Читать книгу Best Of Nora Roberts Books 1-6 - Нора Робертс - Страница 12

“Let’s walk,” Kirby demanded when the afternoon grew late and Fairchild had yet to budge from his studio. Nor would he budge, she knew, until the Van Gogh was completed down to the smallest detail. If she didn’t get out and forget about her father’s pet project for a while, she knew she’d go mad.

“It’s raining,” Adam pointed out as he lingered over coffee.

“You mentioned that before.” Kirby pushed away her own coffee and rose. “All right then, I’ll have Cards bring you a lap robe and a nice cup of tea.”

“Is that a psychological attack?”

“Did it work?”

“I’ll get a jacket.” He strode from the room, ignoring her quiet chuckle.

When they walked outside, the fine misting rain fell over them. Leaves streamed with it. Thin fingers of fog twisted along the ground. Adam hunched inside his jacket, thinking it was miserable weather for a walk. Kirby strolled along with her face lifted to the sky.

He’d planned to spend the afternoon on the painting, but perhaps this was better. If he was going to capture her with colors and brush strokes, he should get to know her better. No easy task, Adam mused, but a strangely appealing one.

The air was heavy with the fragrance of fall, the sky gloomy. For the first time since he’d met her, Adam sensed a serenity in Kirby. They walked in silence, with the rain flowing over them.

She was content. It was an odd feeling for her to identify as she felt it so rarely. With her hand in his, she was content to walk along as the fog moved along the ground and the chilly drizzle fell over them. She was glad of the rain, of the chill and the gloom. Later, there would be time for a roaring fire and warm brandy.

“Adam, do you see the bed of mums over there?”

“Hmm?”

“The mums, I want to pick some. You’ll have to be the lookout.”

“Lookout for what?” He shook wet hair out of his eyes.

“For Jamie, of course. He doesn’t like anyone messing with his flowers.”

“They’re your flowers.”

“No, they’re Jamie’s.”

“He works for you.”

“What does that have to do with it?” She put a hand on his shoulder as she scanned the area. “If he catches me, he’ll get mad, then he won’t save me any leaves. I’ll be quick—I’ve done this before.”

“But if you—”

“There’s no time to argue. Now, you watch that window there. He’s probably in the kitchen having coffee with Tulip. Give me a signal when you see him.”

Whether he went along with her because it was simpler, or because he was getting into the spirit of things despite himself, Adam wasn’t sure. But he walked over to the window and peeked inside. Jamie sat at a huge round table with a mug of coffee in both frail hands. Turning, he nodded a go-ahead to Kirby.

She moved like lightning, dashing to the flower bed and plucking at stems. Dark and wet, her hair fell forward to curtain her face as she loaded her arms with autumn flowers. She should be painted like this, as well, Adam mused. In the fog, with her arms full of wet flowers. Perhaps it would be possible to capture those odd little snatches of innocence in the portrait.

Idly he glanced back in the window. With a ridiculous jolt of panic, he saw Jamie rise and head for the kitchen door. Forgetting logic, Adam dashed toward her.

“He’s coming.”

Surprisingly swift, Kirby leaped over the bed of flowers and kept on going. Even though he was running full stride, Adam didn’t catch her until they’d rounded the side of the house. Giggling and out of breath, she collapsed against him.

“We made it!”

“Just,” he agreed. His own heart was thudding—from the race? Maybe. He was breathless—from the game? Perhaps. But they were wet and close and the fog was rising. It didn’t seem he had a choice any longer.

With his eyes on hers, he brushed the dripping hair back from her face. Her cheeks were cool, wet and smooth. Yet her mouth, when his lowered to it, was warm and waiting.

She hadn’t planned it this way. If she’d had the time to think, she’d have said she didn’t want it this way. She didn’t want to be weak. She didn’t want her mind muddled. It didn’t seem she had a choice any longer.

He could taste the rain on her, fresh and innocent. He could smell the sharp tang of the flowers that were crushed between them. He couldn’t keep his hands out of her hair, the soft, heavy tangle of it. He wanted her closer. He wanted all of her, not in the way he’d first wanted her, but in every way. The need was no longer the simple need of a man for woman, but of him for her. Exclusive, imperative, impossible.

