The Art of Deception Read online

  furnished in a different style. The more Adam saw of the house, the more he was charmed. And the more he realized how complicated his task was going to be.

  “The last room, my boudoir.” She gave him the slow, lazy smile that made his palms itchy. “I’ll promise not to compromise you as long as you’re aware my promises aren’t known for being kept.” With a light laugh, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. “Fish fins.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Whatever for?” Ignoring him, Kirby marched into the room. “Do you see that?” she demanded. In a gesture remarkably like her father’s, she pointed at the bed. A scruffy dog lay like a lump in the center of a wedding ring quilt. Frowning, Adam walked a little closer.

  “What is it?”

  “A dog, of course.”

  He looked at the gray ball of hair, which seemed to have no front or back. “It’s possible.”

  A stubby tail began to thump on the quilt.

  “This is no laughing matter, Montique. I take the heat, you know.”

  Adam watched the bundle shift until he could make out a head. The eyes were still hidden behind the mop of fur, but there was a little black nose and a lolling tongue. “Somehow I’d’ve pictured you with a brace of Afghan hounds.”

  “What? Oh.” Giving the mop on the bed a quick pat, she turned back to Adam. “Montique doesn’t belong to me, he belongs to Isabelle.” She sent the dog an annoyed glance. “She’s going to be very put out.”

  Adam frowned at the unfamiliar name. Had McIntyre missed someone? “Is she one of the staff?”

  “Good grief, no.” Kirby let out a peal of laughter that had Montique squirming in delight. “Isabelle serves no one. She’s… Well, here she is now. There’ll be the devil to pay,” she added under her breath.

  Shifting his head, Adam looked toward the doorway. He started to tell Kirby there was no one there when a movement caught his eye. He looked down on a large buff-colored Siamese. Her eyes were angled, icily blue and, though he hadn’t considered such things before, regally annoyed. The cat crossed the threshold, sat and stared up at Kirby.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Kirby tossed out. “I had nothing to do with it. If he wanders in here, it has nothing to do with me.” Isabelle flicked her tail and made a low, dangerous sound in her throat. “I won’t tolerate your threats, and I will not keep my door locked.” Kirby folded her arms and tapped a foot on the Aubusson carpet. “I refuse to change a habit of a lifetime for your convenience. You’ll just have to keep a closer eye on him.”

  As he watched silently, Adam was certain he saw genuine temper in Kirby’s eyes—the kind of temper one person aims toward another person. Gently he placed a hand on her arm and waited for her to look at him. “Kirby, you’re arguing with a cat.”

  “Adam.” Just as gently, she patted his hand. “Don’t worry. I can handle it.” With a lift of her brow, she turned back to Isabelle. “Take him, then, and put him on a leash if you don’t want him wandering. And the next time, I’d appreciate it if you’d knock before you come into my room.”

  With a flick of her tail, Isabelle moved to the bed and stared up at Montique. He thumped his tail, tongue lolling, before he leaped clumsily to the floor. With a kind of jiggling trot, he followed the gliding cat from the room.

  “He went with her,” Adam murmured.

  “Of course he did,” Kirby retorted. “She has a beastly temper.”

  Refusing to be taken for a fool, Adam gave Kirby a long, uncompromising look. “Are you trying to tell me that the dog belongs to that cat?”

  “Do you have a cigarette?” she countered. “I rarely smoke, but Isabelle affects me that way.” She noted that his eyes never lost their cool, mildly annoyed expression as he took one out and lit it for her. Kirby had to swallow a chuckle. Adam was, she decided, remarkable. She drew on the cigarette and blew out the smoke without inhaling. “Isabelle maintains that Montique followed her home. I think she kidnapped him. It would be just like her.”

  Games, he thought again. Two could play. “And to whom does Isabelle belong?”

  “Belong?” Kirby’s eyes widened. “Isabelle belongs to no one but herself. Who’d want to lay claim to such a wicked creature?”

  And he could play as well as anyone. Taking the cigarette from her, Adam drew in smoke. “If you dislike her, why don’t you just get rid of her?”

  She nipped the cigarette from his fingers again. “I can hardly do that as long as she pays the rent, can I? There, that’s enough,” she decided after another drag. “I’m quite calm again.” She handed him back the cigarette before she walked to the door. “I’ll take you up to Papa’s studio. We’ll just skip over the third floor, everything’s draped with dustcovers.”

  Adam opened his mouth, then decided that some things were best left alone. Dismissing odd cats and ugly dogs, he followed Kirby back into the hall again. The stairs continued up in a lazy arch to the third floor, then veered sharply and became straight and narrow. Kirby stopped at the transition point and gestured down the hall.

  “The floor plan is the same as the second floor. There’s a set of stairs at the opposite side that lead to my studio. The rest of these rooms are rarely used.” She gave him the slow smile as she linked hands. “Of course, the entire floor’s haunted.”

  “Of course.” He found it only natural. Without a word, he followed her to the tower.

  CHAPTER 3

  Normalcy. Tubes of paint were scattered everywhere, brushes stood in jars. The scent of oil and turpentine hung in the air. This Adam understood—the debris and the sensuality of art.

