Читать книгу Best of Nora Roberts Books 1-6: The Art of Deception / Lessons Learned / Mind Over Matter / Risky Business / Second Nature / Unfinished Business - Нора Робертс, Nora Roberts - Страница 14

Kirby switched on the rose-tinted bedside lamp before she poured brandy. After handing Adam a snifter, she kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged on the bed. She watched as he ripped off the wrapping and examined the painting.

Frowning, he studied the brush strokes, the use of color, the Venetian technique that had been Titian’s. Fascinating, he thought. Absolutely fascinating. “This is a copy?”

She had to smile. She warmed the brandy between her hands but didn’t drink. “Papa’s mark’s on the frame.”

Adam saw the red circle but didn’t find it conclusive. “I’d swear it was authentic.”

“So would anyone.”

He propped the painting against the wall and turned to her. She looked like an Indian priestess—the nightfall of hair against the virgin white silk. With an enigmatic smile, she continued to sit in the lotus position, the brandy cupped in both hands.

“How many other paintings in your father’s collection are copies?”

Slowly she lifted the snifter and sipped. She had to work at not being annoyed by the question, telling herself he was entitled to ask. “All of the paintings in Papa’s collection are authentic. Excepting now this Titian.” She moved her shoulders carelessly. It hardly mattered at this point.

“When you spoke of his technique in treating paints for age, you didn’t give the impression he’d only used it on one painting.”

What had given her the idea he wouldn’t catch on to a chance remark like that one? she wondered. The fat’s in the fire in any case, she reminded herself. And she was tired of trying to dance around it. She swirled her drink and red and amber lights glinted against the glass.

“I trust you,” she murmured, surprising them both. “But I don’t want to involve you, Adam, in something you’ll regret knowing about. I really want you to understand that. Once I tell you, it’ll be too late for regrets.”

He didn’t care for the surge of guilt. Who was deceiving whom now? his conscience demanded of him. And who’d pay the price in the end? “Let me worry about that,” he stated, dealing with Kirby now and saving his conscience for later. He swallowed brandy and let the heat ease through him. “How many copies has your father done?”

“Ten—no, eleven,” she corrected, and ignored his quick oath. “Eleven, not counting the Titian, which falls into a different category.”

“A different category,” he murmured. Crossing the room, he splashed more brandy into his glass. He was certain to need it. “How is this different?”

“The Titian was a personal agreement between Harriet and Papa. Merely a way to avoid bad feelings.”

“And the others?” He sat on a fussily elegant Queen Anne chair. “What sort of arrangements did they entail?”

“Each is individual, naturally.” She hesitated as she studied him. If they’d met a month from now, would things have been different? Perhaps. Timing again, she mused and sipped the warming brandy. “To simplify matters, Papa painted them, then sold them to interested parties.”

“Sold them?” He stood because he couldn’t be still. Wishing it had been possible to stop her before she’d begun, he started to pace the room. “Good God, Kirby. Don’t you understand what he’s done? What he’s doing? It’s fraud, plain and simple.”

“I wouldn’t call it fraud,” she countered, giving her brandy a contemplative study. It was, after all, something she’d given a great deal of thought to. “And certainly not plain or simple.”

“What then?” If he’d had a choice, he’d have taken her away then and there—left the Titian, the Rembrandt and her crazy father in the ridiculous castle and taken off. Somewhere. Anywhere.

“Fudging,” Kirby decided with a half smile.

“Fudging,” he repeated in a quiet voice. He’d forgotten she was mad as well. “Fudging. Selling counterfeit paintings for large sums of money to the unsuspecting is fudging? Fixing a parking ticket’s fudging.” He paced another moment, looking for answers. “Damn it, his work’s worth a fortune. Why does he do it?”