She’d wanted to fall in love, but she’d wanted to plan it out in her own way, in her own time. It wasn’t supposed to happen in a crash and a roar that left her trembling. It wasn’t supposed to happen without her permission. Shaken, Kirby drew back. It wasn’t going to happen until she was ready. That was that. Nerves taut again, she made herself smile.

“It looks like we’ve done a good job of squashing them.” When he would’ve drawn her back, Kirby thrust the flowers at him. “They’re for you.”

“For me?” Adam looked down at the mums they held between them.

“Yes, don’t you like flowers?”

“I like flowers,” he murmured. However unintentionally, she’d moved him as much with the gift as with the kiss. “I don’t think anyone’s given me flowers before.”

“No?” She gave him a long, considering look. She’d been given floods of them over the years, orchids, lilies, roses and more roses, until they’d meant little more than nothing. Her smile came slowly as she touched a hand to his chest. “I’d’ve picked more if I’d known.”

Behind them a window was thrown open. “Don’t you know better than to stand in the rain and neck?” Fairchild demanded. “If you want to nuzzle, come inside. I can’t stand sneezing and sniffling!” The window shut with a bang.

“You’re terribly wet,” Kirby commented, as if she hadn’t noticed the steadily falling rain. She linked her arm with his and walked to the door that was opened by the ever-efficient Cards.

“Thank you.” Kirby peeled off her soaking jacket. “We’ll need a vase for the flowers, Cards. They’re for Mr. Haines’s room. Make sure Jamie’s not about, will you?”

“Naturally, miss.” Cards took both the dripping jackets and the dripping flowers and headed back down the hall.

“Where’d you find him?” Adam wondered aloud. “He’s incredible.”

“Cards?” Like a wet dog, Kirby shook her head. “Papa brought him back from England. I think he was a spy, or maybe it was a bouncer. In either case, it’s obvious he’s seen everything.”

“Well, children, have you had a nice holiday?” Fairchild bounced out of the parlor. He wore a paint-streaked shirt and a smug smile. “My work’s complete, and now I’m free to give my full attention to my sculpting. It’s time I called Victor Alvarez,” he murmured. “I’ve kept him dangling long enough.”

“He’ll dangle until after coffee, Papa.” She sent her father a quick warning glance Adam might’ve missed if he hadn’t been watching so closely. “Take Adam in the parlor and I’ll see to it.”

She kept him occupied for the rest of the day. Deliberately, Adam realized. Something was going on that she didn’t want him getting an inkling of. Over dinner, she was again the perfect hostess. Over coffee and brandy in the parlor, she kept him entertained with an in-depth discussion on baroque art. Though her conversations and charm were effortless, Adam was certain there was an underlying reason. It was one more thing for him to discover.

She couldn’t have set the scene better, he mused. A quiet parlor, a crackling fire, intelligent conversation. And she was watching Fairchild like a hawk.

When Montique entered, the scene changed. Once again, the scruffy puppy leaped into Adam’s lap and settled down.

“How the hell did he get in here?” Fairchild demanded.

“Adam encourages him,” Kirby stated as she sipped at her brandy. “We can’t be held responsible.”

“I should say not!” Fairchild gave both Adam and Montique a steely look. “And if that—that creature threatens to sue again, Adam will have to retain his own attorney. I won’t be involved in a legal battle, particularly when I have my business with Senhor Alvarez to complete. What time is it in Brazil?”

“Some time or other,” Kirby murmured.

“I’ll call him immediately and close the deal before we find ourselves slapped with a summons.”

Adam sat back with his brandy and scratched Montique’s ears. “You two don’t seriously expect me to believe you’re worried about being sued by a cat?”

Kirby ran a fingertip around the rim of her snifter. “I don’t think we’d better tell him about what happened last year when we tried to have her evicted.”

“No!” Fairchild leaped up and shuffled before he darted to the door. “I won’t discuss it. I won’t remember it. I’m going to call Brazil.”

“Ah, Adam…” Kirby trailed off with a meaningful glance at the doorway.

Adam didn’t have to look to know that Isabelle was making an entrance.

“I won’t be intimidated by a cat.”

