Читать книгу Best Of Nora Roberts Books 1-6 - Нора Робертс - Страница 15

To love and to be loved in return. It was bewildering to Kirby, frightening, exhilarating. She wanted time to experience it, absorb it. Understanding it didn’t matter, not now, in the first rush of emotion. She only knew that although she’d always been happy in her life, she was being offered more. She was being offered laughter at midnight, soft words at dawn, a hand to hold and a life to share. The price would be a portion of her independence and the loyalty that had belonged only to her father.

To Kirby, love meant sharing, and sharing had no restrictions. Whatever she had, whatever she felt, belonged to Adam as much as to herself. Whatever happened between them now, she’d never be able to change that. No longer able to work, she went down from her studio to find him.

The house was quiet in the early-evening lull with the staff downstairs making the dinner preparations and gossiping. Kirby had always liked this time of day—after a long, productive session in her studio, before the evening meal. These were the hours to sit in front of a roaring fire, or walk along the cliffs. Now there was someone she needed to share those hours with. Stopping in front of Adam’s door, she raised a hand to knock.

The murmur of voices stopped her. If Adam had her father in another discussion, he might learn something more about the Rembrandt that would put her mind at ease. While she hesitated, the thumping of the front door knocker vibrated throughout the house. With a shrug, she turned away to answer.

Inside his room, Adam shifted the transmitter to his other hand. “This is the first chance I’ve had to call in. Besides, there’s nothing new.”

“You’re supposed to check in every night.” Annoyed, McIntyre barked into the receiver. “Damn it, Adam, I was beginning to think something had happened to you.”

“If you knew these people, you’d realize how ridiculous that is.”

“They don’t suspect anything?”

“No.” Adam swore at the existence of this job.

“Tell me about Mrs. Merrick and Hiller.”

“Harriet’s charming and flamboyant.” He wouldn’t say harmless. Though he thought of what he and Kirby had done the night before, he left it alone. Adam had already rationalized the entire business as having nothing to do with his job. Not specifically. That was enough to justify his keeping it from McIntyre. Instead, Adam would tell him what Adam felt applied and nothing more. “Hiller’s very smooth and a complete phony. I walked in on him and Kirby in time to keep him from shoving her around.”

“What was his reason?”

“The Rembrandt. He doesn’t believe her father’s keeping her in the dark about it. He’s the kind of man who thinks you can always get what you want by knocking the other person around—if they’re smaller.”

“Sounds like a gem.” But he’d heard the change in tone. If Adam was getting involved with the Fairchild woman… No. McIntyre let it go. That they didn’t need. “I’ve got a line on Victor Alvarez.”

“Drop it.” Adam kept his voice casual, knowing full well just how perceptive Mac could be. “It’s a wild-goose chase. I’ve already dug it up and it doesn’t have anything to do with the Rembrandt.”

“You know best.”

“Yeah.” McIntyre, he knew, would never understand Fairchild’s hobby. “Since we agree about that, I’ve got a stipulation.”

“Stipulation?”

“When I find the Rembrandt, I handle the rest my own way.”

“What do you mean your own way? Listen, Adam—”

“My way,” Adam cut him off. “Or you find someone else. I’ll get it back for you, Mac, but after I do, the Fairchilds are kept out of it.”

“Kept out?” McIntyre exploded so that the receiver crackled with static. “How the hell do you expect me to keep them out?”

“That’s your problem. Just do it.”

“The place is full of crazies,” McIntyre muttered. “Must be contagious.”

“Yeah. I’ll get back to you.” With a grin, Adam switched off the transmitter.

Downstairs, Kirby opened the door and looked into the myopic, dark-framed eyes of Rick Potts. Knowing his hand would be damp with nerves, she held hers out. “Hello, Rick. Papa told me you were coming to visit.”

“Kirby.” He swallowed and squeezed her hand. Just the sight of her played havoc with his glands. “You look mar-marvelous.” He thrust drooping carnations into her face.

“Thank you.” Kirby took the flowers Rick had partially strangled and smiled. “Come, let me fix you a drink. You’ve had a long drive, haven’t you? Cards, see to Mr. Potts’s luggage, please,” she continued without giving Rick a chance to speak. He’d need a little time, she knew, to draw words together. “Papa should be down soon.” She found a club soda and poured it over ice. “He’s been giving a lot of time to his new project; I’m sure he’ll want to discuss it with you.” After handing him his drink, she gestured to a chair. “So, how’ve you been?”