“Because he can,” she said simply. She spread one hand, palm out. “Papa’s a genius, Adam. I don’t say that just as his daughter, but as a fellow artist. With the genius comes a bit of eccentricity, perhaps.” Ignoring the sharp sound of derision, she went on. “To Papa, painting’s not just a vocation. Art and life are one, interchangeable.”

“I’ll go along with all that, Kirby, but it doesn’t explain why—”

“Let me finish.” She had both hands on the snifter again, resting it in her lap. “One thing Papa can’t tolerate is greed, in any form. To him greed isn’t just the worship of money, but the hoarding of art. You must know his collection’s constantly being lent out to museums and art schools. Though he has strong feelings that art belongs in the private sector, as well as public institutions, he hates the idea of the wealthy buying up great art for investment purposes.”

“Admirable, Kirby. But he’s made a business out of selling fraudulent paintings.”

“Not a business. He’s never benefited financially.” She set her glass aside and clasped her hands together. “Each prospective buyer of one of Papa’s emulations is first researched thoroughly.” She waited a beat. “By Harriet.”

He nearly sat back down again. “Harriet Merrick’s in on all of this?”

“All of this,” she said mildly, “has been their joint hobby for the last fifteen years.”

“Hobby,” he murmured and did sit.

“Harriet has very good connections, you see. She makes certain the buyer is very wealthy and that he or she lives in a remote location. Two years ago, Papa sold an Arabian sheik a fabulous Renoir. It was one of my favorites. Anyway—” she continued, getting up to freshen Adam’s drink, then her own “—each buyer would also be known for his or her attachment to money, and/or a complete lack of any sense of community spirit or obligation. Through Harriet, they’d learn of Papa’s ownership of a rare, officially undiscovered artwork.”

Taking her own snifter, she returned to her position on the bed while Adam remained silent. “At the first contact, Papa is always uncooperative without being completely dismissive. Gradually he allows himself to be worn down until the deal’s made. The price, naturally, is exorbitant, otherwise the art fanciers would be insulted.” She took a small sip and enjoyed the warm flow of the brandy. “He deals only in cash, so there’s no record. Then the paintings float off to the Himalayas or Siberia or somewhere to be kept in seclusion. Papa then donates the money anonymously to charity.”

Taking a deep breath at the end of her speech, Kirby rewarded herself with more brandy.

“You’re telling me that he goes through all that, all the work, all the intrigue, for nothing?”

“I certainly am not.” Kirby shook her head and leaned forward. “He gets a great deal. He gets satisfaction, Adam. What else is necessary after all?”

He struggled to remember the code of right and wrong. “Kirby, he’s stealing!”

Kirby tilted her head and considered. “Who caught your support and admiration, Adam? The Sheriff of Nottingham or Robin Hood?”

“It’s not the same.” He dragged a hand through his hair as he tried to convince them both. “Damn it, Kirby, it’s not the same.”

“There’s a newly modernized pediatric wing at the local hospital,” she began quietly. “A little town in Appalachia has a new fire engine and modern equipment. Another, in the dust bowl, has a wonderful new library.”

“All right.” He rose again to cut her off. “In fifteen years I’m sure there’s quite a list. Maybe in some strange way it’s commendable, but it’s also illegal, Kirby. It has to stop.”

“I know.” Her simple agreement broke his rhythm. With a half smile, Kirby moved her shoulders. “It was fun while it lasted, but I’ve known for some time it had to stop before something went wrong. Papa has a project in mind for a series of paintings, and I’ve convinced him to begin soon. It should take him about five years and give us a breathing space. But in the meantime, he’s done something I don’t know how to cope with.”

She was about to give him more. Even before she spoke, Adam knew Kirby was going to give him all her trust. He sat in silence, despising himself, as she told him everything she knew about the Rembrandt.

“I imagine part of it’s revenge on Stuart,” she continued, while Adam smoked in silence and she again swirled her brandy without drinking. “Somehow Stuart found out about Papa’s hobby and threatened exposure the night I broke our engagement. Papa told me not to worry, that Stuart wasn’t in a position to make waves. At the time I had no idea about the Rembrandt business.”