“I’m sure that’s very stalwart of you.” Kirby downed the rest of her drink then rose. “Just as I’m sure you’ll understand if I leave you to your courage. I really have to reline my dresser drawers.”

For the second time that day, Adam found himself alone with a dog and cat.

A half hour later, after he’d lost a staring match with Isabelle, Adam locked his door and contacted McIntyre. In the brief, concise tones that McIntyre had always admired, Adam relayed the conversation he’d overheard the night before.

“It fits,” McIntyre stated. Adam could almost see him rubbing his hands together. “You’ve learned quite a bit in a short time. The check on Hiller reveals he’s living on credit and reputation. Both are running thin. No idea where Fairchild’s keeping it?”

“I’m surprised he doesn’t have it hanging in full view.” Adam lit a cigarette and frowned at the Titian across the room. “It would be just like him. He mentioned a Victor Alvarez from Brazil a couple of times. Some kind of deal he’s cooking.”

“I’ll see what I can dig up. Maybe he’s selling the Rembrandt.”

“He hardly needs the money.”

“Some people never have enough.”

“Yeah.” But it didn’t fit. It just didn’t fit. “I’ll get back to you.”

Adam brooded, but only for a few moments. The sooner he had something tangible, the sooner he could untangle himself. He opened the panel and went to work.

In the morning, Kirby posed for Adam for more than two hours without the slightest argument. If he thought her cooperation and her sunny disposition were designed to confuse him, he was absolutely right. She was also keeping him occupied while Fairchild made the final arrangements for the disposal of the Van Gogh.

Adam had worked the night before until after midnight, but had found nothing. Wherever Fairchild had hidden the Rembrandt, he’d hidden it well. Adam’s search of the third floor was almost complete. It was time to look elsewhere.

“Hidden with respect and affection,” he remembered. In all probability that would rule out the dungeons and the attic. Chances were he’d have to give them some time, but he intended to concentrate on the main portion of the house first. His main objective would be Fairchild’s private rooms, but when and how he’d do them he had yet to determine.

After the painting session was over and Kirby went back to her own work, Adam wandered around the first floor. There was no one to question his presence. He was a guest and he was trusted. He was supposed to be, he reminded himself when he became uncomfortable. One of the reasons McIntyre had drafted him for this particular job was because he would have easy access to the Fairchilds and the house. He was, socially and professionally, one of them. They’d have no reason to be suspicious of a well-bred, successful artist whom they’d welcomed into their own home. And the more Adam tried to justify his actions, the more the guilt ate at him.

Enough, he told himself as he stared out at the darkening sky. He’d had enough for one day. It was time he went up and changed for Melanie Burgess’s party. There he’d meet Stuart Hiller and Harriet Merrick. There were no emotional ties there to make him feel like a spy and a thief. Swearing at himself, he started up the stairs.

“Excuse me, Mr. Haines.” Impatient, Adam turned and looked down at Tulip. “Were you going up?”

“Yes.” Because he stood on the bottom landing blocking her way, he stood aside to let her pass.

“You take this up to her then, and see she drinks it.” Tulip shoved a tall glass of milky white liquid into his hand. “All,” she added tersely before she clomped back toward the kitchen.

Where did they get their servants? Adam wondered, frowning down at the glass in his hands. And why, for the love of God, had he let himself be ordered around by one? When in Rome, he supposed, and started up the steps again.

The she obviously meant Kirby. Adam sniffed doubtfully at the glass as he knocked on her door.

“You can bring it in,” she called out, “but I won’t drink it. Threaten all you like.”

All right, he decided, and pushed her door open. The bedroom was empty, but he could smell her.

“Do your worst,” she invited. “You can’t intimidate me with stories of intestinal disorders and vitamin deficiencies. I’m healthy as a horse.”

The warm, sultry scent flowed over him. Glass in hand, he walked through and into the bathroom where the steam rose up, fragrant and misty as a rain forest. With her hair pinned on top of her head, Kirby lounged in a huge sunken tub. Overhead, hanging plants dripped down, green and moist. White frothy bubbles floated in heaps on the surface of the water.

“So she sent you, did she?” Unconcerned, Kirby rubbed a loofah sponge over one shoulder. The bubbles, she concluded, covered her with more modesty than most women at the party that night would claim. “Well, come in then, and stop scowling at me. I won’t ask you to scrub my back.”

