The Art of Deception

by Nora Roberts

  “All I feel is the void,” she murmured. “She hated me, and I think, I really think, she wanted me dead more than she wanted the painting. I wonder…I wonder just how much I’m to blame for that.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for being, Kirby.” Fairchild cupped her chin. “You can’t blame a tree for reaching for the sun or another for rotting from within. We make our own choices and we’re each responsible for them. Blame and credit belong to the individual. You haven’t the right to claim either from someone else.”

  “You won’t let me cover the hurt with guilt.” After a long breath she rose and kissed his cheek. “I’ll have to deal with it.” Without thinking, she held out a hand for Adam before she turned to McIntyre. “Do you need a statement from me?”

  “No, the shooting’s not my jurisdiction, Miss Fairchild. Just the Rembrandt.” Finishing off the rest of his Scotch he rose. “I’ll have to take it with me, Mr. Fairchild.”

  All graciousness, Fairchild spread his arms wide. “Perfectly understandable.”

  “I appreciate your cooperation.” If he could call it that. With a weary smile, he turned to Adam. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten your terms. If everything’s as he says, I should be able to keep them out of it officially, as we agreed the other day. Your part of the job’s over, and all in all you handled it well. So, I’ll be sorry if you’re serious about not working for me anymore. You got the Rembrandt back, Adam. Now I’ve got to get started on untangling the red tape.”

  “Job?” Going cold, Kirby turned. Her hand was still linked in Adam’s, but she felt it go numb as she drew it slowly away. “Job?” she repeated, pressing the hand to her stomach as if to ward off a blow.

  Not now, he thought in frustration, and searched for the words he’d have used only a few hours later. “Kirby—”

  With all the strength she had left, all the bitterness she’d felt, she brought her hand across his face. “Bastard,” she whispered. She fled at a dead run.

  “Damn you, Mac.” Adam raced after her.

  CHAPTER 12

  Adam caught up to her just as Kirby started to slam her bedroom door. Shoving it open, he pushed his way inside. For a moment, they only stared at each other.

  “Kirby, let me explain.”

  “No.” The wounded look had been replaced by glacial anger. “Just get out. All the way out, Adam—of my house and my life.”

  “I can’t.” He took her by the shoulders, but her head snapped up, and the look was so cold, so hard, he dropped his hands again. It was too late to explain the way he’d planned. Too late to prevent the hurt. Now he had to find the way around it. “Kirby, I know what you must be thinking. I want—”

  “Do you?” It took all of her effort to keep her voice from rising. Instead it was cool and calm. “I’m going to tell you anyway so we can leave everything neat and tidy.” She faced him because she refused to turn her back on the pain or on the betrayal. “I’m thinking that I’ve never detested anyone more than I detest you at this moment. I’m thinking Stuart and Melanie could take lessons on using people from you. I’m thinking how naive I was, how stupid, to have believed there was something special about you, something stable and honest. And I wonder how I could’ve made love with you and never seen it. Then again, I didn’t see it in Melanie, either. I loved and trusted her.” Tears burned behind her eyes but she ignored them. “I loved and trusted you.”

  “Kirby…”

  “Don’t touch me.” She backed away, but it was the tremor in her voice, not the movement, that stopped him from going to her. “I don’t ever want to feel your hands on me again.” Because she wanted to weep, she laughed, and the sound was as sharp as a knife. “I’ve always admired a really good liar, Adam, but you’re the best. Every time you touched me, you lied. You prostituted yourself in that bed.” She gestured toward it and wanted to scream. She wanted to fling herself on it and weep until she was empty. She stood, straight as an arrow. “You lay beside me and said all the things I wanted to hear. Do you get extra points for that, Adam? Surely that was above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “Don’t.” He’d had enough. Enough of her cold, clear look, her cold, clear words. “You know there was no dishonesty there. What happened between us had nothing to do with the rest.”

  “It has everything to do with it.”

  “No.” He’d take everything else she could fling at him, but not that. She’d changed his life with hardly more than a look. She had to know it. “I should never have put my hands on you, but I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted you. I needed you. You have to believe that.”

  “I’ll tell you what I believe,” she said quietly, because every word he spoke was another slice into her heart. She’d finished with being used. “You came here for the Rembrandt, and you meant to find it no matter who or what you had to go through. My father and I were means to an end. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  He had to take it, had to let her say it, but there’d be no lies between them any longer. “I came for the Rembrandt. When I walked through the door I only had one priority, to find it. But I didn’t know you when I walked through the door. I wasn’t in love with you then.”

  “Is this the part where you say everything changed?” she demanded, falling back on fury. “Shall we wait for the violins?” She was weakening. She turned away and leaned on the post of the bed. “Do better, Adam.”

  She could be cruel. He remembered her father’s warning. He only wished he believed he had a defense. “I can’t do better than the truth.”

  “Truth? What the hell do you know about truth?” She whirled back around, eyes damp now and shimmering with heat. “I stood here in this room and told you everything, everything I knew about my father. I trusted you with his welfare, the most important thing in my life. Where was your truth then?”