She was opening up to him, no questions, no hesitation. He was going to probe, God help him, he hadn’t a choice. “Do you have any idea where he might’ve hidden it?”

“No, but I haven’t looked.” When she looked at him, she wasn’t the sultry gypsy or the exotic princess. She was only a daughter concerned about an adored father. “He’s a good man, Adam. No one knows that better than I. I know there’s a reason for what he’s done, and for the time being, I have to accept that. I don’t expect you to share my loyalty, just my confidence.” He didn’t speak, and she took his silence for agreement. “My main concern now is that Papa’s underestimating Stuart’s ruthlessness.”

“He won’t when you tell him about the scene in the library.”

“I’m not going to tell him. Because,” she continued before Adam could argue, “I have no way of predicting his reaction. You may have noticed, Papa’s a very volatile man.” Tilting her glass, she met his gaze with a quick change of mood. “I don’t want you to worry about all this, Adam. Talk to Papa about it if you like. Have a chat with Harriet, too. Personally, I find it helpful to tuck the whole business away from time to time and let it hibernate. Like a grizzly bear.”

“Grizzly bear.”

She laughed and rose. “Let me get you some more brandy.”

He stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “Have you told me everything?”

With a frown, she brushed at a speck of lint on the bedspread. “Did I mention the Van Gogh?”

“Oh, God.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Somehow he’d hoped there’d be an end without really believing it. “What Van Gogh?”

Kirby pursed her lips. “Not exactly a Van Gogh.”

“Your father?”

“His latest. He’s sold it to Victor Alvarez, a coffee baron in South America.” She smiled as Adam said nothing and stared straight ahead. “The working conditions on his farm are deplorable. Of course, there’s nothing we can do to remedy that, but Papa’s already allocated the purchase price for a school somewhere in the area. It’s his last for several years, Adam,” she added as he sat with his fingers pressed against his eyes. “And really, I think he’ll be pleased that you know all about everything. He’d love to show this painting to you. He’s particularly pleased with it.”

Adam rubbed his hands over his face. It didn’t surprise him to hear himself laughing. “I suppose I should be grateful he hasn’t decided to do the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel.”

“Only after he retires,” Kirby put in cheerfully. “And that’s years off yet.”

Not certain whether she was joking or not, he let it pass. “I’ve got to give all this a little time to settle.”

“Fair enough.”

He wasn’t going back to his room to report to McIntyre, he decided as he set his brandy aside. He wasn’t ready for that yet, so soon after Kirby shared it all with him without questions, without limitations. It wasn’t possible to think about his job, or remember outside obligations, when she looked at him with all her trust. No, he’d find a way, somehow, to justify what he chose to do in the end. Right and wrong weren’t so well defined now.

Looking at her, he needed to give, to soothe, to show her she’d been right to give him that most precious of gifts—unqualified trust. Perhaps he didn’t deserve it, but he needed it. He needed her.

Without a word, he pulled her into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers, no patience, no requests. Before either of them could think, he drew down the zipper at the back of her dress.

She wanted to give to him—anything, everything he wanted. She didn’t want to question him but to forget all the reasons why they shouldn’t be together. It would be so easy to drown in the flood of feeling that was so new and so unique. And yet, anything real, anything strong, was never easy. She’d been taught from an early age that the things that mattered most were the hardest to obtain. Drawing back, she determined to put things back on a level she could deal with.

“You surprise me,” she said with a smile she had to work at.

He pulled her back. She wouldn’t slip away from him this time. “Good.”

“You know, most women expect a seduction, no matter how perfunctory.”

The amusement might be in her eyes, but he could feel the thunder of her heart against his. “Most women aren’t Kirby Fairchild.” If she wanted to play it lightly, he’d do his damnedest to oblige her—as long as the result was the same. “Why don’t we call this my next spontaneous act?” he suggested, and slipped her dress down her shoulders. “I wouldn’t want to bore you with a conventional pursuit.”