  The room was rounded with arching windows and a lofty ceiling. The floor might have been beautiful at one time, but now the wood was dull and splattered and smeared with paints and stains. Canvases were in the corners, against the walls, stacked on the floor.

  Kirby gave the room a swift, thorough study. When she saw all was as it should be, the tension eased from her shoulders. Moving across the room, she went to her father.

  He sat, motionless and unblinking, staring down at a partially formed mound of clay. Without speaking, Kirby walked around the worktable, scrutinizing the clay from all angles. Fairchild’s eyes remained riveted on his work. After a few moments, Kirby straightened, rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and pursed her lips.

  “Mmm.”

  “That’s only your opinion,” Fairchild snapped.

  “It certainly is.” For a moment, she nibbled on her thumbnail. “You’re entitled to another. Adam, come have a look.”

  He sent her a killing glance that caused her to grin. Trapped by manners, he crossed the studio and looked down at the clay.

  It was, he supposed, an adequate attempt—a partially formed hawk, talons exposed, beak just parted. The power, the life, that sung in his paints, and in his daughter’s sculptures, just wasn’t there. In vain, Adam searched for a way out.

  “Hmm,” he began, only to have Kirby pounce on the syllable.

  “There, he agrees with me.” Kirby patted her father’s head and looked smug.

  “What does he know?” Fairchild demanded. “He’s a painter.”

  “And so, darling Papa, are you. A brilliant one.”

  He struggled not to be pleased and poked a finger into the clay. “Soon, you hateful brat, I’ll be a brilliant sculptor as well.”

  “I’ll get you some Play-Doh for your birthday,” she offered, then let out a shriek as Fairchild grabbed her ear and twisted. “Fiend.” With a sniff, she rubbed at the lobe.

  “Mind your tongue or I’ll make a Van Gogh of you.”

  As Adam watched, the little man cackled; Kirby, however, froze—face, shoulders, hands. The fluidity he’d noticed in her even when she was still vanished. It wasn’t annoyance, he thought, but…fear? Not of Fairchild. Kirby, he was certain, would never be afraid of a man, particularly her father. For Fairchild was more feasible, and just as baffling.

  She recovered quickly enough and tilted her
chin. “I’m going to show Adam my studio. He can settle in.”

  “Good, good.” Because he recognized the edge to her voice, Fairchild patted her hand. “Damn pretty girl, isn’t she, Adam?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  As Kirby heaved a gusty sigh, Fairchild patted her hand again. The clay on his smeared onto hers. “See, my sweet, aren’t you grateful for those braces now?”

  “Papa.” With a reluctant grin, Kirby laid her cheek against his balding head. “I never wore braces.”

  “Of course not. You inherited your teeth from me.” He gave Adam a flashing smile and a wink. “Come back when you’ve got settled, Adam. I need some masculine company.” He pinched Kirby’s cheek lightly. “And don’t think Adam’s going to sniff around your ankles like Rick Potts.”

  “Adam’s nothing like Rick,” Kirby murmured as she picked up a rag and wiped the traces of clay from her hands. “Rick is sweet.”

  “She inherited her manners from the milkman,” Fairchild observed.

  She shot a look at Adam. “I’m sure Adam can be sweet, too.” But there was no confidence in her voice. “Rick’s forte is watercolor. He’s the sort of man women want to mother. I’m afraid he stutters a bit when he gets excited.”

  “He’s madly in love with our little Kirby.” Fairchild would’ve cackled again, but for the look his daughter sent him.

  “He just thinks he is. I don’t encourage him.”

  “What about the clinch I happened in on in the library?” Pleased with himself, Fairchild turned back to Adam. “I ask you, when a man’s glasses are steamed, isn’t there a reason for it?”

  “Invariably.” He liked them, damn it, whether they were harmless lunatics or something more than harmless. He liked them both.

  “You know very well that was totally one-sided.” Barely shifting her stance, she became suddenly regal and dignified. “Rick lost control, temporarily. Like blowing a fuse, I suppose.” She brushed at the sleeve of her sweater. “Now that’s quite enough on the subject.”

  “He’s coming to stay for a few days next week.” Fairchild dropped the bombshell as Kirby walked to the door. To her credit, she barely broke stride. Adam wondered if he was watching a well-plotted game of chess or a wild version of Chinese checkers.

  “Very well,” Kirby said coolly. “I’ll tell Rick that Adam and I are lovers and that Adam’s viciously jealous, and keeps a stiletto in his left sock.”

  “Good God,” Adam murmured as Kirby swept out of the door. “She’ll do it, too.”

  “You can bank on it,” Fairchild agreed, without disguising the glee in his voice. He loved confusion. A man of sixty was entitled to create as much as he possibly could.

  * * *

  The structure of the second tower studio was identical to the first. Only the contents differed. In addition to paints and brushes and canvases, there were knives, chisels and mallets. There were slabs of limestone and marble and lumps of wood. Adam’s equipment was the only spot of order in the room. Cards had stacked his gear personally.

  A long wooden table was cluttered with tools, wood shavings, rags and a crumpled ball of material that might’ve been a paint smock. In a corner was a high-tech stereo component system. An ancient gas heater was set into one wall with an empty easel in front of it.

