Читать книгу The Art Of Deception: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down - Нора Робертс - Страница 8

Normalcy. Tubes of paint were scattered everywhere, brushes stood in jars. The scent of oil and turpentine hung in the air. This Adam understood—the debris and the sensuality of art.

The room was rounded with arching windows and a lofty ceiling. The floor might have been beautiful at one time, but now the wood was dull and splattered and smeared with paints and stains. Canvases were in the corners, against the walls, stacked on the floor.

Kirby gave the room a swift, thorough study. When she saw all was as it should be, the tension eased from her shoulders. Moving across the room, she went to her father.

He sat, motionless and unblinking, staring down at a partially formed mound of clay. Without speaking, Kirby walked around the worktable, scrutinizing the clay from all angles. Fairchild’s eyes remained riveted on his work. After a few moments, Kirby straightened, rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and pursed her lips.

“Mmm.”

“That’s only your opinion,” Fairchild snapped.

“It certainly is.” For a moment, she nibbled on her thumbnail. “You’re entitled to another. Adam, come have a look.”

He sent her a killing glance that caused her to grin. Trapped by manners, he crossed the studio and looked down at the clay.

It was, he supposed, an adequate attempt—a partially formed hawk, talons exposed, beak just parted. The power, the life, that sung in his paints, and in his daughter’s sculptures, just wasn’t there. In vain, Adam searched for a way out.

“Hmm,” he began, only to have Kirby pounce on the syllable.

“There, he agrees with me.” Kirby patted her father’s head and looked smug.

“What does he know?” Fairchild demanded. “He’s a painter.”

“And so, darling Papa, are you. A brilliant one.”

He struggled not to be pleased and poked a finger into the clay. “Soon, you hateful brat, I’ll be a brilliant sculptor as well.”

“I’ll get you some Play-Doh for your birthday,” she offered, then let out a shriek as Fairchild grabbed her ear and twisted. “Fiend.” With a sniff, she rubbed at the lobe.

“Mind your tongue or I’ll make a Van Gogh of you.”

As Adam watched, the little man cackled; Kirby, however, froze—face, shoulders, hands. The fluidity he’d noticed in her even when she was still vanished. It wasn’t annoyance, he thought, but…fear? Not of Fairchild. Kirby, he was certain, would never be afraid of a man, particularly her father. For Fairchild was more feasible, and just as baffling.

She recovered quickly enough and tilted her chin. “I’m going to show Adam my studio. He can settle in.”

“Good, good.” Because he recognized the edge to her voice, Fairchild patted her hand. “Damn pretty girl, isn’t she, Adam?”

“Yes, she is.”

As Kirby heaved a gusty sigh, Fairchild patted her hand again. The clay on his smeared onto hers. “See, my sweet, aren’t you grateful for those braces now?”

“Papa.” With a reluctant grin, Kirby laid her cheek against his balding head. “I never wore braces.”

“Of course not. You inherited your teeth from me.” He gave Adam a flashing smile and a wink. “Come back when you’ve got settled, Adam. I need some masculine company.” He pinched Kirby’s cheek lightly. “And don’t think Adam’s going to sniff around your ankles like Rick Potts.”

“Adam’s nothing like Rick,” Kirby murmured as she picked up a rag and wiped the traces of clay from her hands. “Rick is sweet.”

“She inherited her manners from the milkman,” Fairchild observed.

She shot a look at Adam. “I’m sure Adam can be sweet, too.” But there was no confidence in her voice. “Rick’s forte is watercolor. He’s the sort of man women want to mother. I’m afraid he stutters a bit when he gets excited.”

“He’s madly in love with our little Kirby.” Fairchild would’ve cackled again, but for the look his daughter sent him.

“He just thinks he is. I don’t encourage him.”

“What about the clinch I happened in on in the library?” Pleased with himself, Fairchild turned back to Adam. “I ask you, when a man’s glasses are steamed, isn’t there a reason for it?”

“Invariably.” He liked them, damn it, whether they were harmless lunatics or something more than harmless. He liked them both.

“You know very well that was totally one-sided.” Barely shifting her stance, she became suddenly regal and dignified. “Rick lost control, temporarily. Like blowing a fuse, I suppose.” She brushed at the sleeve of her sweater. “Now that’s quite enough on the subject.”

“He’s coming to stay for a few days next week.” Fairchild dropped the bombshell as Kirby walked to the door. To her credit, she barely broke stride. Adam wondered if he was watching a well-plotted game of chess or a wild version of Chinese checkers.