He drank first, to separate his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Fine. That is, I had a bit of a cold last week, but I’m much better now. I’d never come to see you if I had any germs.”

She turned in time to hide a grin and poured herself a glass of Perrier. “That’s very considerate of you, Rick.”

“Have you—have you been working?”

“Yes, I’ve nearly done enough for my spring showing.”

“It’ll be wonderful,” he told her with blind loyalty. Though he recognized the quality of her work, the more powerful pieces intimidated him. “You’ll be staying in New York?”

“Yes.” She walked over to sit beside him. “For a week.”

“Then maybe—that is, I’d love to, if you had the time, of course, I’d like to take you to dinner.” He gulped down club soda. “If you had an evening free.”

“That’s very sweet of you.”

Astonished, he gaped, pupils dilating. From the doorway, Adam watched the puppylike adulation of the lanky, somewhat untidy man. In another ten seconds, Adam estimated, Kirby would have him at her feet whether she wanted him there or not.

Kirby glanced up, and her expression changed so subtly Adam wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been so completely tuned in to her. “Adam.” If there’d been relief in her eyes, her voice was casual. “I was hoping you’d come down. Rick, this is Adam Haines. Adam, I think Papa mentioned Rick Potts to you the other day.”

The message came across loud and clear. Be kind. With an easy smile, Adam accepted the damp handshake. “Yes, Philip said you were coming for a few days. Kirby tells me you work in watercolors.”

“She did?” Nearly undone by the fact that Kirby would speak of him at all, Rick simply stood there a moment.

“We’ll have to have a long discussion after dinner.” Rising, Kirby began to lead Rick gently toward the door. “I’m sure you’d like to rest a bit after your drive. You can find the way to your room, can’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Kirby watched him wander down the hall before she turned back. She walked back to Adam and wrapped her arms around him. “I hate to repeat myself, but I love you.”

He framed her face with his hands and kissed her softly, lightly, with the promise of more. “Repeat yourself as often as you like.” He stared down at her, suddenly and completely aroused by no more than her smile. He pressed his mouth into her palm with a restraint that left her weak. “You take my breath away,” he murmured. “It’s no wonder you turn Rick Potts to jelly.”

“I’d rather turn you to jelly.”

She did. It wasn’t an easy thing to admit. With a half smile, Adam drew her away. “Are you really going to tell him I’m a jealous lover with a stiletto?”

“It’s for his own good.” Kirby picked up her glass of Perrier. “He’s always so embarrassed after he loses control. Did you learn any more from Papa?”

“No.” Puzzled, he frowned. “Why?”

“I was coming to see you right before Rick arrived. I heard you talking.”

She slipped a hand into his and he fought to keep the tension from being noticeable. “I don’t want to press things now.” That much was the truth, he thought fiercely. That much wasn’t a lie.

“No, you’re probably right about that. Papa tends to get obstinate easily. Let’s sit in front of the fire for a little while,” she said as she drew him over to it. “And do nothing.”

He sat beside her, holding her close, and wished things were as simple as they seemed.

Hours went by before they sat in the parlor again, but they were no longer alone. After an enormous meal, Fairchild and Rick settled down with them to continue the ongoing discussion of art and technique. Assisted by two glasses of wine and half a glass of brandy, Rick began to heap praise on Kirby’s work. Adam recognized the warning signals of battle—Fairchild’s pink ears and Kirby’s guileless eyes.

“Thank you, Rick.” With a smile, Kirby lifted her brandy. “I’m sure you’d like to see Papa’s latest work. It’s an attempt in clay. A bird or something, isn’t it, Papa?”

“A bird? A bird?” In a quick circle, he danced around the table. “It’s a hawk, you horrid girl. A bird of prey, a creature of cunning.”

A veteran, Rick tried to soothe. “I’d love to see it, Mr. Fairchild.”

“And so you will.” In one dramatic gulp, Fairchild finished off his drink. “I intend to donate it to the Metropolitan.”

Whether Kirby’s snort was involuntary or contrived, it produced results.

“Do you mock your father?” Fairchild demanded. “Have you no faith in these hands?” He held them out, fingers spread. “The same hands that held you fresh from your mother’s womb?”

“Your hands are the eighth wonder of the world,” Kirby told him. “However…” She set down her glass, sat back and crossed her legs. Meticulously she brought her fingers together and looked over them. “From my observations, you have difficulty with your structure. Perhaps with a few years of practice, you’ll develop the knack of construction.”