How could she resist him? The hands light on her skin, the mouth that smiled and tempted? She’d never hesitated about taking what she wanted…until now. Perhaps the time had come for the chess game to stop at a stalemate, with neither winning all and neither losing anything.

Slowly she smiled and let her dress whisper almost soundlessly to the floor.

He found her a treasure of cool satin and warm flesh. She was as seductive, as alluring, as he’d known she’d be. Once she’d decided to give, there were no restrictions. In a simple gesture she opened her arms to him and they came together.

Soft sighs, low murmurs, skin against skin. Moonlight and the rose tint from the lamp competed, then merged, as the mattress yielded under their weight. Her mouth was hot and open, her arms were strong. As she moved under him, inviting, taunting, he forgot how small she was.

Everything. All. Now. Needs drove them both to take without patience, and yet… Somehow, beneath the passion, under the heat, was a tenderness neither had expected from the other.

He touched. She trembled. She tasted. He throbbed. They wanted until the air seemed to spark with it. With each second both of them found more of what they’d needed, but the findings brought more greed. Take, she seemed to say, then give and give and give.

She had no time to float, only to throb. For him. From him. Her body craved—yearn was too soft a word. She required him, something unique for her. And he, with a kiss, with a touch of his hand, could raise her up to planes she’d only dreamed existed. Here was the completion, here was the delight, she’d hoped for without truly believing in. This was what she’d wanted so desperately in her life but had never found. Here and now. Him. There was and needed to be nothing else.

He edged toward madness. She held him, hard and tight, as they swung toward the edge together. Together was all she could think. Together.

Quiet. It was so quiet there might never have been such a thing as sound. Her hair brushed against his cheek. Her hand, balled into a loose fist, lay over his heart. Adam lay in the silence and hurt as he’d never expected to hurt.

How had he let it happen? Control? What had made him think he had control when it came to Kirby? Somehow she’d wrapped herself around him, body and mind, while he’d been pretending he’d known exactly what he’d been doing.

He’d come to do a job, he reminded himself. He still had to do it, no matter what had passed between them. Could he go on with what he’d come to do, and protect her? Was it possible to split himself in two when his road had always been so straight? He wasn’t certain of anything now, but the tug-of-war he’d lose whichever way the game ended. He had to think, create the distance he needed to do so. Better for both of them if he started now.

But when he shifted away, she held him tighter. Kirby lifted her head so that moonlight caught in her eyes and mesmerized him. “Don’t go,” she murmured. “Stay and sleep with me. I don’t want it to end yet.”

He couldn’t resist her now. Perhaps he never would. Saying nothing, Adam drew her close again and closed his eyes. For a little while he could pretend tomorrow would take care of itself.

Sunlight woke her, but Kirby tried to ignore it by piling pillows on top of her head. It didn’t work for long. Resigned, she tossed them on the floor and lay quietly, alone.

She hadn’t heard Adam leave, nor had she expected him to stay until morning. As it was, she was grateful to have woken alone. Now she could think.

How was it she’d given her complete trust to a man she hardly knew? No answer. Why hadn’t she evaded his questions, skirted her way around certain facts as she was well capable of doing? No answer.

It wasn’t true. Kirby closed her eyes a moment, knowing she’d been more honest with Adam than she was being with herself. She knew the answer.

She’d given him more than she’d ever given to any man. It had been more than a physical alliance, more than a few hours of pleasure in the night. The essence of self had been shared with him. There was no taking it back now, even if both of them would have preferred it.

Unknowingly, he’d taken her innocence. Emotional virginity was just as real, just as vital, as the physical. And it was just as impossible to reclaim. She, thinking of the night, knew that she had no desire to go back. Now they would both move forward to whatever waited for them.

Rising, she prepared to face the day.