He thought of Cleopatra, floating on her barge. Just how many men other than Caesar and Antony had she driven mad? He glanced at the long mirrored wall behind the sink. It was fogged with the steam that rose in visible columns from her bath. “Got the water hot enough?”

“Do you know what that is?” she demanded, and plucked her soap from the dish. The cake was a pale, pale pink and left a creamy lather on her skin. “It’s a filthy-tasting mixture Tulip tries to force on me periodically. It has raw eggs in it and other vile things.” Making a face she lifted one surprisingly long leg out of the bath and soaped it. “Tell me the truth, Adam, would you voluntarily drink raw eggs?”

He watched her run soap and fingertips down her calf. “I can’t say I would.”

“Well, then.” Satisfied, she switched legs. “Down the drain with it.”

“She told me to see that you drank it. All,” he added, beginning to enjoy himself.

Her lower lip moved forward a bit as she considered. “Puts you in an awkward position, doesn’t it?”

“A position in any case.”

“Tell you what, I’ll have a sip. Then when she asks if I drank it I can say I did. I’m trying to cut down on my lying.”

Adam handed her the glass, watching as she sipped and grimaced. “I’m not sure you’re being truthful this way.”

“I said cutting down, not eliminating. Into the sink,” she added. “Unless you’d care for the rest.”

“I’ll pass.” He poured it out then sat on the lip of the tub.

Surprised by the move, she tightened her fingers on the soap. It plopped into the water. “Hydrophobia,” she muttered. “No, don’t bother, I’ll find it.” Dipping her hand in, she began to search. “You’d think they could make a soap that wasn’t forever leaping out of your hands.” Grateful for the distraction, she gripped the soap again. “Aha. I appreciate your bringing me that revolting stuff, Adam. Now if you’d like to run along…”

“I’m in no hurry.” Idly he picked up her loofah. “You mentioned something about scrubbing your back.”

“Robbery!” Fairchild’s voice boomed into the room just ahead of him. “Call the police. Call the FBI. Adam, you’ll be a witness.” He nodded, finding nothing odd in the audience to his daughter’s bath.

“I’m so glad I have a large bathroom,” she murmured. “Pity I didn’t think to serve refreshments.” Relieved by the interruption, she ran the soap down her arm. “What’s been stolen, Papa? The Monet street scene, the Renoir portrait? I know, your sweat socks.”

“My black dinner suit!” Dramatically he pointed a finger to the ceiling. “We’ll have to take fingerprints.”

“Obviously stolen by a psychotic with a fetish for formal attire,” Kirby concluded. “I love a mystery. Let’s list the suspects.” She pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and leaned back—a naked, erotic Sherlock Holmes. “Adam, have you an alibi?”

With a half smile, he ran the damp abrasive sponge through his hands. “I’ve been seducing Polly all afternoon.”

Her eyes lit with amusement. She’d known he had potential. “That won’t do,” she said soberly. “It wouldn’t take above fifteen minutes to seduce Polly. You have a black dinner suit, I suppose.”

“Circumstantial evidence.”

“A search warrant,” Fairchild chimed in, inspired. “We’ll get a search warrant and go through the entire house.”

“Time-consuming,” Kirby decided. “Actually, Papa, I think we’d best look to Cards.”

“The butler did it.” Fairchild cackled with glee, then immediately sobered. “No, no, my suit would never fit Cards.”

“True. Still, as much as I hate to be an informer, I overheard Cards telling Tulip he intended to take your suit.”

“Trust,” Fairchild mumbled to Adam. “Can’t trust anyone.”

“His motive was sponging and pressing, I believe.” She sank down to her neck and examined her toes. “He’ll crumble like a wall if you accuse him. I’m sure of it.”

“Very well.” Fairchild rubbed his thin, clever hands together. “I’ll handle it myself and avoid the publicity.”

“A brave man,” Kirby decided as her father strode out of the room. Relaxed and amused, she smiled at Adam. “Well, my bubbles seem to be melting, so we’d better continue this discussion some other time.”

