The Art of Deception by Nora Roberts
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
“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 professionally, 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.”
He thought of Cleopatra, floating on her barge. Just how many men other than Caesar and Antony had she driven mad? He glanced at the long mirrored wall behind the sink. It was fogged with the steam that rose in visible columns from her bath. “Got the water hot enough?”
“Do you know what that is?” she demanded, and plucked her soap from the dish. The cake was a pale, pale pink and left a creamy lather on her skin. “It’s a filthy-tasting mixture Tulip tries to force on me periodically. It has raw eggs in it and other vile things.” Making a face she lifted one surprisingly long leg out of the bath and soaped it. “Tell me the truth, Adam, would you voluntarily drink raw eggs?”
He watched her run soap and fingertips down her calf. “I can’t say I would.”
“Well, then.” Satisfied, she switched legs. “Down the drain with it.”
“She told me to see that you drank it. All,” he added, beginning to enjoy himself.
Her lower lip moved forward a bit as she considered. “Puts you in an awkward position, doesn’t it?”
“A position in any case.”
“Tell you what, I’ll have a sip. Then when she asks if I drank it I can say I did. I’m trying to cut down on my lying.”
Adam handed her the glass, watching as she sipped and grimaced. “I’m not sure you’re being truthful this way.”
“I said cutting down, not eliminating. Into the sink,” she added. “Unless you’d care for the rest.”
“I’ll pass.” He poured it out then sat on the lip of the tub.
Surprised by the move, she tightened her fingers on the soap. It plopped into the water. “Hydrophobia,” she muttered. “No, don’t bother, I’ll find it.” Dipping her hand in, she began to search. “You’d think they could make a soap that wasn’t forever leaping out of your hands.” Grateful for the distraction, she gripped the soap again. “Aha. I appreciate your bringing me that revolting stuff, Adam. Now if you’d like to run along…”
“I’m in no hurry.” Idly he picked up her loofah. “You mentioned something about scrubbing your back.”
“Robbery!” Fairchild’s voice boomed into the room just ahead of him. “Call the police. Call the FBI. Adam, you’ll be a witness.” He nodded, finding nothing odd in the audience to his daughter’s bath.
“I’m so glad I have a large bathroom,” she murmured. “Pity I didn’t think to serve refreshments.” Relieved by the interruption, she ran the soap down her arm. “What’s been stolen, Papa? The Monet street scene, the Renoir portrait? I know, your sweat socks.”
“My black dinner suit!” Dramatically he pointed a finger to the ceiling. “We’ll have to take fingerprints.”
“Obviously stolen by a psychotic with a fetish for formal attire,” Kirby concluded. “I love a mystery. Let’s list the suspects.” She pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and leaned back—a naked, erotic Sherlock Holmes. “Adam, have you an alibi?”
With a half smile, he ran the damp abrasive sponge through his hands. “I’ve been seducing Polly all afternoon.”
Her eyes lit with amusement. She’d known he had potential. “That won’t do,” she said soberly. “It wouldn’t take above fifteen minutes to seduce Polly. You have a black dinner suit, I suppose.”
“Circumstantial evidence.”
“A search warrant,” Fairchild chimed in, inspired. “We’ll get a search warrant and go through the entire house.”
“Time-consuming,” Kirby decided. “Actually, Papa, I think we’d best look to Cards.”
“The butler did it.” Fairchild cackled with glee, then immediately sobered. “No, no, my suit would never fit Cards.”
“True. Still, as much as I hate to be an informer, I overheard Cards telling Tulip he intended to take your suit.”
“Trust,” Fairchild mumbled to Adam. “Can’t trust anyone.”
“His motive was sponging and pressing, I believe.” She sank down to her neck and examined her toes. “He’ll crumble like a wall if you accuse him. I’m sure of it.”
“Very well.” Fairchild rubbed his thin, clever hands together. “I’ll handle it myself and avoid the publicity.”
“A brave man,” Kirby decided as her father strode out of the room. Relaxed and amused, she smiled at Adam. “Well, my bubbles seem to be melting, so we’d better continue this discussion some other time.”
Reaching over, Adam yanked the chain and drew the old-fashioned plug out of the stupendous tub. “The time’s coming when we’re going to start—and finish—much more than a conversation.”
Wary, Kirby watched her water level and last defense recede. When cornered, she determined, it was best to be nonchalant. She tried a smile that didn’t quite conceal the nerves. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
“I intend to,” he said softly. Without another word, he rose and left her alone.
* * *
Later, when he descended the stairs, Adam grinned whe
“Yes, Tulip, I drank the horrid stuff. I won’t disgrace you by fainting in the Merrick living room from malnutrition.” The low rumble of response that followed was dissatisfied. “Cricket wings, I’ve been walking in heels for half my life. They’re not six inches, they’re three. And I’ll still have to look up at everyone over twelve. Go bake a cake, will you?”
He heard Tulip’s mutter and sniff before she stomped out of the room and passed him.
“Adam, thank God. Let’s go before she finds something else to nag me about.”
Her dress was pure, unadorned white, thin and floaty. It covered her arms, rose high at the throat, as modest as a nun’s habit, as sultry as a tropical night. Her hair fell, black and straight over the shoulders.
Tossing it back, she picked up a black cape and swirled it around her. For a moment she stood, adjusting it while the light from the lamps flitted over the absence of color. She looked like a Manet portrait—strong, romantic and timeless.
“You’re a fabulous-looking creature, Kirby.”
They both stopped, staring. He’d given compliments before, with more style, more finesse, but he’d never meant one more. She’d been flattered by princes, in foreign tongues and with smooth