by Nora Roberts
an interesting diversion for a short time, I thank God you never got your hands on me or my money.”
Before she could sweep around him, he grabbed her arm. “You’d better remember your father’s habits before you sling mud.”
She dropped her gaze to his hand, then slowly raised it again. It was a look designed to infuriate. “Do you honestly compare yourself with my father?” Her fury came out on a laugh, and the laugh was insult itself. “You’ll never have his style, Stuart. You’re second-rate, and you’ll always be second-rate.”
He brought the back of his hand across her face hard enough to make her stagger. She didn’t make a sound. When she stared up at him, her eyes were slits, very dark, very dangerous slits. The pain meant nothing, only that he’d caused it and she had no way to pay him back in kind. Yet.
“You prove my point,” Kirby said evenly as she brushed her fingers over her cheek. “Second-rate.”
He wanted to hit her again, but balled his hands into fists. He needed her, for the moment. “I’m through playing games, Kirby. I want the Rembrandt.”
“I’d take a knife to it before I saw Papa hand it over to you. You’re out of your class, Stuart.” She didn’t bother to struggle when he grabbed her arms.
“Two days, Kirby. You tell the old man he has two days or it’s you who’ll pay.”
“Threats and physical abuse are your only weapons.” Abruptly, with more effort than she allowed him to see, Kirby turned her anger to ice. “I’ve weapons of my own, Stuart, infinitely more effective. And if I chose to drop to gutter tactics, you haven’t the finesse to deal with me.” She kept her eyes on his, her body still. He might curse her, but Stuart knew the truth when he heard it. “You’re a snake,” she added quietly. “And you can’t stay off your belly for long. The fact that you’re stronger than I is only a temporary advantage.”
“Very temporary,” Adam said as he closed the door at his back. His voice matched Kirby’s chill for chill. “Take your hands off her.”
Kirby felt the painful grip on her arms relax and watched Stuart struggle with composure. Carefully he straightened his tie. “Remember what I said, Kirby. It could be important to you.”
“You remember how Byron described a woman’s revenge,” she countered as she rubbed the circulation back into her arms. “’Like a tiger’s spring—deadly, quick and crushing.’” She dropped her arms to her sides. “It could be important to you.” Turning, she walked to the window and stared out at nothing.
Adam kept his hand on the knob as Stuart walked to the door. “Touch her again and you’ll have to deal with me.” Slowly Adam turned the knob and opened the door. “That’s something else for you to remember.” The sounds of the party flowed in, then silenced again as he shut the door at Stuart’s back.
“Well,” he began, struggling with his own fury. “I guess I should be grateful I don’t have an ex-fiancée hanging around.” He’d heard enough to know that the Rembrandt had been at the bottom of it, but he pushed that aside and went to her. “He’s a poor loser, and you’re amazing. Most women would have been weeping or pleading. You stood there flinging insults.”
“I don’t believe in pleading,” she said as lightly as she could. “And Stuart would never reduce me to tears.”
“But you’re trembling,” he murmured as he put his hands on her shoulders.
“Anger.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She didn’t care to show a weakness, not to anyone. “I appreciate the white-knight routine.”
He grinned and kissed the top of her head. “Any time. Why don’t we…” He trailed off as he turned her to face him. The mark of Stuart’s hand had faded to a dull, angry red, but it was unmistakable. When Adam touched his fingers to her cheek, his eyes were cold. Colder and more dangerous than she’d ever seen them. Without a word, he spun around and headed for the door.
“No!” Desperation wasn’t characteristic, but she felt it now as she grabbed his arm. “No, Adam, don’t. Don’t get involved.” He shook her off, but she sprinted to the door ahead of him and stood with her back pressed against it. The tears she’d been able to control with Stuart now swam in her eyes. “Please, I’ve enough on my conscience without dragging you into this. I live my life as I choose, and what I get from it is of my own making.”
He wanted to brush her aside and push through the crowd outside the door until he had his hands on Stuart. He wanted, more than he’d ever wanted anything, the pleasure of smelling the other man’s blood. But she was standing in front of him, small and delicate, with tears in her eyes. She wasn’t the kind of woman tears came easily to.
“All right.” He brushed one from her cheek and made a promise on it. Before it was over, he would indeed smell Stuart Hiller’s blood. “You’re only postponing the inevitable.”
Relieved, she closed her eyes a moment. When she opened them again, they were still damp, but no longer desperate. “I don’t believe in the inevitable.” She took his hand and brought it to her cheek, holding it there a moment until she felt the tension drain from both of them. “You must’ve come in to see my portrait. It’s there, above the desk.”
She gestured, but he didn’t take his eyes from hers. “I’ll have to give it a thorough study, right after I give my attention to the original.” He gathered her close and just held her. It was, though neither one of them had known it, the perfect gesture of support. Resting her head against his shoulder, she thought of peace, and she thought of the plans that had already been put into motion.
“I’m sorry, Adam.”
He heard the regret in her voice and brushed his lips over her hair. “What for?”
“I can’t tell you.” She tightened her arms around his waist and clung to him as she had never clung to anyone. “But I am sorry.”
