The Art of Deception

name clicked, but Adam continued to sketch. “The same Hiller who runs the Merrick Gallery?”
    “The same.” He heard the tightening in her voice. For a moment he wanted to drop it, to leave her to her privacy and her anger. The job came first.
    “I know him by reputation,” Adam continued. “I’d planned to see the gallery. It’s about twenty miles from here, isn’t it?”
    She paled a bit, which confused him, but when she spoke her voice was steady. “Yes, it’s not far. Under the circumstances, I’m afraid I can’t take you.”
    “You may mend your differences over the weekend.” Prying wasn’t his style. He had a distaste for it, particularly when it involved someone he was beginning to care about. When he lifted his gaze, however, he didn’t see discomfort. She was livid.
    “I think not.” She made a conscious effort to relax her hands. Noting the gesture, Adam wondered how much it cost her. “It occurred to me that my name would be Fairchild-Hiller.” She gave a slow, rolling shrug. “That would never do.”
    “The Merrick Gallery has quite a reputation.”
    “Yes. As a matter of fact, Melanie’s mother owns it, and managed it until a couple of years ago.”
    “Melanie? Didn’t you say her name was Burgess?”
    “She was married to Carlyse Burgess—Burgess Enterprises. They’re divorced.”
    “So, she’s Harriet Merrick’s daughter.” The cast of players was increasing. “Mrs. Merrick’s given the running of the gallery over to Hiller?”
    “For the most part. She dips her hand in now and then.”
    Adam saw that she’d relaxed again, and concentrated on the shape of her eyes. Round? Not quite, he decided. They were nearly almond shaped, but again, not quite. Like Kirby, they were simply unique.
    “Whatever my personal feelings, Stuart’s a knowledgeable dealer.” She gave a quick, short laugh. “Since she hired him, she’s had time to travel. Harriet’s just back from an African safari. When I phoned her the other day, she told me she’d brought back a necklace of crocodile teeth.”

    To his credit, Adam closed his eyes only briefly. “Your families are close, then. I imagine your father’s done a lot of dealing through the Merrick Gallery.”
    “Over the years. Papa had his first exhibition there, more than thirty years ago. It sort of lifted his and Harriet’s careers off at the same time.” Straightening in her chair, Kirby frowned across the table. “Let me see what you’ve done.”
    “In a minute,” he muttered, ignoring her outstretched hand.
    “Your manners sink to my level when it’s convenient, I see.” Kirby plopped back in her chair. When he didn’t comment, she screwed her face into unnatural lines.
    “I wouldn’t do that for long,” Adam advised. “You’ll hurt yourself. When I start in oil, you’ll have to behave or I’ll beat you.”
    Kirby relaxed her face because her jaw was stiffening. “Corkscrews, you wouldn’t beat me. You have the disadvantage of being a gentleman, inside and out.”
    Lifting his head, he pinned her with a look. “Don’t bank on it.”
    The look alone stopped whatever sassy rejoinder she might have made. It wasn’t the look of a gentleman, but of a man who made his own way however he chose. Before she could think of a proper response, the sound of shouting and wailing drifted up the tower steps and through the open door. Kirby made no move to spring up and investigate. She merely smiled.
    “I’m going to ask two questions,” Adam decided. “First, what the hell is that?”
    “Which that is that, Adam?” Her eyes were dove gray and guileless.
    “The sound of mourning.”

    “Oh, that.” Grinning, she reached over and snatched his sketch pad. “That’s Papa’s latest tantrum because his sculpture’s not going well—which of course it never will. Does my nose really tilt that way?” Experimentally she ran her finger down it. “Yes, I guess it does. What was your other question?”
    “Why do you say ‘corkscrews’ or something equally ridiculous when a simple ‘hell’ or ‘damn’ would do?”
    “It has to do with cigars. You really must show these sketches to Papa. He’ll want to see them.”
    “Cigars.” Determined to have her full attention, Adam grabbed the pad away from her.
    “Those big, nasty, fat ones. Papa used to smoke them by the carload. You needed a gas mask just to come in the door. I begged, threatened, even tried smoking them myself.” She swallowed on that