“Structure?” he sputtered. “Construction?” His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. “Cards!” Kirby sent him an easy smile and picked up her glass again. “Cards!”

“Yes, Mr. Fairchild.”

“Cards,” Fairchild repeated, glaring at the dignified butler, who stood waiting in the doorway.

“Yes, Mr. Fairchild.”

“Cards!” He bellowed and pranced.

“I believe Papa wants a deck of cards—Cards,” Kirby explained. “Playing cards.”

“Yes, miss.” With a slight bow, Cards went to get some.

“What’s the matter with that man?” Fairchild muttered. In hurried motions, he began to clear off a small table. Exquisite Wedgwood and delicate Venetian glass were dumped unceremoniously on the floor. “You’d think I didn’t make myself clear.”

“It’s so hard to get good help these days,” Adam said into his glass.

“Your cards, Mr. Fairchild.” The butler placed two sealed decks on the table before gliding from the room.

“Now I’ll show you about construction.” Fairchild pulled up a chair and wrapped his skinny legs around its legs. Breaking the seal on the first deck, he poured the cards on the table. With meticulous care, he leaned one card against another and formed an arch. “A steady hand and a discerning eye,” Fairchild mumbled as he began slowly, and with total intensity, to build a house of cards.

“That should keep him out of trouble for a while,” Kirby declared. Sending Adam a wink, she turned to Rick and drew him into a discussion on mutual friends.

An hour drifted by over brandy and quiet conversation. Occasionally there was a mutter or a grumble from the architect in the corner. The fire crackled. When Montique entered and jumped into Adam’s lap, Rick paled and sprang up.

“You shouldn’t do that. She’ll be here any second.” He set down his glass with a clatter. “Kirby, I think I’ll go up. I want to start work early.”

“Of course.” She watched his retreat before turning to Adam. “He’s terrified of Isabelle. Montique got into his room when he was sleeping and curled on his pillow. Isabelle woke Rick with some rather rude comments while she stood on his chest. I’d better go up and make sure everything’s in order.” She rose, then bent over and kissed him lightly.

“That’s not enough.”

“No?” The slow smile curved her lips. “Perhaps we’ll fix that later. Come on, Montique, let’s go find your wretched keeper.”

“Kirby…” Adam waited until both she and the puppy were at the doorway. “Just how much rent does Isabelle pay?”

“Ten mice a month,” she told him soberly. “But I’m going to raise it to fifteen in November. Maybe she’ll be out by Christmas.” Pleased with the thought, she led Montique away.

“A fascinating creature, my Kirby,” Fairchild commented.

Adam crossed the room and stared down at the huge, erratic card structure Fairchild continued to construct. “Fascinating.”

“She’s a woman with much below the surface. Kirby can be cruel when she feels justified. I’ve seen her squash a six-foot man like a bug.” He held a card between the index fingers of both hands, then slowly lowered it into place. “You’ll notice, however, that her attitude toward Rick is invariably kind.”

Though Fairchild continued to give his full attention to his cards, Adam knew it was more than idle conversation. “Obviously she doesn’t want to hurt him.”

“Exactly.” Fairchild began to patiently build another wing. Unless Adam was very much mistaken, the cards were slowly taking on the lines of the house they were in. “She’ll take great care not to because she knows his devotion to her is sincere. Kirby’s a strong, independent woman. Where her heart’s involved, however, she’s a marshmallow. There are a handful of people on this earth she’d sacrifice anything she could for. Rick’s one of them—Melanie and Harriet are others. And myself.” He held a card on the tops of his fingers as if weighing it. “Yes, myself,” he repeated softly. “Because of this, the circumstances of the Rembrandt are very difficult for her. She’s torn between separate loyalties. Her father, and the woman who’s been her mother most of her life.”

“You do nothing to change it,” Adam accused. Irrationally he wanted to sweep the cards aside, flatten the meticulously formed construction. He pushed his hands into his pockets, where they balled into fists. Just how much could he berate Fairchild, when he was deceiving Kirby in nearly the same way? “Why don’t you give her some explanation? Something she could understand?”

“Ignorance is bliss,” Fairchild stated calmly. “In this case, the less Kirby knows, the simpler things are for her.”

“You’ve a hell of a nerve, Philip.”

