Читать книгу Best Of Nora Roberts Books 1-6 - Нора Робертс - Страница 11

In the morning the sky was gray and the rain sluggish. Adam was tempted to roll over, close his eyes and pretend he was in his own well-organized home, where a housekeeper tended to the basics and there wasn’t a gargoyle in sight. Partly from curiosity, partly from courage, he rose and prepared to deal with the day.

From what he’d overheard the night before, he didn’t count on learning much from Kirby. Apparently she’d known less about the matter of the Rembrandt than he. Adam was equally sure that no matter how much he prodded and poked, Fairchild would let nothing slip. He might look innocent and harmless, but he was as shrewd as they came. And potentially dangerous, Adam mused, remembering how cleanly Fairchild had dealt with Hiller.

The best course of action remained the nightly searches with the aid of the passages. The days he determined for his own sanity to spend painting.

I shouldn’t be here in the first place, Adam told himself as he stood in the shower under a strong cold spray of water. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Mac tantalized me with the Rembrandt, I wouldn’t be here. The last time, he promised himself as he toweled off. The very last time.

Once the Fairchild hassle was over, painting would not only be his first order of business, it would be his only business.

Dressed, and content with the idea of ending his secondary career in a few more weeks, Adam walked down the hallway thinking of coffee. Kirby’s door was wide open. As he passed, he glanced in. Frowning, he stopped, walked back and stood in the doorway.

“Good morning, Adam. Isn’t it a lovely day?” She smiled, upside down, as she stood on her head in the corner.

Deliberately he glanced at the window to make sure he was on solid ground. “It’s raining.”

“Don’t you like the rain? I do.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Look at it this way, there must be dozens of places where the sun’s shining. It’s all relative. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.” Even in her current position, Adam could see that her face glowed, showing no signs of a restless night.

“Come in and wait a minute, I’ll go down to breakfast with you.”

He walked over to stand directly in front of her. “Why are you standing on your head?”

“It’s a theory of mine.” She crossed her ankles against the wall while her hair pooled onto the carpet. “Could you sit down a minute? It’s hard for me to talk to you when your head’s up there and mine’s down here.”

Knowing he’d regret it, Adam crouched. Her sweater had slipped up, showing a thin line of smooth midriff.

“Thanks. My theory is that all night I’ve been horizontal, and most of the day I’ll be right side up. So…” Somehow she managed to shrug. “I stand on my head in the morning and before bed. That way the blood can slosh around a bit.”

Adam rubbed his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I think I understand. That terrifies me.”

“You should try it.”

“I’ll just let my blood stagnate, thanks.”

“Suit yourself. You’d better stand back, I’m coming up.”

She dropped her feet and righted herself with a quick athletic agility that surprised him. Facing him, she pushed at the hair that floated into her eyes. As she tossed it back she gave him a long, slow smile.

“Your face is red,” he murmured, more in his own defense than for any other reason.

“Can’t be helped, it’s part of the process.” She’d spent a good many hours arguing with herself the night before. This morning she’d decided to let things happen as they happened. “It’s the only time I blush,” she told him. “So, if you’d like to say something embarrassing…or flattering…?”

Against his better judgment, he touched her, circling her waist with his hands. She didn’t move back, didn’t move forward, but simply waited. “Your blush is already fading, so it seems I’ve missed my chance.”

“You can give it another try tomorrow. Hungry?”

“Yes.” Her lips made him hungry, but he wasn’t ready to test himself quite yet. “I want to go through your clothes after breakfast.”

“Oh, really?” She drew out the word, catching her tongue between her teeth.

His brow lifted, but only she was aware of the gesture. “For the painting.”

“You don’t want to do a nude.” The humor in her eyes faded into boredom as she drew away. “That’s the usual line.”

“I don’t waste my time with lines.” He studied her—the cool gray eyes that could warm with laughter, the haughty mouth that could invite and promise with no more than a smile. “I’m going to paint you because you were meant to be painted. I’m going to make love with you for exactly the same reason.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her pulse rate did. Kirby wasn’t foolish enough to pretend even to herself it was anger. Anger and excitement were two different things. “How decisive and arrogant of you,” she drawled. Strolling over to her dresser, she picked up her brush and ran it quickly through her hair. “I haven’t agreed to pose for you, Adam, nor have I agreed to sleep with you.” She flicked the brush through a last time then set it down. “In fact, I’ve serious doubts that I’ll do either. Shall we go?”

Before she could get to the door, he had her. The speed surprised her, if the strength didn’t. She’d hoped to annoy him, but when she tossed her head back to look at him, she didn’t see temper. She saw cool, patient determination. Nothing could have been more unnerving.

Then he had her close, so that his face was a blur and his mouth was dominant. She didn’t resist. Kirby rarely resisted what she wanted. Instead she let the heat wind through her in a slow continuous stream that was somehow both terrifying and peaceful.

Desire. Wasn’t that how she’d always imagined it would be with the right man? Wasn’t that what she’d been waiting for since the first moment she’d discovered herself a woman? It was here now. Kirby opened her arms to it.

His heartbeat wasn’t steady, and it should have been. His mind wasn’t clear, and it had to be. How could he win with her when he lost ground every time he was around her? If he followed through on his promise—or threat—that they’d be lovers, how much more would he lose? And gain, he thought as he let himself become steeped in her. The risk was worth taking.

“You’ll pose for me,” he said against her mouth. “And you’ll make love with me. There’s no choice.”