“Very well,” Kirby said coolly. “I’ll tell Rick that Adam and I are lovers and that Adam’s viciously jealous, and keeps a stiletto in his left sock.”

“Good God,” Adam murmured as Kirby swept out of the door. “She’ll do it, too.”

“You can bank on it,” Fairchild agreed, without disguising the glee in his voice. He loved confusion. A man of sixty was entitled to create as much as he possibly could.

The structure of the second tower studio was identical to the first. Only the contents differed. In addition to paints and brushes and canvases, there were knives, chisels and mallets. There were slabs of limestone and marble and lumps of wood. Adam’s equipment was the only spot of order in the room. Cards had stacked his gear personally.

A long wooden table was cluttered with tools, wood shavings, rags and a crumpled ball of material that might’ve been a paint smock. In a corner was a high-tech stereo component system. An ancient gas heater was set into one wall with an empty easel in front of it.

As with Fairchild’s tower, Adam understood this kind of chaos. The room was drenched with sun. It was quiet, spacious and instantly appealing.

“There’s plenty of room,” Kirby told him with a sweeping gesture. “Set up where you’re comfortable. I don’t imagine we’ll get in each other’s way,” she said doubtfully, then shrugged. She had to make the best of it. Better for him to be here, in her way, than sharing her father’s studio with the Van Gogh. “Are you temperamental?”

“I wouldn’t say so,” Adam answered absently as he began to unpack his equipment. “Others might. And you?”

“Oh, yes.” Kirby plopped down behind the worktable and lifted a piece of wood. “I have tantrums and fits of melancholia. I hope it won’t bother you.” He turned to answer, but she was staring down at the wood in her hands, as if searching for something hidden inside. “I’m doing my emotions now. I can’t be held responsible.”

Curious, Adam left his unpacking to walk to the shelf behind her. On it were a dozen pieces in various stages. He chose a carved piece of fruitwood that had been polished. “Emotions,” he murmured, running his fingers over the wood.

“Yes, that’s—”

“Grief,” he supplied. He could see the anguish, feel the pain.

“Yes.” She wasn’t sure if it pleased her or not to have him so in tune—particularly with that one piece that had cost her so much. “I’ve done Joy and Doubt as well. I thought to save Passion for last.” She spread her hands under the wood she held and brought it to eye level. “This is to be Anger.” As if to annoy it, she tapped the wood with her fingers. “One of the seven deadly sins, though I’ve always thought it mislabeled. We need anger.”

He saw the change in her eyes as she stared into the wood. Secrets, he thought. She was riddled with them. Yet as she sat, the sun pouring around her, the unformed wood held aloft in her hands, she seemed to be utterly, utterly open, completely readable, washed with emotion. Even as he began to see it, she shifted and broke the mood. Her smile when she looked up at him was teasing.

“Since I’m doing Anger, you’ll have to tolerate a few bouts of temper.”

“I’ll try to be objective.”

Kirby grinned, liking the gloss of politeness over the sarcasm. “I bet you have bundles of objectivity.”

“No more than my share.”

“You can have mine, too, if you like. It’s very small.” Still moving the wood in her hands, she glanced toward his equipment. “Are you working on anything?”

“I was.” He walked around to stand in front of her. “I’ve something else in mind now. I want to paint you.”

Her gaze shifted from the wood in her hands to his face. With some puzzlement, he saw her eyes were wary. “Why?”

He took a step closer and closed his hand over her chin. Kirby sat passively as he examined her from different angles. But she felt his fingers, each individual finger, as it lay on her skin. Soft skin, and Adam didn’t bother to resist the urge to run his thumb over her cheek. The bones seemed fragile under his hands, but her eyes were steady and direct.

“Because,” he said at length,” your face is fascinating. I want to paint that, the translucence, and your sexuality.”

Her mouth heated under the careless brush of his fingers. Her hands tightened on the fruitwood, but her voice was even. “And if I said no?”

That was another thing that intrigued him, the trace of hauteur she used sparingly—and very successfully. She’d bring men to their knees with that look, he thought. Deliberately he leaned over and kissed her. He felt her stiffen, resist, then remain still. She was, in her own way, in her own defense, absorbing the feelings he brought to her. Her knuckles had whitened on the wood, but he didn’t see. When he lifted his head, all Adam saw was the deep, pure gray of her eyes.

“I’d paint you anyway,” he murmured. He left the room, giving them both time to think about it.

She did think about it. For nearly thirty minutes, Kirby sat perfectly still and let her mind work. It was a curious part of her nature that such a vibrant, restless woman could have such a capacity for stillness. When it was necessary, Kirby could do absolutely nothing while she thought through problems and looked for answers. Adam made it necessary.

