The Art of Deception

education. “Of course you are,” she continued before he could comment. “This place attracts artists like a magnet. I have one of your paintings.”
    “Do you?” Adam lit her cigarette, then one of his own. “Which one?”
    “A Study in Blue.” Melanie tilted her face to smile into his eyes, a neat little feminine trick she’d learned soon after she’d learned to walk.
    From across the table, Kirby studied them both. Two extraordinary faces, she decided. The tips of her fingers itched to capture Adam in bronze. A year before, she’d done Melanie in ivory—smooth, cool and perfect. With Adam, she’d strive for the undercurrents.
    “I wanted the painting because it was so strong,” Melanie continued. “But I nearly let it go because it made me sad. You remember, Kirby. You were there.”
    “Yes, I remember.” When she looked up at him, her eyes were candid and amused, without the traces of flirtation that flitted in Melanie’s. “I was afraid she’d break down and disgrace herself, so I threatened to buy it myself. Papa was furious that I didn’t.”
    “Uncle Philip could practically stock the Louvre already,” Melanie said with a casual shrug.
    “Some people collect stamps,” Kirby returned, then smiled again. “The still life in my room is Melanie’s work, Adam. We studied together in France.”
    “No, don’t ask,” Melanie said quickly, holding up her hand. “I’m not an artist. I’m a designer who dabbles.”
    “Only because you refuse to dig your toes in.”
    Melanie inclined her head, but didn’t agree or refute. “I must go. Tell Uncle Philip I said hello. I won’t risk disturbing him, as well.”

    “Stay for lunch, Melly. We haven’t seen you in two months.”
    “Another time.” She rose with the grace of one who’d been taught to sit and stand and walk. Adam stood with her, catching the drift of Chanel. “I’ll see you this weekend at the party.” With another smile, she offered Adam her hand. “You’ll come, too, won’t you?”
    “I’d like that.”
    “Wonderful.” Snapping open her bag, Melanie drew out thin leather gloves. “Nine o’clock, Kirby. Don’t forget. Oh!” On her way to the door, she stopped, whirling back. “Oh, God, the invitations were sent out before I… Kirby, Stuart’s going to be there.”
    “I won’t pack my derringer, Melly.” She laughed, but it wasn’t quite as rich or quite as free. “You look as though someone’s just spilled caviar on your Saint Laurent. Don’t worry about it.” She paused, and the chill passed quickly in and out of her eyes. “I promise you, I won’t.”
    “If you’re sure…” Melanie frowned. It was, however, not possible to discuss such a thing in depth in front of a guest. “As long as you won’t be uncomfortable.”
    “I won’t be the one who suffers discomfort.” The careless arrogance was back.
    “Saturday, then.” Melanie gave Adam a final smile before she slipped from the room.
    “A beautiful woman,” Adam commented, coming back to the table.
    “Yes, exceptional.” The simple agreement had no undertones of envy or spite.
    “How do two women, two exceptional women, of totally different types, remain friends?”
    “By not attempting to change one another.” She picked up the wood again and began to roll it around in her hands. “I overlook what I see as Melanie’s faults, and she overlooks mine.” She saw the pad and pencil in his hand and lifted a brow. “What’re you doing?”
    “Some preliminary sketches. What are your faults?”
    “Too numerous to mention.” Setting the wood down again, she leaned back.
    “Any good points?”
    “Dozens.” Perhaps it was time to test him a bit, to see what button worked what switch. “Loyalty,” she began breezily. “Sporadic patience and honesty.”
    “Sporadic?”
    “I’d hate to be perfect.” She ran her tongue over her teeth. “And I’m terrific in bed.”
    His gaze shifted to her bland smile. Just what game was Kirby Fairchild playing? His lips curved as easily as hers. “I bet you are.”
    Laughing, she leaned forward again, chin cupped in her hands. “You don’t rattle easily, Adam. It makes me all the more determined to keep trying.”
    “Telling me something I’d already concluded isn’t likely to rattle me. Who’s Stuart?”
    The question had her stiffening. She’d challenged him, Kirby conceded, now she had to meet one of his. “A former fiancé,” she said evenly. “Stuart Hiller.”
    The