That was the word that stopped her. That was the phrase that forced her to resist. She’d always have a choice. “I don’t—”

“For either of us,” Adam finished as he released her. “We’ll decide on the clothes after breakfast.” Because he didn’t want to give either of them a chance to speak, he propelled her from the room.

An hour later, he propelled her back.

She’d been serene during the meal. But he hadn’t been fooled. Livid was what she was, and livid was exactly how he wanted her. She didn’t like to be outmaneuvered, even on a small point. It gave him a surge of satisfaction to be able to do so. The defiant, sulky look in her eyes was exactly what he wanted for the portrait.

“Red, I think,” he stated. “It would suit you best.”

Kirby waved a hand at her closet and flopped backward onto her bed. Staring up at the ceiling, she thought through her position. It was true she’d always refused to be painted, except by her father. She hadn’t wanted anyone else to get that close to her. As an artist, she knew just how intimate the relationship was between painter and subject, be the subject a person or a bowl of fruit. She’d never been willing to share herself with anyone to that extent.

But Adam was different. She could, if she chose, tell herself it was because of his talent, and because he wanted to paint her, not flatter her. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t quite the truth. Still, Kirby was comfortable with partial truths in certain cases. If she was honest, she had to admit that she was curious to see just how she’d look from his perspective, and yet she wasn’t entirely comfortable with that.

Moving only her eyes, she watched him as he rummaged through her closet.

He didn’t have to know what was going on in her head. Certainly she was skilled in keeping her thoughts to herself. It might be a challenge to do so under the sharp eyes of an artist. It might be interesting to see just how difficult she could make it for him. She folded her hands demurely on her stomach.

While Kirby was busy with her self-debate, Adam looked through an incredible variety of clothes. Some were perfect for an orphan, others for an eccentric teenager. He wondered if she’d actually worn the purple miniskirt and just how she’d looked in it. Elegant gowns from Paris and New York hung haphazardly with army surplus. If clothes reflected the person, there was more than one Kirby Fairchild. He wondered just how many she’d show him.

He discarded one outfit after another. This one was too drab, that one too chic. He found a pair of baggy overalls thrown over the same hanger with a slinky sequin dress with a two-thousand-dollar label. Pushing aside a three-piece suit perfect for an assistant D.A., he found it.

Scarlet silk. It was undoubtedly expensive, but not chic in the way he imagined Melanie Burgess would design. The square-necked bodice tapered to a narrow waist before the material flared into a full skirt. There were flounces at the hem and underskirts of white and black and fuchsia. The sleeves were short and puffed, running with stripes of the same colors. It was made for a wealthy gypsy. It was perfect.

“This.” Adam carried it to the bed and stood over Kirby. With a frown, she continued to stare up at the ceiling. “Put it on and come up to the studio. I’ll do some sketches.”

She spoke without looking at him. “Do you realize that not once have you asked me to pose for you? You told me you wanted to paint me, you told me you were going to paint me, but you’ve never asked if you could paint me.” With her hands still folded, one finger began to tap. “Instinct tells me you’re basically a gentleman, Adam. Perhaps you’ve just forgotten to say please.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” He tossed the dress across the bottom of the bed. “But I think you hear far too many pleases from men. You’re a woman who brings men to their knees with the bat of an eye. I’m not partial to kneeling.” No, he wasn’t partial to kneeling, and it was becoming imperative that he handle the controls, for both of them. Bending over, he put his hands on either side of her head then sat beside her. “And I’m just as used to getting my own way as you are.”

She studied him, thinking over his words and her position. “Then again, I haven’t batted my eyes at you yet.”

“Haven’t you?” he murmured.

He could smell her, that wild, untamed fragrance that was suited to isolated winter nights. Her lips pouted, not by design, but mood. It was that that tempted him. He had to taste them. He did so lightly, as he’d intended. Just a touch, just a taste, then he’d go about his business. But her mouth yielded to him as the whole woman hadn’t. Or perhaps it conquered.

Desire scorched him. Fire was all he could relate to. Flames and heat and smoke. That was her taste. Smoke and temptation and a promise of unreasonable delights.

He tasted, but it was no longer enough. He had to touch.

Her body was small, delicate, something a man might fear to take. He did, but no longer for her sake. For his own. Small and delicate she might be, but she could slice a man in two. Of that he was certain. But as he touched, as he tasted, he didn’t give a damn.

Never had he wanted a woman more. She made him feel like a teenager in the back seat of a car, like a man paying for the best whore in a French bordello, like a husband nuzzling into the security of a wife. Her complexities were more erotic than satin and lace and smoky light—the soft, agile mouth, the strong, determined hands. He wasn’t certain he’d ever escape from either. In possessing her, he’d invite an endless cycle of complications, of struggles, of excitement. She was an opiate. She was a dive from a cliff. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to overdose and hit the rocks.

It cost him more than he would have believed to draw back. She lay with her eyes half closed, her mouth just parted. Don’t get involved, he told himself frantically. Get the Rembrandt and walk away. That’s what you came to do.

“Adam…” She whispered his name as if she’d never said it before. It felt so beautiful on her tongue. The only thought that stayed with her was that no one had ever made her feel like this. No one else ever would. Something was opening inside her, but she wouldn’t fight it. She’d give. The innocence in her eyes was real, emotional not physical. Seeing it, Adam felt desire flare again.

She’s a witch, he told himself. Circe. Lorelei. He had to pull back before he forgot that. “You’ll have to change.”

“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 uncomfortable. “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.”