling any better tomorrow, you’re going to stay in bed and be pampered.”

  She managed one last wicked grin. “Promise?”

  CHAPTER 11

  It was clear after Kirby had tossed in bed and fluffed up her pillow for more than an hour that she wasn’t going to get the rest everyone seemed to want for her. Her body was dragging, but her mind refused to give in to it.

  She tried. For twenty minutes she recited dull poetry. Closing her eyes, she counted five hundred and twenty-seven camels. She turned on her bedside radio and found chamber music. She was, after all of it, wide awake.

  It wasn’t fear. If Stuart had indeed tried to kill her, he’d failed. She had her own wits, and she had Adam. No, it wasn’t fear.

  The Rembrandt. She couldn’t think of anything else after seeing Harriet laughing, after remembering how Harriet had nursed her through the flu and had given her a sweet and totally unnecessary woman-to-woman talk when she’d been a girl.

  Kirby had grieved for her own mot
her, and though she’d died when Kirby had been a child, the memory remained perfectly clear. Harriet hadn’t been a substitute. Harriet had simply been Harriet. Kirby loved her for that alone.

  How could she sleep?

  Annoyed, Kirby rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe, just maybe, she could make use of the insomnia and sort it all out and make some sense out of it.

  Her father, she was certain, would do nothing to hurt Harriet without cause. Was revenge on Stuart cause enough? After a moment, she decided it didn’t follow.

  Harriet had gone to Africa—that was first. It had been nearly two weeks after that when Kirby had broken her engagement with Stuart. Afterward she had told her father of Stuart’s blackmail threats and he’d been unconcerned. He’d said, Kirby remembered, that Stuart wasn’t in any position to make waves.

  Then it made sense to assume they’d already begun plans to switch the paintings. Revenge was out.

  Then why?

  Not for money, Kirby thought. Not for the desire to own the painting himself. That wasn’t his way—she knew better than anyone how he felt about greed. But then, stealing from a friend wasn’t his way either.

  If she couldn’t find the reason, perhaps she could find the painting itself.

  Still staring at the ceiling, she began to go over everything her father had said. So many ambiguous comments, she mused. But then, that was typical of him. In the house—that much was certain. In the house, hidden with appropriate affection and respect. Just how many hundreds of possibilities could she sort through in one night?

  She blew out a disgusted breath and rolled over again. With a last thump for her pillow, she closed her eyes. The yawn, she felt, was a hopeful sign. As she snuggled deeper, a tiny memory probed.

  She’d think about it tomorrow…. No, now, she thought, and rolled over again. She’d think about it now. What was it her father had been saying to Adam when she’d walked into his studio the night after the Titian switch? Something… Something…about involving her figuratively.

  “Root rot,” she muttered, and squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. “What the devil was that supposed to mean?” Just as she was about to give up, the idea seeped in. Her eyes sprang open as she sprang up. “It’d be just like him!”

  Grabbing a robe, she dashed from the room.

  For a moment in the hall she hesitated. Perhaps she should wake Adam and tell him of her theory. Then again, it was no more than that, and he hadn’t had the easiest day of it, either. If she produced results, then she’d wake him. And if she was wrong, her father would kill her.

  She made a quick trip to her father’s studio, then went down to the dining room.

  On neither trip did she bother with lights. She wanted no one to pop out of their room and ask what she was up to. Carrying a rag, a bottle and a stack of newspapers, she went silently through the dark. Once she’d reached the dining room, she turned on the lights. No one would investigate downstairs except Cards. He’d never question her. She worked quickly.

  Kirby spread the newspapers in thick pads on the dining room table. Setting the bottle and the rag on them, she turned to her own portrait.

  “You’re too clever for your own good, Papa,” she murmured as she studied the painting. “I’d never be able to tell if this was a duplicate. There’s only one way.”

  Once she’d taken the portrait from the wall, Kirby laid it on the newspaper. “Its value goes below the surface,” she murmured. Isn’t that what he’d said to Harriet? And he’d been smug. He’d been smug right from the start. Kirby opened the bottle and tipped the liquid onto the rag. “Forgive me, Papa,” she said quietly.

