The Art of Deception

by Nora Roberts

  “Adam…” Still swimming, she reached up and touched his face.

  “Emphasize your eyes.” He stood before he could take the dive.

  “My eyes?” Mind blank, body throbbing, she stared up at him.

  “And leave your hair loose.” He strode to the door as she struggled up to her elbows. “Twenty minutes.”

  She wouldn’t let him see the hurt. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel the rejection. “You’re a cool one, aren’t you?” she said softly. “And as smooth as any I’ve ever run across. You might find yourself on your knees yet.”

  She was right—he could’ve strangled her for it. “That’s a risk I’ll have to take.” With a nod, he walked through the door. “Twenty minutes,” he called back.

  Kirby clenched her fists together then slowly relaxed them. “On your knees,” she promised herself. “I swear it.”

  * * *

  Alone in Kirby’s studio, Adam searched for the mechanism to the passageway. He looked mainly from curiosity. It was doubtful he’d need to rummage through a room that he’d been given free run in, but he was satisfied when he located the control. The panel creaked open, as noisily as all the others he’d found. After a quick look inside, he shut it again and went back to the first order of business—painting.

  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 shoulders. 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 unc
omfortable. “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.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Let’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 t
his 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