Upstairs in Fairchild’s studio, Adam studied the rural landscape. He could feel the agitation and drama. The serene scene leaped with frantic life. Vivid, real, disturbing. Its creator stood beside him, not the Vincent van Gogh who Adam would’ve sworn had wielded the brush and pallette, but Philip Fairchild.

“It’s magnificent,” Adam murmured. The compliment was out before he could stop it.

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fond of it.” Fairchild spoke as a man who’d long before accepted his own superiority and the responsibility that came with it.

“Mr. Fairchild—”

“Philip,” Fairchild interrupted genially. “No reason for formality between us.”

Somehow Adam felt even the casual intimacy could complicate an already hopelessly tangled situation. “Philip,” he began again, “this is fraud. Your motives might be sterling, but the result remains fraud.”

“Absolutely.” Fairchild bobbed his head in agreement. “Fraud, misrepresentation, a bald-faced lie without a doubt.” He lifted his arms and let them fall. “I’m stripped of defenses.”

Like hell, Adam thought grimly. Unless he was very much mistaken, he was about to be treated to the biggest bag of pure, classic bull on record.

“Adam…” Fairchild drew out the name and steepled his hands. “You’re an astute man, a rational man. I pride myself on being a good judge of character.” As if he were very old and frail, Fairchild lowered himself into a chair. “Then, again, you’re imaginative and open-minded—that shows in your work.”

Adam reached for the coffee Cards had brought up. “So?”

“Your help with our little problem last night—and your skill in turning my own plot against me—leads me to believe you have the ability to adapt to what some might term the unusual.”

“Some might.”

“Now.” Accepting the cup Adam handed him, Fairchild leaned back. “You tell me Kirby filled you in on everything. Odd, but we’ll leave that for now.” He’d already drawn his own conclusions there and found them to his liking. He wasn’t about to lose on other points. “After what you’ve been told, can you find one iota of selfishness in my enterprise? Can you see my motive as anything but humanitarian?” On a roll, Fairchild set down his cup and let his hands fall between his bony knees. “Small, sick children, and those less fortunate than ourselves, have benefited from my hobby. Not one dollar have I kept, not a dollar, a franc, a sou. Never, never have I asked for credit or honor that, naturally, society would be anxious to bestow on me.”

“You haven’t asked for the jail sentence they’d bestow on you, either.”

Fairchild tilted his head in acknowledgment but didn’t miss a beat. “It’s my gift to mankind, Adam. My payment for the talent awarded to me by a higher power. These hands…” He held them up, narrow, gaunt and oddly beautiful. “These hands hold a skill I’m obliged to pay for in my own way. This I’ve done.” Bowing his head, Fairchild dropped them into his lap. “However, if you must condemn me, I understand.”

Fairchild looked, Adam mused, like a stalwart Christian faced by pagan lions: firm in his belief, resigned to his fate. “One day,” Adam murmured, “your halo’s going to slip and strangle you.”

“A possibility.” Grinning, he lifted his head again. “But in the meantime, we enjoy what we can. Let’s have one of those Danishes, my boy.”

Wordlessly, Adam handed him the tray. “Have you considered the repercussions to Kirby if your…hobby is discovered?”

“Ah.” Fairchild swallowed pastry. “A straight shot to my Achilles’ heel. Naturally both of us know that Kirby can meet any obstacle and find a way over, around or through it.” He bit off more Danish, enjoying the tang of raspberry. “Still, merely by being, Kirby demands emotion of one kind or another. You’d agree?”

Adam thought of the night, and what it had changed in him. “Yes.”

The brief, concise answer was exactly what Fairchild had expected. “I’m taking a hiatus from this business for various reasons, the first of which is Kirby’s position.”

“And her position as concerns the Merrick Rembrandt?”

“A different kettle of fish.” Fairchild dusted his fingers on a napkin and considered another pastry. “I’d like to share the ins and outs of that business with you, Adam, but I’m not free to just yet.” He smiled and gazed over Adam’s head. “One could say I’ve involved Kirby figuratively, but until things are resolved, she’s a minor player in the game.”