He stirred something in her that she’d never felt before. Kirby believed that one of the most precious things in life was the original and the fresh. This time, however, she wondered if she should skirt around it.

She appreciated a man who took the satisfaction of his own desires for granted, just as she did. Nor was she averse to pitting herself against him. But… She couldn’t quite get past the but in Adam’s case.

It might be safer—smarter, she amended—if she concentrated on the awkwardness of Adam’s presence with respect to the Van Gogh and her father’s hobby. The attraction she felt was ill-timed. She touched her tongue to her top lip and thought she could taste him. Ill-timed, she thought again. And inconvenient.

Her father had better be prudent, she thought, then immediately sighed. Calling Philip Fairchild prudent was like calling Huck Finn studious. The blasted, brilliant Van Gogh was going to have to make a speedy exit. And the Titian, she remembered, gnawing on her lip. She still had to handle that.

Adam was huddled with her father, and there was nothing she could do at the moment. Just a few more days, she reminded herself. There’d be nothing more to worry about. The smile crept back to her mouth. The rest of Adam’s visit might be fun. She thought of him, the serious brown eyes, the strong, sober mouth.

Dangerous fun, she conceded. But then, what was life without a bit of danger? Still smiling, she picked up her tools.

She worked in silence, in total concentration. Adam, her father, the Van Gogh were forgotten. The wood in her hand was the center of the universe. There was life there; she could feel it. It only waited for her to find the key to release it. She would find it, and the soaring satisfaction that went hand in hand with the discovery.

Painting had never given her that. She’d played at it, enjoyed it, but she’d never possessed it. She’d never been possessed by it. Art was a lover that demanded complete allegiance. Kirby understood that.

As she worked, the wood seemed to take a tentative breath. She felt suddenly, clearly, the temper she sought pushing against the confinement. Nearly—nearly free.

At the sound of her name, she jerked her head up. “Bloody murder!”

“Kirby, I’m so sorry.”

“Melanie.” She swallowed the abuse, barely. “I didn’t hear you come up.” Though she set down her tools, she continued to hold the wood. She couldn’t lose it now. “Come in. I won’t shout at you.”

“I’m sure you should.” Melanie hesitated at the doorway. “I’m disturbing you.”

“Yes, you are, but I forgive you. How was New York?” Kirby gestured to a chair as she smiled at her oldest friend.

Pale blond hair was elegantly styled around a heart-shaped face. Cheekbones, more prominent than Kirby’s, were tinted expertly. The Cupid’s-bow mouth was carefully glossed in deep rose. Kirby decided, as she did regularly, that Melanie Burgess had the most perfect profile ever created.

“You look wonderful, Melly. Did you have fun?”

Melanie wrinkled her nose as she brushed off the seat of her chair. “Business. But my spring designs were well received.”

Kirby brought up her legs and crossed them under her. “I’ll never understand how you can decide in August what we should be wearing next April.” She was losing the power of the wood. Telling herself it would come back, she set it on the table, within reach. “Have you done something nasty to the hemlines again?”

“You never pay any attention anyway.” She gave Kirby’s sweater a look of despair.

“I like to think of my wardrobe as timeless rather than trendy.” She grinned, knowing which buttons to push. “This sweater’s barely twelve years old.”

“And looks every day of it.” Knowing the game and Kirby’s skill, Melanie switched tactics. “I ran into Ellen Parker at 21.”

“Did you?” After lacing her hands, Kirby rested her chin on them. She never considered gossiping rude, particularly if it was interesting. “I haven’t seen her for months. Is she still spouting French when she wants to be confidential?”

“You won’t believe it.” Melanie shuddered as she pulled a long, slender cigarette from an enameled case. “I didn’t believe it myself until I saw it with my own eyes. Jerry told me. You remember Jerry Turner, don’t you?”

“Designs women’s underwear.”

“Intimate apparel,” Melanie corrected with a sigh. “Really, Kirby.”

“Whatever. I appreciate nice underwear. So what did he tell you?”

Melanie pulled out a monogrammed lighter and flicked it on. She took a delicate puff. “He told me that Ellen was having an affair.”

“There’s news,” Kirby returned dryly. With a yawn, she stretched her arms to the ceiling and relieved the stiffness in her shoulder blades. “Is this number two hundred and three, or have I missed one?”

“But, Kirby—” Melanie tapped her cigarette for emphasis as she leaned forward “—she’s having this one with her son’s orthodontist.”

