by Nora Roberts
“Blood pressure be hanged.” She glared up at him with fury surging into her eyes. “Don’t think you’re going to get around me with that. Old?” she tossed back. “You’re still your youngest child.”
“I feel a spell coming on,” he said, inspired by Kirby’s own warning two days before. He pressed a trembling hand to his heart and staggered. “I’ll end up a useless heap of cold spaghetti. Ah, the paintings I might have done. The world’s losing a genius.”
Clenching her fists, Kirby beat them on his worktable. Tools bounced and clattered while she let out a long wail. Protective, Fairchild placed his hands around his hawk and waited for the crisis to pass. At length, she slumped back in the chair, breathless.
“You used to do better than that,” he observed. “I think you’re mellowing.”
“Papa.” Kirby clamped her teeth to keep from grinding them. “I know I’ll be forced to beat you about the head and ears, then I’ll be arrested for patricide. You know I’ve a terror of closed-in places. I’d go mad in prison. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“Kirby, have I ever given you cause for one moment’s worry?”
“Don’t force me into a recital, Papa, it’s after midnight. What have you done with the Rembrandt?”
“Done with it?” He frowned and fiddled with the cover of his hawk. “What do you mean, done with it?”
“Where is it?” she asked, carefully spacing the words. “You can’t leave a painting like that lying around the house, particularly when you’ve chosen to have company.”
“Company? Oh, you mean Adam. Fine boy. I’m fond of him already.” His eyebrows wiggled twice. “You seem to be finding him agreeable.”
Kirby narrowed her eyes. “Leave Adam out of this.”
“Dear, dear, dear.” Fairchild grinned lavishly. “And I thought you’d brought him up.”
“Where is the Rembrandt?” All claim to patience disintegrated. Briefly, she considered banging her head on the table, but she’d given up that particular ploy at ten.
“Safe and secure, my sweet.” Fairchild’s voice was calm and pleased. “Safe and secure.”
“Here? In the house?”
“Of course.” He gave her an astonished look. “You don’t think I’d keep it anywhere else?”
“Where?”
“You don’t need to know everything.” With a flourish, he whipped off his painting smock and tossed it over a chair. “Just content yourself that it’s safe, hidden with appropriate respect and affection.”
“Papa.”
“Kirby.” He smiled—a gentle father’s smile. “A child must trust her parent, must abide by the wisdom of his years. You do trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
He cut her off with the first bars of “Daddy’s Little Girl” in a wavering falsetto.
Kirby moaned and lowered her head to the table. When would she learn? And how was she going to deal with him this time? He continued to sing until the giggles welled up and escaped. “You’re incorrigible.” She lifted her head and took a deep breath. “I have this terrible feeling that you’re leaving out a mountain of details and that I’m going to go along with you anyway.”
“Details, Kirby.” His hand swept them aside. “The world’s too full of details, they clutter things up. Remember, art reflects life, and life’s an illusion. Come now, I’m tired.” He walked to her and held out his hand. “Walk your old papa to bed.”
Defeated, she accepted his hand and stood. Never, never would she learn. And always, always would she adore him. Together they walked from the room.
Adam watched as they started down the steps, arm in arm.
“Papa…” Only feet away from Adam’s hiding place, Kirby stopped. “There is, of course, a logical reason for all this?”
“Kirby.” Adam could see the mobile face move into calm, sober lines. “Have I ever done anything without a sensible, logical reason?”
She started with a near-soundless chuckle. In moments, her laughter rang out, rich and musical. It echoed back, faint and ghostly, until she rested her head against her father’s shoulder. In the half-light, with her eyes shining, Adam thought she’d never looked more alluring. “Oh, my papa,” she began in a clear contralto. “To me he is so wonderful.” Linking her arm through Fairchild’s, she continued down the steps.
Rather pleased with himself, and with his offspring, Fairchild joined her in his wavery falsetto. Their mixed voices drifted over Adam until the distance swallowed them.
Leaving the shadows, he stood at the head of the stairway. Once he heard Kirby’s laugh, then there was silence.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” he murmured.
Both Fairchilds were probably mad. They fascinated him.
CHAPTER 5
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, somethin
g 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.”