“Yes, yes, that’s quite true.” He balanced more cards, then went back to the subject foremost in his mind. “There’ve been dozens of men in Kirby’s life. She could choose and discard them as other women do clothing. Yet, in her own way, she was always cautious. I think Kirby believed she wasn’t capable of loving a man and had decided to settle for much, much less by agreeing to marry Stuart. Nonsense, of course.” Fairchild picked up his drink and studied his rambling card house. “Kirby has a great capacity for love. When she loves a man, she’ll love with unswerving devotion and loyalty. And when she does, she’ll be vulnerable. She loves intensely, Adam.”

For the first time, he raised his eyes and met Adam’s. “When her mother died, she was devastated. I wouldn’t want to live to see her go through anything like that again.”

What could he say? Less than he wanted to, but still only the truth. “I don’t want to hurt Kirby. I’ll do everything I can to keep from hurting her.”

Fairchild studied him a moment with the pale blue eyes that saw deep and saw much. “I believe you, and hope you find a way to avoid it. Still, if you love her, you’ll find a way to mend whatever damage is done. The game’s on, Adam, the rules set. They can’t be altered now, can they?”

Adam stared down at the round face. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”

With a cackle, Fairchild turned back to his cards. Yes, indeed, Adam Haines was sharp, he thought, pleased. Kirby had called it from the beginning. “Let’s just say for now that you’re here to paint and to…observe. Yes, to observe.” He placed another card. “Go up to her now, you’ve my blessing if you feel the need for it. The game’s nearly over, Adam. Soon enough we’ll have to pick up the pieces. Love’s tenuous when it’s new, my boy. If you want to keep her, be as stubborn as she is. That’s my advice.”

In long, methodical strokes, Kirby pulled the brush through her hair. She’d turned the radio on low so that the hot jazz was hardly more than a pulse beat. At the sound of a knock, she sighed. “Rick, you really must go to bed. You’ll hate yourself in the morning.”

Adam pushed open the door. He took a long look at the woman in front of the mirror, dressed in wisps of beige silk and ivory lace. Without a word, he closed and latched the door behind him.

“Oh, my.” Setting the brush on her dresser, Kirby turned around with a little shudder. “A woman simply isn’t safe these days. Have you come to have your way with me—I hope?”

Adam crossed to her. Letting his hands slide along the silk, he wrapped his arms around her. “I was just passing through.” When she smiled, he lowered his mouth to hers. “I love you, Kirby. More than anyone, more than anything.” Suddenly his mouth was fierce, his arms were tight. “Don’t ever forget it.”

“I won’t.” But her words were muffled against his mouth. “Just don’t stop reminding me. Now…” She drew away, inches only, and slowly began to loosen his tie. “Maybe I should remind you.”

He watched his tie slip to the floor just before she began to ease his jacket from his shoulders. “It might be a good idea.”

“You’ve been working hard,” she told him as she tossed his jacket in the general direction of a chair. “I think you should be pampered a bit.”

“Pampered?”

“Mmm.” Nudging him onto the bed, she knelt to take off his shoes. Carelessly she let them drop, followed by his socks, before she began to massage his feet. “Pampering’s good for you in small doses.”

He felt the pleasure spread through him at the touch that could almost be described as motherly. Her hands were soft, with that ridge of callus that proved they weren’t idle. They were strong and clever, belonging both to artist and to woman. Slowly she slid them up his legs, then down—teasing, promising, until he wasn’t certain whether to lay back and enjoy, or to grab and take. Before he could do either, Kirby stood and began to unbutton his shirt.

“I like everything about you,” she murmured as she tugged the shirt from the waistband of his slacks. “Have I mentioned that?”

“No.” He let her loosen the cuffs and slip the shirt from him. Taking her time, Kirby ran her hands up his rib cage to his shoulders. “The way you look.” Softly she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “The way you feel.” Then the other. “The way you think.” Her lips brushed over his chin. “The way you taste.” Unhooking his slacks, she drew them off, inch by slow inch. “There’s nothing about you I’d change.”

She straddled him and began to trace long, lingering kisses over his face and neck. “Once when I wondered about falling in love, I decided there simply wasn’t a man I’d like well enough to make it possible.” Her mouth paused just above his. “I was wrong.”

Soft, warm and exquisitely tender, her lips met his. Pampering…the word drifted through his mind as she gave him more than any man could expect and only a few might dream of. The strength of her body and her mind, the delicacy of both. They were his, and he didn’t have to ask. They’d be his as long as his arms could hold her and open wide enough to give her room.