* * *
The drive away from the Merrick estate was more sedate than the approach. Kirby sat in the passenger seat. Under most circumstances, Adam would’ve attributed her silence and unease to her scene with Hiller. But he remembered her reaction at the mention of the sale of a Titian.
What was going on in that kaleidoscope brain of hers? he wondered. And how was he going to find out? The direct approach, Adam decided, and thought fleetingly that it was a shame to waste the moonlight. “The Titian that’s been sold,” he began, pretending he didn’t see Kirby jolt. “Has Harriet had it long?”
“The Titian.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Oh, years and years. Your Mrs. Birmingham’s shaped like a zucchini, don’t you think?”
“She’s not my Mrs. Birmingham.” A new game, he concluded, and relaxed against the seat. “It’s too bad it was sold before I could see it. I’m a great admirer of Titian. The painting in my room’s exquisite.”
Kirby let out a sound that might have been a nervous giggle. “The one at the gallery is just as exquisite,” she told him. “Ah, here we are, home again. Just leave the car out front,” she said, half relieved, half annoyed, that the next steps were being put into play. “Cards will see to it. I hope you don’t mind coming back early, Adam. There’s Papa,” she added as she stepped from the car. “He must’ve struck out with Harriet. Let’s have a nightcap, shall we?”
She started up the steps without waiting for his agreement. Knowing he was about to become a part of some hastily conceived plan, he went along. It’s all too pat, he mused as Fairchild waited at the door with a genial smile.
“Too many people,” Fairchild announced. “I much prefer small parties. Let’s have a drink in the parlor and gossip.”
Don’t look so bloody anxious, Kirby thought, and nearly scowled at him. “I’ll go tell Cards to see to the Rolls and my car.” Still, she hesitated as the men walked toward the parlor. Adam caught the indecision in her eyes before Fairchild cackled and slapped him on the back.
“And don’t hurry back,” he told Kirby. “I’ve had enough of women for a while.”
“How sweet.” The irony and strength came back into her voice. “I’ll just go in
and eat Tulip’s lemon trifle. All,” she added as she swept past.
Fairchild thought of his midnight snack with regret. “Brat,” he muttered. “Well, we’ll have Scotch instead.”
Adam dipped his hands casually in his pockets and watched every move Fairchild made. “I had a chance to see Kirby’s portrait in Harriet’s library. It’s marvelous.”
“One of my best, if I say so myself.” Fairchild lifted the decanter of Chivas Regal. “Harriet’s fond of my brat, you know.” In a deft move, Fairchild slipped two pills from his pocket and dropped them into the Scotch.
Under normal circumstances Adam would’ve missed it. Clever hands, he thought as intrigued as he was amused. Very quick, very agile. Apparently they wanted him out of the way. He was going to find it a challenge to pit himself against both of them. With a smile, he accepted the drink, then turned to the Corot landscape behind him.
“Corot’s treatment of light,” Adam began, taking a small sip. “It gives all of his work such deep perspective.”
No ploy could’ve worked better. Fairchild was ready to roll. “I’m very partial to Corot. He had such a fine hand with details without being finicky and obscuring the overall painting. Now the leaves,” he began, and set down his drink to point them out. While the lecture went on, Adam set down his own drink, picked up Fairchild’s and enjoyed the Scotch.
Upstairs Kirby found the Titian already wrapped in heavy paper. “Bless you, Cards,” she murmured. She checked her watch and made herself wait a full ten minutes before she picked up the painting and left the room. Quietly she moved down the back stairs and out to where her car waited.
In the parlor, Adam studied Fairchild as he sat in the corner of the sofa, snoring. Deciding the least he could do was to make his host more comfortable, Adam started to swing Fairchild’s legs onto the couch. The sound of a car engine stopped him. Adam was at the window in time to see Kirby’s Porsche race down the drive.
“You’re going to have company,” he promised her. Within moments, he was behind the wheel of the Rolls.
The surge of speed added to Kirby’s sense of adventure. She drove instinctively while she concentrated on her task for the evening. It helped ease the guilt over Adam, a bit.
A quarter mile from the gallery, she stopped and parked on the side of the road. Grateful that the Titian was relatively small, though the frame added weight, she gathered it up again and began to walk. Her heels echoed on the asphalt.
Clouds drifted across the moon, obscuring the light then freeing it again. With her cape swirling around her, Kirby walked into the cover of trees that bordered the gallery. The light was dim, all shadows and secrets. Up ahead came the low moan of an owl. Tossing back her hair, she laughed.
“Perfect,” she decided. “All we need is a rumble of thunder and a few streaks of lightning. Skulking through the woods on a desperate mission,” she mused. “Surrounded by the sounds of night.” She shifted the bundle in her arms and continued on. “What one does for those one loves.”
She could see the stately red brick of the gallery through the trees. Moonlight slanted over it. Almost there, she thought with a quick glance at her watch. In an hour she’d be back home—and perhaps she’d have the lemon trifle after all.
A hand fell heavily on her shoulder. Her cape spread out like wings as she whirled. Great buckets of blood, she thought as she stared up at Adam.