It was the sound of Kirby’s laughter that caused Adam to pause on his way up the tower steps. It rang against the stone walls, rich, real and arousing. He stood as it echoed and faded. Moving quietly, he continued up.

“Kirby, really. An orthodontist.” Even knowing Kirby as well as she did, Melanie was stunned by her reaction. “It’s so—so middle-class.”

“Oh, Melanie, you’re such a wonderful snob.” She smothered another chuckle as Melanie gave an indignant huff. When Kirby smiled, it was irresistible. “It’s perfectly acceptable for Ellen to have any number of affairs, as long as she keeps her choice socially prominent but an orthodontist goes beyond good taste?”

“It’s not acceptable, of course,” Melanie muttered, finding herself caught in the trap of Kirby’s logic. “But if one is discreet, and…”

“Selective?” Kirby supplied good-naturedly. “Actually, it is rather nasty. Here’s Ellen carrying on with her son’s orthodontist, while poor Harold shells out a fortune for the kid’s overbite. Where’s the justice?”

“You say the most astonishing things.”

“Orthodonture work is frightfully expensive.”

With an exasperated sigh, Melanie tried another change of subject. “How’s Stuart?”

Though he’d been about to enter, Adam stopped in the doorway and kept his silence. Kirby’s smile had vanished. The eyes that had been alive with humor were frigid. Something hard, strong and unpleasant came into them. Seeing the change, Adam realized she’d make a formidable enemy. There was grit behind the careless wit, the raw sexuality and the eccentric-rich-girl polish. He wouldn’t forget it.

“Stuart,” Kirby said in a brittle voice. “I really wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, dear.” At the arctic tone, Melanie caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “Have you two had a row?”

“A row?” The smile remained unpleasant. “One might put it that way.” Something flared—the temper she’d been prodding out of the wood. With an effort, Kirby shrugged it aside. “As soon as I’d agreed to marry him, I knew I’d made a mistake. I should’ve dealt with it right away.”

“You’d told me you were having doubts.” After stubbing out her cigarette, Melanie leaned forward to take Kirby’s hands. “I thought it was nerves. You’d never let any relationship get as far as an engagement before.”

“It was an error in judgment.” No, she’d never let a relationship get as far as an engagement. Engagements equaled commitment. Commitments were a lock, perhaps the only lock, Kirby considered sacred. “I corrected it.”

“And Stuart? I suppose he was furious.”

The smile that came back to Kirby’s lips held no humor. “He gave me the perfect escape hatch. You know he’d been pressuring me to set a date?”

“And I know that you’d been putting him off.”

“Thank God,” Kirby murmured. “In any case, I’d finally drummed up the courage to renege. I think it was the first time in my life I’ve felt genuine guilt.” Moving her shoulders restlessly, she picked up the wood again. It helped to steady her, helped her to concentrate on temper. “I went by his place, unannounced. It was a now-or-never sort of gesture. I should’ve seen what was up as soon as he answered the door, but I was already into my neat little speech when I noticed a few—let’s say articles of intimate apparel tossed around the room.”

“Oh, Kirby.”

Letting out a long breath, Kirby went on. “That part of it was my fault, I suppose. I wouldn’t sleep with him. There was just no driving urge to be intimate with him. No…” She searched for a word. “Heat,” she decided, for lack of anything better. “I guess that’s why I knew I’d never marry him. But, I was faithful.” The fury whipped through her again. “I was faithful, Melly.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Distress vibrated in her voice. “I’m so sorry, Kirby.”

Kirby shook her head at the sympathy. She never looked for it. “I wouldn’t have been so angry if he hadn’t stood there, telling me how much he loved me, when he had another woman keeping the sheets warm. I found it humiliating.”

“You have nothing to be humiliated about,” Melanie returned with some heat. “He was a fool.”

“Perhaps. It would’ve been bad enough if we’d stuck to the point, but we got off the track of love and fidelity. Things got nasty.”

Her voice trailed off. Her eyes clouded over. It was time for secrets again. “I found out quite a bit that night,” she murmured. “I’ve never thought of myself as a fool, but it seems I’d been one.”

Again, Melanie reached for her hand. “It must have been a dreadful shock to learn Stuart was unfaithful even before you were married.”

“What?” Blinking, Kirby brought herself back. “Oh, that. Yes, that, too.”

“Too? What else?”

“Nothing.” With a shake of her head, Kirby swept it all aside. “It’s all dead and buried now.”

“I feel terrible. Damn it, I introduced you.”