Knowing only that she loved, Kirby gave. His body heated beneath hers, lean and hard. Disciplined. Somehow the word excited her. He knew who he was and what he wanted. He’d work for both. And he wouldn’t demand that she lose any part of what she was to suit that.

His shoulders were firm. Not so broad they would overwhelm her, but wide enough to offer security when she needed it. She brushed her lips over them. There were muscles in his arms, but subtle, not something he’d flex to show her his superiority, but there to protect if she chose to be protected. She ran her fingers over them. His hands were clever, elegantly masculine. They wouldn’t hold her back from the places she had to go, but they would be there, held out, when she returned. She pressed her mouth to one, then the other.

No one had ever loved him just like this—patiently, devotedly. He wanted nothing more than to go on feeling those long, slow strokes of her fingers, those moist, lingering traces of her lips. He felt each in every pore. A total experience. He could see the glossy black fall of her hair as it tumbled over his skin and hear the murmur of her approval as she touched him.

The house was quiet again, but for the low, simmering sound of the music. The quilt was soft under his back. The light was dim and gentle—the best light for lovers. And while he lay, she loved him until he was buried under layer upon layer of pleasure. This he would give back to her.

He could touch the silk, and her flesh, knowing that both were exquisite. He could taste her lips and know that he’d never go hungry as long as she was there. When he heard her sigh, he knew he’d be content with no other sound. The need for him was in her eyes, clouding them, so that he knew he could live with little else as long as he could see her face.

Patience began to fade in each of them. He could feel her body spring to frantic life wherever he touched. He could feel his own strain from the need only she brought to him. Desperate, urgent, exclusive. If he’d had only a day left to live, he’d have spent every moment of it there, with Kirby in his arms.

She smelled of wood smoke and musky flowers, of woman and of sex, ripe and ready. If he’d had the power, he’d have frozen time just then, as she loomed above him in the moonlight, eyes dark with need, skin flashing against silk.

Then he drew the silk up and over her head so that he could see her as he swore no man would ever see her again. Her hair tumbled down, streaking night against her flesh. Naked and eager, she was every primitive fantasy, every midnight dream. Everything.

Her lips were parted as the breath hurried between them. Passion swamped her so that she shuddered and rushed to take what she needed from him—for him. Everything. Everything and more. With a low sound of triumph, Kirby took him inside her and led the way. Fast, furious.

Her body urged her on relentlessly while her mind exploded with images. Such color, such sound. Such frenzy. Arched back, she moved like lightning, hardly aware of how tightly his hands gripped her hips. But she heard him say her name. She felt him fill her.

The first crest swamped her, shocking her system then thrusting her along to more, and more and more. There was nothing she couldn’t have and nothing she wouldn’t give. Senseless, she let herself go.

With his hands on her, with the taste of her still on his lips, Adam felt his system shudder on the edge of release. For a moment, only a moment, he held back. He could see her above him, poised like a goddess, flesh damp and glowing, hair streaming back as she lifted her hands to it in ecstasy. This he would remember always.

The moon was no longer full, but its light was soft and white. They were still on top of the quilt, tangled close as their breathing settled. As she lay over him, Adam thought of everything Fairchild had said. And everything he could and couldn’t do about it.

Slowly their systems settled, but he could find none of the answers he needed so badly. What answers would there be based on lies and half-truths?

Time. Perhaps time was all he had now. But how much or how little was no longer up to him. With a sigh, he shifted and ran a hand down her back.

Kirby rose on an elbow. Her eyes were no longer clouded, but saucy and clear. She smiled, touched a fingertip to her own lips and then to his. “Next time you’re in town, cowboy,” she drawled as she tossed her hair over her shoulder, “don’t forget to ask for Lulu.”

She’d expected him to grin, but he grabbed her hair and held her just as she was. There was no humor in his eyes, but the intensity she’d seen when he held a paint-brush. His muscles had tensed, she could feel it.

“Adam?”

“No, don’t.” He forced his hand to relax, then stroked her cheek. It wouldn’t be spoiled by the wrong word, the wrong move. “I want to remember you just like this. Fresh from loving, with moonlight on your hair.”

He was afraid, unreasonably, that he’d never see her like that again—with that half smile inches away from his face. He’d never feel the warmth of her flesh spread over his with nothing, nothing to separate them.

The panic came fast and was very real. Unable to stop it, Adam pulled her against him and held her as if he’d never let her go.