  With the lightest touch—an expert’s touch—she began to remove layers of paint in the lower corner. Minutes passed. If she was wrong, she wanted the damage to be minimal. If she was right, she had something priceless in her hands. Either way, she couldn’t rush.

  She dampened the rag and wiped again. Her father’s bold signature disappeared, then the bright summer grass beneath it, and the primer.

  And there, beneath where there should have been only canvas, was a dark, somber brown. One letter, then another, appeared. It was all that was necessary.

  “Great buckets of blood,” she murmured. “I was right.”

  Beneath the feet of the girl she’d been was Rembrandt’s signature. She’d go no further. As carefully as she’d unstopped it, Kirby secured the lid of the bottle.

  “So, Papa, you put Rembrandt to sleep under a copy of my portrait. Only you would’ve thought to copy yourself to pull it off.”

  “Very clever.”

  Whirling, Kirby looked behind her into the dark outside the dining room. She knew the voice; it didn’t frighten her. As her heart pounded, the shadows moved. What now? she asked herself quickly. Just how would she explain it?

  “Cleverness runs in the family, doesn’t it, Kirby?”

  “So I’m told.” She tried to smile. “I’d like to explain. You’d better come in out of the dark and sit down. It could take—” She stopped as the first part of the invitation was accepted. She stared at the barrel of a small polished revolver. Lifting her gaze from it, she stared into clear, delicate blue eyes. “Melly, what’s going on?”

  “You look surprised. I’m glad.” With a satisfied smile, Melanie aimed the gun at Kirby’s head. “Maybe you’re not so clever after all.”

  “Don’t point that at me.”

  “I intend to point it at you.” She lowered the gun to chest level. “And I’ll do more than point it if you move.”

  “Melly.” She wasn’t afraid, not yet. She was confused, even annoyed, but she wasn’t afraid of the woman she’d grown up with. “Put that thing away and sit down. What’re you doing here this time of night?”

  “Two reasons. First, to see if I could find any trace of the painting you’ve so conveniently found for me. Second, to finish the job that was unsuccessful this morning.”

  “This morning?” Kirby took a step forward then froze when she heard the quick, deadly click. Good God, could it actually be loaded? “Melly…”

  “I suppose I must have miscalculated a bit or you’d be dead already.” The elegant rose silk whispered as she shrugged. “I know the passages very well. Remember, you used to drag me around in them when we were children—before you went in with a faulty flashlight. I’d changed the batteries in it, you see. I’d never told you about that, had I?” She laughed as Kirby remained silent. “I used the passages this morning. Once I was sure you and Adam were settled in, I went out and turned on the gas by the main valve—I’d already broken the switch on the unit.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Kirby dragged a hand through her hair.

  “Deadly serious, Kirby.”

  “Why?”

  “Primarily for money, of course.”

  “Money?” She would’ve laughed, but her throat was closing. “But you don’t need money.”

  “You’re so smug.” The venom came through. Kirby wondered that she’d never heard it before. “Yes, I need money.”

  “You wouldn’t take a settlement from your ex-husband.”

  “He wouldn’t give me a dime,” Melanie corrected. “He cut me off, and as he had me cold on adultery, I wasn’t in a position to take him to court. He let me get a quiet, discreet divorce so that our reputations wouldn’t suffer. And except for one incident, I’d been very discreet. Stuart and I were always very careful.”

  “Stuart?” Kirby lifted a hand to rub at her temple. “You and Stuart?”

  “We’ve been lovers for over three years. Questions are just buzzing around in your head, aren’t they?” Enjoying herself, Melanie stepped closer. The whiff of Chanel followed her. “It was more practical for us if we pretended to be just acquaintances. I convinced Stuart to ask you to marry him. My inheritance has dwindled to next to nothing. Your money would have met Stuart’s and my tastes very nicely. And we’d have got close to Uncle Philip.”

  She ignored the rest and
homed in on the most important. “What do you want from my father?”

  “I found out about the little game he and Mother indulged in years ago. Not all the details, but enough to know I could use it if I had to. I thought it was time to use your father’s talent for my own benefit.”

  “You made plans to steal from your own mother.”