Reaching over, Adam yanked the chain and drew the old-fashioned plug out of the stupendous tub. “The time’s coming when we’re going to start—and finish—much more than a conversation.”

Wary, Kirby watched her water level and last defense recede. When cornered, she determined, it was best to be nonchalant. She tried a smile that didn’t quite conceal the nerves. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

“I intend to,” he said softly. Without another word, he rose and left her alone.

Later, when he descended the stairs, Adam grinned when he heard her voice.

“Yes, Tulip, I drank the horrid stuff. I won’t disgrace you by fainting in the Merrick living room from malnutrition.” The low rumble of response that followed was dissatisfied. “Cricket wings, I’ve been walking in heels for half my life. They’re not six inches, they’re three. And I’ll still have to look up at everyone over twelve. Go bake a cake, will you?”

He heard Tulip’s mutter and sniff before she stomped out of the room and passed him.

“Adam, thank God. Let’s go before she finds something else to nag me about.”

Her dress was pure, unadorned white, thin and floaty. It covered her arms, rose high at the throat, as modest as a nun’s habit, as sultry as a tropical night. Her hair fell, black and straight over the shoulders.

Tossing it back, she picked up a black cape and swirled it around her. For a moment she stood, adjusting it while the light from the lamps flitted over the absence of color. She looked like a Manet portrait—strong, romantic and timeless.

“You’re a fabulous-looking creature, Kirby.”

They both stopped, staring. He’d given compliments before, with more style, more finesse, but he’d never meant one more. She’d been flattered by princes, in foreign tongues and with smooth deliveries. It had never made her stomach flutter.

“Thank you,” she managed. “So’re you.” No longer sure it was wise, she offered her hand. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Your father?”

“He’s already gone,” she told him as she walked toward the door. And the sooner they were, the better. She needed a little more time before she was alone with him again. “We don’t drive to parties together, especially to Harriet’s. He likes to get there early and usually stays longer, trying to talk Harriet into bed. I’ve had my car brought around.” She shut the door and led him to a silver Porsche. “I’d rather drive than navigate, if you don’t mind.”

But she didn’t wait for his response as she dropped into the driver’s seat. “Fine,” Adam agreed.

“It’s a marvelous night.” She turned the key in the ignition. The power vibrated under their feet. “Full moon, lots of stars.” Smoothly she released the brake, engaged the clutch and pressed the accelerator. Adam was tossed against the seat as they roared down the drive.

“You’ll like Harriet,” Kirby continued, switching gears as Adam stared at the blurring landscape. “She’s like a mother to me.” When they came to the main road, Kirby downshifted and swung to the left, tires squealing. “You met Melly, of course. I hope you won’t desert me completely tonight after seeing her again.”

Adam braced his feet against the floor. “Does anyone notice her when you’re around?” And would they make it to the Merrick home alive?

“Of course.” Surprised by the question, she turned to look at him.

“Good God, watch where you’re going!” None too gently, he pushed her head around.

“Melly’s the most perfectly beautiful woman I’ve ever known.” Downshifting again, Kirby squealed around a right turn then accelerated. “She’s a very clever designer and very, very proper. Wouldn’t even take a settlement from her husband when they divorced. Pride, I suppose, but then she wouldn’t need the money. There’s a marvelous view of the Hudson coming up on your side, Adam.” Kirby leaned over to point it out. The car swerved.

“I prefer seeing it from up here, thanks,” Adam told her as he shoved her back in her seat. “Do you always drive this way?”

“Yes. There’s the road you take to the gallery,” she continued. She waved her hand vaguely as the car whizzed by an intersection. Adam glanced down at the speedometer.

“You’re doing ninety.”

“I always drive slower at night.”

“There’s good news.” Muttering, he flicked on the lighter.

“There’s the house up ahead.” She raced around an ess curve. “Fabulous when it’s all lit up this way.”

The house was white and stately, the type you expected to see high above the riverbank. It glowed with elegance from dozens of windows. Without slackening pace, Kirby sped up the circular drive. With a squeal of brakes, and a muttered curse from Adam, she stopped the Porsche at the front entrance.

Reaching over, Adam pulled the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. “I’m driving back.”