“Out for a stroll?” he asked her.
“Why, hello, Adam.” Since she couldn’t disappear, she had to face him down. She tried a friendly smile. “What are you doing out here?”
“Following you.”
“Flattering. But wasn’t Papa entertaining you?”
“He dozed off.”
She stared up at him a moment, then let out a breath. A wry smile followed it. “I suppose he deserved it. I hope you left him comfortable.”
“Enough. Now what’s in the package?”
Though she knew it was useless, she fluttered her lashes. “Package?”
He tapped his finger on the wrapping.
“Oh, this package. Just a little errand I have to run. It’s getting late, shouldn’t you be starting back?”
“Not a chance.”
“No.” She moved her shoulders. “I thought not.”
“What’s in the package, Kirby, and what do you intend to do with it?”
“All right.” She thrust the painting into his arms because hers were tiring. When the jig was up, you had to make the best of it. “I suppose you deserve an explanation, and you won’t leave until you have one anyway. It has to be the condensed version, Adam, I’m running behind schedule.” She laid a hand on the package he held. “This is the Titian woman, and I’m going to put it in the gallery.”
He lifted a brow. He didn’t need Kirby to tell him that he held a painting. “I was under the impression that the Titian woman was in the gallery.”
“No…” She drew out the word. If she could have thought of a lie, a half-truth, a fable, she’d have used it. She could only think of the truth. “This is a Titian,” she told him with a nod to the package. “The painting in the gallery is a Fairchild.”
He let the silence hang a moment while the moonlight filtered over her face. She looked like an angel…or a witch. “Your father forged a Titian and palmed it off on the gallery as an original?”
“Certainly not!” Indignation wasn’t feigned. Kirby bit back on it and tried to be patient. “I won’t tell you any more if you insult my father.”
“I don’t know what came over me.”
“All right then.” She leaned back against a tree. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning.”
“Good choice.”
“Years ago, Papa and Harriet were vacationing in Europe. They came across the Titian, each one swearing they’d seen it first. Neither one would give way, and it would’ve been criminal to let the painting go altogether. They compromised.” She gestured at the package. “Each paid half, and Papa painted a copy. They rotate ownership of the original every six months, alternating with the copy, if you get the drift. The stipulation was that neither of them could claim ownership. Harriet kept hers in the gallery—not listing it as part of her private collection. Papa kept it in a guest room.”
He considered for a moment. “That’s too ridiculous for you to have made up.”
“Of course I didn’t make it up.” As it could, effectively, her bottom lip pouted. “Don’t you trust me?”
“No. You’re going to do a lot more explaining when we get back.”
Perhaps, Kirby thought. And perhaps not.
“Now just how do you intend to get into the gallery?”
“With Harriet’s keys.”
“She gave you her keys?”
Kirby let out a frustrated breath. “Pay attention, Adam. Harriet’s furious about Stuart selling the painting, but until she studies the contracts there’s no way to know how binding the sale is. It doesn’t look good, and we can’t take a chance on having the painting tested—my father’s painting, that is. If the procedure were sophisticated enough, it might prove that the painting’s not sixteenth-century.”
“Harriet’s aware that a forgery’s hanging in her gallery?”
“An emulation, Adam.”
“And are there any other…emulations in the Merrick Gallery?”
She gave him a long, cool look. “I’m trying not to be annoyed. All of Harriet’s paintings are authentic, as is her half of the Titian.”
“Why didn’t she replace it herself?”
“Because,” Kirby began and checked her watch. Time was slipping away from her. “Not only would it have been difficult for her to disappear from the party early as we did, but it would’ve been awkward altogether. The night watchman could report to Stuart that she came to the gallery in the middle of the night carrying a package. He might put two and two together. Yes, even he might add it up.”
“So what’ll the night watchman have to say about Kirby Fairchild coming into
the gallery in the middle of the night?”
“He won’t see us.” Her smile was quick and very, very smug.
“Us?”
“Since you’re here.” She smiled at him again, and meant it. “I’ve told you everything, and being a gentleman you’ll help me make the switch. We’ll have to work quickly. If we’re caught, we’ll just brazen it out. You won’t have to do anything, I’ll handle it.”
“You’ll handle it.” He nodded at the drifting clouds. “We can all sleep easy now. One condition.” He stopped her before she could speak. “When we’re done, if we’re not in jail or hospitalized, I want to know it all. If we are in jail, I’ll murder you as slowly as possible.”
“That’s two conditions,” she muttered. “But all right.”
They watched each other a moment, one wondering how much would have to be divulged, one wondering how much could be learned. Both found the deceit unpleasant.
“Let’s get it done.” Adam gestured for her to go first.
Kirby walked across the grass and went directly to the main door. From the deep pocket of her cloak, she drew out keys.
“These two switch off the main alarm,” she explained as she turned keys in a series of locks. “And these unbolt the door.” She smiled at the faint click of tumblers. Turning, she studied Adam, standing behind her in his elegant dinner suit. “I’m so glad we dressed for it.”