“Are you casting as well as directing this performance, Papa?” Kirby walked into the room and picked up the Danish Fairchild had been eyeing. “Did you sleep well, darling?”

“Like a rock, brat,” he muttered, remembering the confusion of waking up on the sofa under her cape. He didn’t care to be outwitted, but was a man who acknowledged a quick mind. “I’m told your evening activities went well.”

“The deed’s done.” She glanced at Adam before resting her hands on her father’s shoulders. The bond was there, unbreakable. “Maybe I should leave the two of you alone for a while. Adam has a way of digging out information. You might tell him what you won’t tell me.”

“All in good time.” He patted her hands. “I’m devoting the morning to my hawk.” Rising, he went to uncover his clay, an obvious dismissal. “You might give Harriet a call and tell her all’s well before you two amuse yourselves.”

Kirby held out her hand. “Have you any amusements in mind, Adam?”

“As a matter of fact…” He went with the impulse and kissed her as her father watched and speculated. “I had a session of oils and canvas in mind. You’ll have to change.”

“If that’s the best you can do. Two hours only,” she warned as they walked from the room. “Otherwise my rates go up. I have my own work, you know.”

“Three.”

“Two and a half.” She paused at the second-floor landing.

“You looked like a child this morning,” he murmured, and touched her cheek. “I couldn’t bring myself to wake you.” He left his hand there only a moment, then moved away. “I’ll meet you upstairs.”

Kirby went to her room and tossed the red dress on the bed. While she undressed with one hand, she dialed the phone with the other.

“Harriet, it’s Kirby to set your mind at rest.”

“Clever child. Was there any trouble?”

“No.” She wiggled out of her jeans. “We managed.”

“We? Did Philip go with you?”

“Papa was snoozing on the couch after Adam switched drinks.”

“Oh, dear.” Amused, Harriet settled back. “Was he very angry?”

“Papa or Adam?” Kirby countered, then shrugged. “No matter, in the end they were both very reasonable. Adam was a great help.”

“The test isn’t for a half hour. Give me the details.”

Struggling in and out of clothes, Kirby told her everything.

“Marvelous!” Pleased with the drama, Harriet beamed at the phone. “I wish I’d done it. I’ll have to get to know your Adam better and find some spectacular way of showing him my gratitude. Do you think he’d like the crocodile teeth?”

“Nothing would please him more.”

“Kirby, you know how grateful I am to you.” Harriet’s voice was abruptly serious and maternal. “The situation’s awkward to say the least.”

“The contract’s binding?”

“Yes.” She let out a sigh at the thought of losing the Titian. “My fault. I should’ve explained to Stuart that the painting wasn’t to be sold. Philip must be furious with me.”

“You can handle him. You always do.”

“Yes, yes. Lord knows what I’d do without you, though. Poor Melly just can’t understand me as you do.”

“She’s just made differently.” Kirby stared down at the floor and tried not to think about the Rembrandt and the guilt it brought her. “Come to dinner tonight, Harriet, you and Melanie.”

“Oh, I’d love to, darling, but I’ve a meeting. Tomorrow?”

“Fine. Shall I call Melly, or will you speak with her?”

“I’ll see her this afternoon. Take care and do thank Adam for me. Damn shame I’m too old to give him anything but crocodile teeth.”

With a laugh, Kirby hung up.

The sun swept over her dress, shooting it with flames or darkening it to blood. It glinted from the rings at her ears, the bracelets on her arms. Knowing the light was as perfect as it would ever be, Adam worked feverishly.

He was an artist of subtle details, one who used light and shadow for mood. In his portraits he strove for an inner reality, the truth beneath the surface of the model. In Kirby he saw the essence of woman—power and frailty and that elusive, mystical quality of sex. Aloof, alluring. She was both. Now, more than ever, he understood it.