  “I had a commitment. Do you think it was easy for me to sit here and listen, knowing I couldn’t give you what you were giving me?”

  “Yes.” Her tone was dead calm, but her eyes were fierce. “Yes, I think it was a matter of routine for you. If you’d told me that night, the next day or the next, I might’ve believed you. If I’d heard it from you, I might’ve forgiven you.”

  Timing. Hadn’t she told him how vital timing could be? Now he felt her slipping away from him, but he had nothing but excuses to give her. “I was going to tell you everything, start to finish, tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Slowly she nodded. “Tomorrows are very convenient. A pity for us all how rarely they come.”

  All the warmth, all the fire, that had drawn him to her was gone. He’d only seen this look on her face once before—when Stuart had backed her into a corner and she’d had no escape. Stuart had used physical dominance, but it was no prettier than the emotional pressure Adam knew he used. “I’m sorry, Kirby. If I’d taken the risk and told you this morning, it would’ve been different for all of us.”

  “I don’t want your apology!” The tears beat her and poured out. She’d sacrificed everything else, now her pride was gone, as well. “I thought I’d found the man I could share my life with. I fell in love with you in the flash of an instant. No questions, no doubts. I believed everything you said to me. I gave you everything I had. In all my life no one’s been allowed to know me as you did. I entrusted you with everything I am and you used me.” Turning, she pressed her face into the bedpost.

  He had, he couldn’t deny it even to himself. He’d used her, as Stuart had used her. As Melanie had used her. Loving her made no difference, yet he had to hope it made all the difference. “Kirby.” It took all the strength he had not to go to her, to comfort her, but he’d only be comforting himself if he put his arms around her now. “There’s nothing you can say to me I haven’t said to myself. I came here to do a job, but I fell in love with you. There wasn’t any warning for me, either. I know I’ve hurt you. There’s nothing I can do to turn back the clock.”

  “Do you expect me to fall into your arms? Do you expect me to say no
thing else matters but us?” She turned, and though her cheeks were still damp, her eyes were dry. “It all matters,” she said flatly. “Your job’s finished here, Adam. You’ve recovered your Rembrandt. Take it, you earned it.”

  “You’re not going to cut me out of your life.”

  “You’ve done that for me.”

  “No.” The fury and frustration took over so that he grabbed her arm and jerked her against him. “No, you’ll have to adjust to the way things are, because I’m coming back.” He ran his hands down her hair, and they weren’t steady. “You can make me suffer. By God, you can do it. I’ll give you that, Kirby, but I’ll be back.”

  Before his anger could push him too far, he whirled around and left her alone.

  Fairchild was waiting for him, sitting calmly in the parlor by the fire. “I thought you’d need this.” Without getting up, he gestured to the glass of Scotch on the table beside him. He waited until Adam had tossed it back. He didn’t need to be told what had passed between them. “I’m sorry. She’s hurt. Perhaps in time the wounds will close and she’ll be able to listen.”

  Adam’s knuckles whitened on the glass. “That’s what I told her, but I didn’t believe it. I betrayed her.” His glance lowered and settled on the older man. “And you.”

  “You did what you had to do. You had a part to play.” Fairchild spread his hands on his knees and stared at them, thinking of his own part. “She would’ve dealt with it, Adam. She’s strong enough. But even Kirby has a breaking point. Melanie… It was too soon after Melanie.”

  “She won’t let me comfort her.” It was that anguish that had him turning to stare out of the window. “She looks so wounded, and my being here only makes it harder for her.” Steadying himself, he stared out at nothing. “I’ll be out as soon as I can pack.” He turned, his head only, and looked at the small, balding man in front of the fire. “I love her, Philip.”

  In silence Fairchild watched Adam walk away. For the first time in his six decades he felt old. Old and tired. With a deep, deep sigh he rose and went to his daughter.

  He found her curled on her bed, her head cradled by her knees and arms. She sat silent and unmoving and, he knew, utterly, utterly beaten. When he sat beside her, her head jerked up. Slowly, with his hand stroking her hair, her muscles relaxed.

  “Do we ever stop making fools of ourselves, Papa?”

  “You’ve never been a fool.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, it seems I have.” Settling her chin on her knees, she stared straight ahead. “I lost our bet. I guess you’ll be breaking open that box of cigars you’ve been saving.”

  “I think we can consider the extenuating circumstances.”

  “How generous of you.” She tried to smile and failed. “Aren’t you going to the hospital to be with Harriet?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You’d better go then. She needs you.”

  His thin, bony hand continued to stroke her hair. “Don’t you?”

  “Oh, Papa.” Tears came in a flood as she turned into his arms.

  * * *

  Kirby followed Cards downstairs as he carried her bags. In the week since the discovery of the Rembrandt she’d found it impossible to settle. She found no comfort in her art, no comfort in her home. Everything here held memories she could no longer deal with. She slept little and ate less. She knew she was losing touch with the person she was, and so she’d made plans to force herself back.

  She opened the door for Cards and stared out at the bright, cheery morning. It made her want to weep.

  “I don’t know why a sensible person would get up at this ridiculous hour to drive to the wilderness.”

