The Art of Deception

floor, then veered sharply and became straight and narrow. Kirby stopped at the transition point and gestured down the hall.
    “The floor plan is the same as the second floor. There’s a set of stairs at the opposite side that lead to my studio. The rest of these rooms are rarely used.” She gave him the slow smile as she linked hands. “Of course, the entire floor’s haunted.”
    “Of course.” He found it only natural. Without a word, he followed her to the tower.

Chapter 3
    N ormalcy. Tubes of paint were scattered everywhere, brushes stood in jars. The scent of oil and turpentine hung in the air. This Adam understood—the debris and the sensuality of art.
    The room was rounded with arching windows and a lofty ceiling. The floor might have been beautiful at one time, but now the wood was dull and splattered and smeared with paints and stains. Canvases were in the corners, against the walls, stacked on the floor.
    Kirby gave the room a swift, thorough study. When she saw all was as it should be, the tension eased from her shoulders. Moving across the room, she went to her father.
    He sat, motionless and unblinking, staring down at a partially formed mound of clay. Without speaking, Kirby walked around the worktable, scrutinizing the clay from all angles. Fairchild’s eyes remained riveted on his work. After a few moments, Kirby straightened, rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and pursed her lips.
    “Mmm.”
    “That’s only your opinion,” Fairchild snapped.
    “It certainly is.” For a moment, she nibbled on her thumbnail. “You’re entitled to another. Adam, come have a look.”
    He sent her a killing glance that caused her to grin. Trapped by manners, he crossed the studio and looked down at the clay.
    It was, he supposed, an adequate attempt—a partially formed hawk, talons exposed, beak just parted. The power, the life, that sung in his paints, and in his daughter’s sculptures, just wasn’t there. In vain, Adam searched for a way out.
    “Hmm,” he began, only to have Kirby pounce on the syllable.
    “There, he agrees with me.” Kirby patted her father’s head and looked smug.
    “What does he know?” Fairchild demanded. “He’s a painter.”
    “And so, darling Papa, are you. A brilliant one.”
    He struggled not to be pleased and poked a finger into the clay. “Soon, you hateful brat, I’ll be a brilliant sculptor as well.”
    “I’ll get you some Play-Doh for your birthday,” she offered, then let out a shriek as Fairchild grabbed her ear and twisted. “Fiend.” With a sniff, she rubbed at the lobe.
    “Mind your tongue or I’ll make a Van Gogh of you.”
    As Adam watched, the little man cackled; Kirby, however, froze—face, shoulders, hands. The fluidity he’d noticed in her even when she was still vanished. It wasn’t annoyance, he thought, but…fear? Not of Fairchild. Kirby, he was certain, would never be afraid of a man, particularly her father. For Fairchild was more feasible, and just as baffling.
    She recovered quickly enough and tilted her chin. “I’m going to show Adam my studio. He can settle in.”
    “Good, good.” Because he recognized the edge to her voice, Fairchild patted her hand. “Damn pretty girl, isn’t she, Adam?”
    “Yes, she is.”
    As Kirby heaved a gusty sigh, Fairchild patted her hand again. The clay on his smeared onto hers. “See, my sweet, aren’t you grateful for those braces now?”
    “Papa.” With a reluctant grin, Kirby laid her cheek against his balding head. “I never wore braces.”
    “Of course not. You inherited your teeth from me.” He gave Adam a flashing smile and a wink. “Come back when you’ve got settled, Adam. I need some masculine company.” He pinched Kirby’s cheek lightly. “And don’t think Adam’s going to sniff around your ankles like Rick Potts.”
    “Adam’s nothing like Rick,” Kirby murmured as she picked up a rag and wiped the traces of clay from her hands. “Rick is sweet.”
    “She inherited her manners from the milkman,” Fairchild observed.
    She shot a look at Adam. “I’m sure Adam can be sweet, too.” But there was no confidence in her voice. “Rick’s forte is watercolor. He’s the sort of man women want to mother. I’m afraid he stutters a bit when he gets excited.”
    “He’s madly in love with our little Kirby.” Fairchild would’ve cackled again, but for the look his daughter sent him.
    “He just thinks he is. I don’t encourage him.”
    “What about the