“How thoughtful.” Offering her hand to the valet, Kirby stepped out. “Now I won’t have to limit myself to one drink. Champagne,” she decided, moving up the steps beside him. “It seems like a night for it.”

The moment the door opened, Kirby was enveloped by a flurry of dazzling, trailing silks. “Harriet.” Kirby squeezed the statuesque woman with flaming red hair. “It’s wonderful to see you, but I think I’m being gnawed by the denture work of your crocodile.”

“Sorry, darling.” Harriet held her necklace and drew back to press a kiss to each of Kirby’s cheeks. She was an impressive woman, full-bodied in the style Rubens had immortalized. Her face was wide and smooth, dominated by deep green eyes that glittered with silver on the lids. Harriet didn’t believe in subtlety. “And this must be your house-guest,” she continued with a quick sizing up of Adam.

“Harriet Merrick, Adam Haines.” Kirby grinned and pinched Harriet’s cheek. “And behave yourself, or Papa’ll have him choosing weapons.”

“Wonderful idea.” With one arm still linked with Kirby’s, Harriet twined her other through Adam’s. “I’m sure you have a fascinating life story to tell me, Adam.”

“I’ll make one up.”

“Perfect.” She liked the look of him. “We’ve a crowd already, though they’re mostly Melanie’s stuffy friends.”

“Harriet, you’ve got to be more tolerant.”

“No, I don’t.” She tossed back her outrageous hair. “I’ve been excruciatingly polite. Now that you’re here, I don’t have to be.”

“Kirby.” Melanie swept into the hall in an ice-blue sheath. “What a picture you make. Take her cloak, Ellen, though it’s a pity to spoil that effect.” Smiling, she held out a hand to Adam as the maid slipped Kirby’s cloak off her shoulders. “I’m so glad you came. We’ve some mutual acquaintances here, it seems. The Birminghams and Michael Towers from New York. You remember Michael, Kirby?”

“The adman who clicks his teeth?”

Harriet let out a roar of laughter while Adam struggled to control his. With a sigh, Melanie led them toward the party. “Try to behave, will you?” But Adam wasn’t certain whether she spoke to Kirby or her mother.

This was the world he was used to—elegant people in elegant clothes having rational conversations. He’d been raised in the world of restrained wealth where champagne fizzed quietly and dignity was as essential as the proper alma mater. He understood it, he fit in.

After fifteen minutes, he was separated from Kirby and bored to death.

“I’ve decided to take a trek through the Australian bush,” Harriet told Kirby. She fingered her necklace of crocodile teeth. “I’d love you to come with me. We’d have such fun brewing a billy cup over the fire.”

“Camping?” Kirby asked, mulling it over. Maybe what she needed was a change of scene, after her father settled down.

“Give it some thought,” Harriet suggested. “I’m not planning on leaving for another six weeks. Ah, Adam.” Reaching out, she grabbed his arm. “Did Agnes Birmingham drive you to drink? No, don’t answer. It’s written all over your face, but you’re much too polite.”

He allowed himself to be drawn between her and Kirby, where he wanted to be. “Let’s just say I was looking for more stimulating conversation. I’ve found it.”

“Charming.” She decided she liked him, but would reserve judgment a bit longer as to whether he’d suit her Kirby. “I admire your work, Adam. I’d like to put the first bid in on your next painting.”

He took glasses from a passing waiter. “I’m doing a portrait of Kirby.”

“She’s posing for you?” Harriet nearly choked on her champagne. “Did you chain her?”

“Not yet.” He gave Kirby a lazy glance. “It’s still a possibility.”

“You have to let me display it when it’s finished.” She might’ve been a woman who ran on emotion on many levels, but the bottom line was art, and the business of it. “I can promise to cause a nasty scene if you refuse.”

“No one does it better,” Kirby toasted her.

“You’ll have to see the portrait of Kirby that Philip painted for me. She wouldn’t sit for it, but it’s brilliant.” She toyed with the stem of her glass. “He painted it when she returned from Paris—three years ago, I suppose.”

“I’d like to see it. I’d planned on coming by the gallery.”

“Oh, it’s here, in the library.”

“Why don’t you two just toddle along then?” Kirby suggested. “You’ve been talking around me, you might as well desert me physically, as well.”