  Kirby forced back the gloom and turned to watch her father stride down the stairs in a ratty bathrobe and bare feet. What hair he had left was standing on end. “The early bird gathers no moss,” she told him. “I want to get to the lodge and settle in. Want some coffee?”

  “Not while I’m sleeping,” he muttered as she nuzzled his cheek. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, going off to that shack in the Himalayas.”

  “It’s Harriet’s very comfortable cabin in the Adirondacks, twenty miles from Lake Placid.”

  “Don’t nitpick. You’ll be alone.”

  “I’ve been alone before,” she reminded him. “You’re annoyed because you won’t have anyone but Cards to shout at for a few weeks.”

  “He never shouts back.” But even as he grumbled, Fairchild was studying Kirby’s face. The shadows were still under her eyes and the loss of weight was much too apparent. “Tulip should go with you. Someone has to make you eat.”

  “I’m going to do that. Mountain air should make me ravenous.” When he continued to frown at her, she touched his cheek. “Don’t worry, Papa.”

  “I am worried.” Taking her shoulders, he held her at arm’s length. “For the first time in your life, you’re causing me genuine concern.”

  “A few pounds, Papa.”

  “Kirby.” He cupped her face in his strong, thin hand. “You have to talk to Adam.”

  “No!” The word came out violently. With an effort, she drew a steadying breath. “I’ve said all I want to say to Adam. I need time and some solitude, that’s all.”

  “Running away, Kirby?”

  “As fast as I can. Papa, Rick proposed to me again before he left.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” he demanded. “He always proposes to you before he leaves.”

  “I nearly said yes.” She lifted her hands to his, willing him to understand. “I nearly said yes because it seemed an easy way out. I’d have ruined his life.”

  “What about yours?”

  “I have to glue the pieces back together. Papa, I’ll be fine. It’s Harriet who needs you now.”

  He thought of his friend, his oldest and closest friend. He thought of the grief. “Melanie’s going to Europe when she’s fully recovered.”

  “I know.” Kirby tried not to remember the gun, or the hate. “Harriet told me. She’ll need both of us when Melly’s gone. If I can’t help myself, how can I help Harriet?”

  “Melanie won’t see Harriet. The girl’s destroying herself with hate.” He looked at his own daughter, his pride, his treasure. “The sooner Melanie’s out of the hospital and thousands of miles away, the better it’ll be for everyone.”

  She knew what he’d done, how he’d fought against his feelings about Melanie to keep from causing either her or Harriet more grief. He’d comforted them both without releasing his own fury. She held him tightly a moment, saying nothing. Needing to say nothing.

  “We all need some time,” she murmured. When she drew away, she was smiling. She wouldn’t leave him with tears in her eyes. “I’ll cloister myself in the wilderness and sculpt while you pound on your hawk.”

  “Such a wicked tongue in such a pretty face.”

  “Papa…” Absently she checked the contents of her purse. “Whatever painting you do will be done under your own name?” When he didn’t answer, she glanced up, narrowing her eyes. “Papa?”

  “All my paintings will be Fairchilds. Haven’t I given you my word?” He sniffed and looked injured. Kirby began to feel alarmed.

  “This obsession with sculpting,” she began, eyeing him carefully. “You don’t have it in your head to attempt an emulation of a Rodin or Cellini?”

  “You ask too many questions,” he complained as he nudged her toward the door. “The day’s wasting away, better get started. Don’t forget to write.”

  Kirby paused on the porch and turned back to him. “It’ll take you years,” she decided. “If you ever acquire the talent. Go ahead and play with your hawk.” She kissed his forehead. “I love you, Papa.”

  He watched her dart down the steps and into her car. “One should never interfere in the life of one’s child,” he murmured. Smiling broadly, he waved goodbye. When she was out of sight, he went directly to the phone.

  * * *

  The forest had always appealed t
o her. In mid-autumn, it shouted with life. The burst of colors were a last swirling fling before the trees went into the final cycle. It was an order Kirby accepted—birth, growth, decay, rebirth. Still, after three days alone, she hadn’t found her serenity.

  The stream she walked past rushed and hissed. The air was brisk and tangy. She was miserable.

  She’d nearly come to terms with her feelings about Melanie. Her childhood friend was ill, had been ill for a long, long time and might never fully recover. It hadn’t been a betrayal any more than cancer was a betrayal. But it was a malignancy Kirby knew she had to cut out of her life. She’d nearly accepted it, for Melanie’s sake and her own.

  She could come to terms with Melanie, but she had yet to deal with Adam. He’d had no illness, nor a lifetime of resentments to feed it. He’d simply had a job to do. And that was too cold for her to accept.

  With her hands in her pockets, she sat down on a log and scowled into the water. Her life, she admitted, was a mess. She was a mess. And she was damn sick of it.

  She tried to tell herself she’d put Adam out of her life. She hadn’t. Yes, she’d refused to listen to him. She’d made no attempt to contact him. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough, Kirby decided, because it left things unfinished. Now she’d never know if he’d had any real feelings for her. She’d never know if, even briefly, he’d