Hours passed without him giving them a thought. His model, however, had a different frame of mind.

“Adam, if you’ll consult your watch, you’ll see I’ve given you more than the allotted time already.”

He ignored her and continued to paint.

“I can’t stand here another moment.” She let her arms drop from their posed position, then wiggled them from the shoulders down. “As it is, I’ll probably never pole-vault again.”

“I can work on the background awhile,” he muttered. “I need another three hours in the morning. The light’s best then.”

Kirby bit off a retort. Rudeness was something to be expected when an artist was taken over by his art. Stretching her muscles, she went to look over his shoulder.

“You’ve a good hand with light,” she decided as she studied the emerging painting. “It’s very flattering, certainly, rather fiery and defiant with the colors you’ve chosen.” She looked carefully at the vague lines of her face, the tints and hues he was using to create her on canvas. “Still, there’s a fragility here I don’t quite understand.”

“Maybe I know you better than you know yourself.” He never looked at her, but continued to paint. In not looking, he didn’t see the stunned expression or the gradual acceptance.

Linking her hands together, Kirby wandered away. She’d have to do it quickly, she decided. It needed to be done, to be said. “Adam…”

An inarticulate mutter. His back remained to her.

Kirby took a deep breath. “I love you.”

“Umm-hmm.”

Some women might’ve been crushed. Others would’ve been furious. Kirby laughed and tossed back her hair. Life was never what you expected. “Adam, I’d like just a moment of your attention.” Though she continued to smile, her knuckles turned white. “I’m in love with you.”

It got through on the second try. His brush, tipped in coral, stopped in midair. Very slowly, he set it down and turned. She was looking at him, the half smile on her face, her hands linked together so tightly they hurt. She hadn’t expected a response, nor would she demand one.

“I don’t tell you that to put pressure on you, or to embarrass you.” Nerves showed only briefly as she moistened her lips. “It’s just that I think you have a right to know.” Her words began to spill out quickly. “We haven’t known each other for long, I know, but I suppose it just happens this way sometimes. I couldn’t do anything about it. I don’t expect anything from you, permanently or temporarily.” When he still didn’t speak, she felt a jolt of panic she didn’t know how to deal with. Had she ruined it? Now the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve got to change,” she said lightly. “You’ve made me miss lunch as it is.”

She was nearly to the door before he stopped her. As he took her shoulders, he felt her tense. And as he felt it, he understood she’d given him everything that was in her heart. Something he knew instinctively had never been given to any other man.

“Kirby, you’re the most exceptional woman I’ve ever known.”

“Yes, someone’s always pointing that out.” She had to get through the door and quickly. “Are you coming down, or shall I have a tray sent up?”

He lowered his head to the top of hers and wondered how things had happened so quickly, so finally. “How many people could make such a simple and unselfish declaration of love, then walk away without asking for anything? From the beginning you haven’t done one thing I’d’ve expected.” He brushed his lips over her hair, lightly, so that she hardly felt it. “Don’t I get a chance to say anything?”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.” Turning her, he framed her face with his hands. “And I’d rather have my hands on you when I tell you I love you.”

She stood very straight and spoke very calmly. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Adam. I couldn’t bear it.”

He started to say all the sweet, romantic things a woman wanted to hear when love was declared. All the traditional, normal words a man offered when he offered himself. They weren’t for Kirby. Instead he lifted a brow. “If you hadn’t counted on being loved back, you’ll have to adjust.”

She waited a moment because she had to be certain. She’d take the risk, take any risk, if she was certain. As she looked into his eyes, she began to smile. The tension in her shoulders vanished. “You’ve brought it on yourself.”

“Yeah. I guess I have to live with it.”

The smile faded as she pressed against him. “Oh, God, Adam, I need you. You’ve no idea how much.”

He held her just as tightly, just as desperately. “Yes, I do.”