“Perhaps you should shave your head in restitution, but I’d advise you to forget it.”

“Can you?”

Kirby’s lips curved up, her brow lifted. “Tell me, Melly, do you still hold André Fayette against me?”

Melanie folded her hands primly. “It’s been five years.”

“Six, but who’s counting?” Grinning, Kirby leaned forward. “Besides, who expects an oversexed French art student to have any taste?”

Melanie’s pretty mouth pouted. “He was very attractive.”

“But base.” Kirby struggled with a new grin. “No class, Melly. You should thank me for luring him away, however unintentionally.”

Deciding it was time to make his presence known, Adam stepped inside. Kirby glanced up and smiled without a trace of the ice or the fury. “Hello, Adam. Did you have a nice chat with Papa?”

“Yes.”

Melanie, he decided as he glanced in her direction, was even more stunning at close quarters. Classic face, classic figure draped in a pale rose dress cut with style and simplicity. “Am I interrupting?”

“Just gossip. Melanie Burgess, Adam Haines. Adam’s our guest for a few weeks.”

Adam accepted the slim rose-tipped hand. It was soft and pampered, without the slight ridge of callus that Kirby’s had just under the fingers. He wondered what had happened in the past twenty-four hours to make him prefer the untidy artist to the perfectly groomed woman smiling up at him. Maybe he was coming down with something.

“The Adam Haines?” Melanie’s smile warmed. She knew of him, the irreproachable lineage and education. “Of course you are,” she continued before he could comment. “This place attracts artists like a magnet. I have one of your paintings.”

“Do you?” Adam lit her cigarette, then one of his own. “Which one?”

“A Study in Blue.” Melanie tilted her face to smile into his eyes, a neat little feminine trick she’d learned soon after she’d learned to walk.

From across the table, Kirby studied them both. Two extraordinary faces, she decided. The tips of her fingers itched to capture Adam in bronze. A year before, she’d done Melanie in ivory—smooth, cool and perfect. With Adam, she’d strive for the undercurrents.

“I wanted the painting because it was so strong,” Melanie continued. “But I nearly let it go because it made me sad. You remember, Kirby. You were there.”

“Yes, I remember.” When she looked up at him, her eyes were candid and amused, without the traces of flirtation that flitted in Melanie’s. “I was afraid she’d break down and disgrace herself, so I threatened to buy it myself. Papa was furious that I didn’t.”

“Uncle Philip could practically stock the Louvre already,” Melanie said with a casual shrug.

“Some people collect stamps,” Kirby returned, then smiled again. “The still life in my room is Melanie’s work, Adam. We studied together in France.”

“No, don’t ask,” Melanie said quickly, holding up her hand. “I’m not an artist. I’m a designer who dabbles.”

“Only because you refuse to dig your toes in.”

Melanie inclined her head, but didn’t agree or refute. “I must go. Tell Uncle Philip I said hello. I won’t risk disturbing him, as well.”

“Stay for lunch, Melly. We haven’t seen you in two months.”

“Another time.” She rose with the grace of one who’d been taught to sit and stand and walk. Adam stood with her, catching the drift of Chanel. “I’ll see you this weekend at the party.” With another smile, she offered Adam her hand. “You’ll come, too, won’t you?”

“I’d like that.”

“Wonderful.” Snapping open her bag, Melanie drew out thin leather gloves. “Nine o’clock, Kirby. Don’t forget. Oh!” On her way to the door, she stopped, whirling back. “Oh, God, the invitations were sent out before I… Kirby, Stuart’s going to be there.”

“I won’t pack my derringer, Melly.” She laughed, but it wasn’t quite as rich or quite as free. “You look as though someone’s just spilled caviar on your Saint Laurent. Don’t worry about it.” She paused, and the chill passed quickly in and out of her eyes. “I promise you, I won’t.”

“If you’re sure…” Melanie frowned. It was, however, not possible to discuss such a thing in depth in front of a guest. “As long as you won’t be uncomfortable.”

“I won’t be the one who suffers discomfort.” The careless arrogance was back.

“Saturday, then.” Melanie gave Adam a final smile before she slipped from the room.

“A beautiful woman,” Adam commented, coming back to the table.

“Yes, exceptional.” The simple agreement had no undertones of envy or spite.

“How do two women, two exceptional women, of totally different types, remain friends?”

“By not attempting to change one another.” She picked up the wood again and began to roll it around in her hands. “I overlook what I see as Melanie’s faults, and she overlooks mine.” She saw the pad and pencil in his hand and lifted a brow. “What’re you doing?”