The Art Of Deception. Nora Roberts
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show you, you wicked child.” Grinning like one of his gargoyles, Fairchild leaned over the harpsichord. “By the end of the week, I’ll have a piece that’ll make anything you’ve ever done look like a doorstop.”
Kirby raised her brows and kissed him on the mouth. “Goat droppings.”
“You’ll eat your words,” he warned as he dashed out of the room.
“I sincerely hope not.” Rising, she picked up her drink. “Papa has a nasty competitive streak.” Which constantly pleased her. “More brandy?”
“Your father has a…unique personality.” An emerald flashed on her hand as she filled her glass again. He saw her hands were narrow, delicate against the hard glitter of the stone. But there’d be strength in them, he reminded himself as he moved to the bar to join her. Strength was indispensable to an artist.
“You’re diplomatic.” She turned and looked up at him. There was the faintest hint of rose on her lips. “You’re a very diplomatic person, aren’t you, Adam?”
He’d already learned not to trust the nunlike expression. “Under some circumstances.”
“Under most circumstances. Too bad.”
“Is it?”
Because she enjoyed personal contact during any kind of confrontation, she kept her eyes on his while she drank. Her irises were the purest gray he’d ever seen, with no hint of other colors. “I think you’d be a very interesting man if you didn’t bind yourself up. I believe you think everything through very carefully.”
“You see that as a problem?” His voice had cooled. “It’s a remarkable observation after such a short time.”
No, he wouldn’t be a bore, she decided, pleased with his annoyance. It was lack of emotion Kirby found tedious. “I could’ve come by it easily enough after an hour, but I’d already seen your work. Besides talent, you have self-control, dignity and a strong sense of the conventional.”
“Why do I feel as though I’ve been insulted?”
“Perceptive, too.” She smiled, that slow curving of lips that was fascinating to watch. When he answered it, she made up her mind quickly. She’d always found it the best way. Still watching him, she set down her brandy. “I’m impulsive,” she explained. “I want to see what it feels like.”
Her arms were around him, her lips on his, in a move that caught him completely off balance. He had a very brief impression of wood smoke and roses, of incredible softness and strength, before she drew back. The hint of a smile remained as she picked up her brandy and finished it off. She’d enjoyed the brief kiss, but she’d enjoyed shocking him a great deal more.
“Very nice,” she said with borderline approval. “Breakfast is from seven on. Just ring for Cards if you need anything. Good night.”
She turned to leave, but he took her arm. Kirby found herself whirled around. When their bodies collided, the surprise was hers.
“You caught me off guard,” he said softly. “I can do much better than nice.”
He took her mouth swiftly, molding her to him. Soft to hard, thin silk to crisp linen. There was something primitive in her taste, something…ageless. She brought to his mind the woods on an autumn evening—dark, pungent and full of small mysteries.
The kiss lengthened, deepened without plan on either side. Her response was instant, as her responses often were. It was boundless as they often were. She moved her hands from his shoulders, to his neck, to his face, as if she were already sculpting. Something vibrated between them.
For the moment, blood ruled. She was accustomed to it; he wasn’t. He was accustomed to reason, but he found none here. Here was heat and passion, needs and desires without questions or answers.
Ultimately, reluctantly, he drew back. Caution, because he was used to winning, was his way.
She could still taste him. Kirby wondered, as she felt his breath feather over her lips, how she’d misjudged him. Her head was spinning, something new for her. She understood heated blood, a fast pulse, but not the clouding of her mind.
Not certain how long he’d have the advantage, Adam smiled at her. “Better?”
“Yes.” She waited until the floor became solid under her feet again. “That was quite an improvement.” Like her father, she knew when to dodge and weave. She eased herself away and moved to the doorway. She’d have to do some thinking, and some reevaluating. “How long are you here, Adam?”
“Four weeks,” he told her, finding it odd she didn’t know.
“Do you intend to sleep with me before you go?”
Torn between amusement and admiration, he stared at her. He respected candor, but he wasn’t used to it in quite so blunt a form. In this case, he decided to follow suit. “Yes.”
She nodded, ignoring the little thrill that raced up her spine. Games—she liked to play them. To win them. Kirby sensed one was just beginning between her and Adam. “I’ll have to think about that, won’t I? Good night.”
Chapter 2
Shafts of morning light streamed in the long windows of the dining room and tossed their diamond pattern on the floor. Outside the trees were touched with September. Leaves blushed from salmon to crimson, the colors mixed with golds and rusts and the last stubborn greens. The lawn was alive with fall flowers and shrubs that seemed caught on fire. Adam had his back to the view as he studied Fairchild’s paintings.
Again, Adam was struck with the incredible variety of styles Fairchild cultivated. There was a still life with the light and shadows of a Goya, a landscape with the frantic colors of a Van Gogh, a portrait with the sensitivity and grace of a Raphael. Because of its subject, it was the portrait that drew him.
A frail, dark-haired woman looked out from the canvas. There was an air of serenity, of patience, about her. The eyes were the same pure gray as Kirby’s, but the features were gentler, more even. Kirby’s mother had been a rare beauty, a rare woman who looked like she’d had both strength and understanding. While she wouldn’t have scrubbed at a hearth, she would have understood the daughter who did. That Adam could see this, be certain of it, without ever having met Rachel Fairchild, was only proof of Fairchild’s genius. He created life with oil and brush.
The next painting, executed in the style of Gainsborough, was a full-length portrait of a young girl. Glossy black curls fell over the shoulders of a white muslin dress, tucked at the bodice, belled at the skirt. She wore white stockings and neat black buckle shoes. Touches of color came from the wide pink sash around her waist and the dusky roses she carried in a basket. But this was no demure Pinky.
The girl held her head high, tilting it with youthful arrogance. The half smile spoke of devilment while the huge gray eyes danced with both. No more than eleven or twelve, Adam calculated. Even then, Kirby must have been a handful.
“An adorable child, isn’t she?” Kirby stood at the doorway as she had for five full minutes. She’d enjoyed watching and dissecting him as much as Adam had enjoyed dissecting the painting.
He stood very straight—prep school training, Kirby decided. Yet his hands were dipped comfortably in his pockets. Even in a casual sweater and jeans, there was an air of formality about him. Contrasts intrigued her, as a woman and as an artist.
Turning, Adam studied her as meticulously as he had her portrait. The day before, he’d seen her go from grubby urchin to sleek sophisticate. Today she was the picture of the bohemian artist. Her face was free of cosmetics and unframed as her hair hung in a ponytail down her back. She wore a shapeless black sweater, baggy, paint-streaked jeans and no shoes. To his annoyance, she continued to attract him.
She turned her head and, by accident or design, the sunlight fell over her profile. In that instant, she was breathtaking. Kirby sighed as she studied her own face. “A veritable