“Don’t be snotty,” Harriet told her. “You can come, too. And I… Well, well,” she murmured in a voice suddenly lacking in warmth. “Some people have no sense of propriety.”

Kirby turned her head, just slightly, and watched Stuart walk into the room. Her fingers tightened on the glass, but she shrugged. Before the movement was complete, Melanie was at her side.

“I’m sorry, Kirby. I’d hoped he wouldn’t come after all.”

In a slow, somehow insolent gesture, Kirby pushed her hair behind her back. “If it had mattered, I wouldn’t have come.”

“I don’t want you to be embarrassed,” Melanie began, only to be cut off by a quick and very genuine laugh.

“When have you ever known me to be embarrassed?”

“Well, I’ll greet him, or it’ll make matters worse.” Still, Melanie hesitated, obviously torn between loyalty and manners.

“I’ll fire him, of course,” Harriet mused when her daughter went to do her duty. “But I want to be subtle about it.”

“Fire him if you like, Harriet, but not on my account.” Kirby drained her champagne.

“It appears we’re in for a show, Adam.” Harriet tapped a coral fingertip against her glass. “Much to Melanie’s distress, Stuart’s coming over.”

Without saying a word, Kirby took Adam’s cigarette.

“Harriet, you look marvelous.” The smooth, cultured voice wasn’t at all like the tone Adam had heard in Fairchild’s studio. “Africa agreed with you.”

Harriet gave him a bland smile. “We didn’t expect to see you.”

“I was tied up for a bit.” Charming, elegant, he turned to Kirby. “You’re looking lovely.”

“So are you,” she said evenly. “It seems your nose is back in joint.” Without missing a beat, she turned to Adam. “I don’t believe you’ve met. Adam, this is Stuart Hiller. I’m sure you know Adam Haines’s work, Stuart.”

“Yes, indeed.” The handshake was polite and meaningless. “Are you staying in our part of New York long?”

“Until I finish Kirby’s portrait,” Adam told him and had the dual satisfaction of seeing Kirby grin and Stuart frown. “I’ve agreed to let Harriet display it in the gallery.”

With that simple strategy, Adam won Harriet over.

“I’m sure it’ll be a tremendous addition to our collection.” Even a man with little sensitivity wouldn’t have missed the waves of resentment. For the moment, Stuart ignored them. “I wasn’t able to reach you in Africa, Harriet, and things have been hectic since your return. The Titian woman has been sold to Ernest Myerling.”

As he lifted his glass, Adam’s attention focused on Kirby. Her color drained, slowly, degree by degree until her face was as white as the silk she wore.

“I don’t recall discussing selling the Titian,” Harriet countered. Her voice was as colorless as Kirby’s skin.

“As I said, I couldn’t reach you. As the Titian isn’t listed under your personal collection, it falls among the saleable paintings. I think you’ll be pleased with the price.” He lit a cigarette with a slim silver lighter. “Myerling did insist on having it tested. He’s more interested in investment than art, I’m afraid. I thought you’d want to be there tomorrow for the procedure.”

Oh, God, oh, my God! Panic, very real and very strong, whirled through Kirby’s mind. In silence, Adam watched the fear grow in her eyes.

“Tested!” Obviously insulted, Harriet seethed. “Of all the gall, doubting the authenticity of a painting from my gallery. The Titian should not have been sold without my permission, and certainly not to a peasant.”

“Testing isn’t unheard-of, Harriet.” Seeing a hefty commission wavering, Stuart soothed, “Myerling’s a businessman, not an art expert. He wants facts.” Taking a long drag, he blew out smoke. “In any case, the paperwork’s already completed and there’s nothing to be done about it. The deal’s a fait accompli, hinging on the test results.”

“We’ll discuss this in the morning.” Harriet’s voice lowered as she finished off her drink. “This isn’t the time or place.”

“I—I have to freshen my drink,” Kirby said suddenly. Without another word, she spun away to work her way through the crowd. The nausea, she realized, was a direct result of panic, and the panic was a long way from over. “Papa.” She latched on to his arm and pulled him out of a discussion on Dali’s versatility. “I have to talk to you. Now.”

Hearing the edge in her voice, he let her drag him from the room.