  As with Fairchild’s tower, Adam understood this kind of chaos. The room was drenched with sun. It was quiet, spacious and instantly appealing.

  “There’s plenty of room,” Kirby told him with a sweeping gesture. “Set up where you’re comfortable. I don’t imagine we’ll get in each other’s way,” she said doubtfully, then shrugged. She had to make the best of it. Better for him to be here, in her way, than sharing her father’s studio with the Van Gogh. “Are you temperamental?”

  “I wouldn’t say so,” Adam answered absently as he began to unpack his equipment. “Others might. And you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Kirby plopped down behind the worktable and lifted a piece of wood. “I have tantrums and fits of melancholia. I hope it won’t bother you.” He turned to answer, but she was staring down at the wood in her hands, as if searching for something hidden inside. “I’m doing my emotions now. I can’t be held responsible.”

  Curious, Adam left his unpacking to walk to the shelf behind her. On it were a dozen pieces in various stages. He chose a carved piece of fruitwood that had been polished. “Emotions,” he murmured, running his fingers over the wood.

  “Yes, that’s—”

  “Grief,” he supplied. He could see the anguish, feel the pain.

  “Yes.” She wasn’t sure if it pleased her or not to have him so in tune—particularly with that one piece that had cost her so much. “I’ve done Joy and Doubt as well. I thought to save Passion for last.” She spread her hands under the wood she held and brought it to eye level. “This is to be Anger.” As if to annoy it, she tapped the wood with her fingers. “One of the seven deadly sins, though I’ve always thought it mislabeled. We need anger.”

  He saw the change in her eyes as she stared into the wood. Secrets, he thought. She was riddled with them. Yet as she sat, the sun pouring around her, the unformed wood held aloft in her hands, she seemed to be utterly, utterly open, completely readable, washed with emotion. Even as he began to see it, she shifted and broke the mood. Her smile when she looked up at him was teasing.

  “Since I’m doing Anger, you’ll have to tolerate a few bouts of temper.”

  “I’ll try to be objective.”

  Kirby grinned, liking the gloss of politeness over the sarcasm. “I bet you have bundles of objectivity.”

  “No more than my share.”

  “You can have mine, too, if you like. It’s very small.” Still moving the wood in her hands, she glanced toward his equipment. “Are you working on anything?”

  “I was.” He walked around to stand in front of her. “I’ve something else in mind now. I want to paint you.”

  Her gaze shifted from the wood in her hands to his face. With some puzzlement, he saw her eyes were wary. “Why?”

  He took a step closer and closed his hand over her chin. Kirby sat passively as he examined her from different angles. But she felt his fingers, each individual finger, as it lay on her skin. Soft skin, and Adam didn’t bother to resist the urge to run his thumb over her cheek. The bones seemed fragile under his hands, but her eyes were steady and direct.

  “Because,” he said at length,” your face is fascinating. I want to paint that, the translucence, and your sexuality.”

  Her mouth heated under the careless brush of his fingers. Her hands tightened on the fruitwood, but her voice was even. “And if I said no?”

  That was another thing that intrigued him, the trace of hauteur she used sparingly—and very successfully. She’d bring men to their knees with that look, he thought. Deliberately he leaned over and kissed her. He felt her stiffen, resist, then remain still. She was, in her own way, in her own defense, absorbing the feelings he brought to her. Her knuckles had whitened on the wood, but he didn’t see. When he lifted his head, all Adam saw was the deep, pure gray of her eyes.

  “I’d paint you anyway,” he murmured. He left the room, giving them both time to think about it.

  * * *

  She did think about it. For nearly thirty minutes, Kirby sat perfectly still and let her mind work. It was a curious part of her nature that such a vibrant, restless woman could have such a capacity for stillness. When it was necessary, Kirby could do absolutely nothing while she thought through problems and looked for answers. Adam made it necessary.

  He stirred something in her that she’d never felt before. Kirby believed that one of the most precious things in life was the original and the fresh. This time, however, she wondered if she should skirt around it.

  She appreciated a man who took the satisfaction of his own desires for granted, just as she did. Nor was she averse to pitting herself against him. But… She couldn’t quite get past the but in Adam’s case.

  It migh
t be safer—smarter, she amended—if she concentrated on the awkwardness of Adam’s presence with respect to the Van Gogh and her father’s hobby. The attraction she felt was ill-timed. She touched her tongue to her top lip and thought she could taste him. Ill-timed, she thought again. And inconvenient.

  Her father had better be prudent, she thought, then immediately sighed. Calling Philip Fairchild prudent was like calling Huck Finn studious. The blasted, brilliant Van Gogh was going to have to make a speedy exit. And the Titian, she remembered, gnawing on her lip. She still had to handle that.

  Adam was huddled with her father, and there was nothing she could do at the moment. Just a few more days, she reminded herself. There’d be nothing more to worry about. The smile crept back to her mouth. The rest of Adam’s visit might be fun. She thought of him, the serious brown eyes, the strong, sober mouth.

  Dangerous fun, she conceded. But then, what was life without a bit of danger? Still smiling, she picked up her tools.