The Art of Deception

and your soul’s lost.” The accent was gone. Her voice was low and smooth, hinting of European finishing schools. Adam’s eyes narrowed. “You’re determined to be better than I,” she went on. “Therefore, you were doomed to fail before you began.”
    “Doomed to fail! Doomed to fail, am I?” He was up and dancing again, Scotch sloshing around in his glass. “Philip Fairchild will overcome, you heartless brat. He shall triumph! You’ll eat your words.”
    “Nonsense.” Deliberately, she yawned. “You have your medium, Papa, and I have mine. Learn to live with it.”
    “Never.” He slammed a hand against his heart again. “Defeat is a four-letter word.”
    “Six,” she corrected, and, rising, commandeered the rest of his Scotch.
    He scowled at her, then at his empty glass. “I was speaking metaphorically.”
    “How clever.” She kissed his cheek, transferring soot.
    “Your face is filthy,” Fairchild grumbled.
    Lifting a brow, she ran a finger down his cheek. “So’s yours.”
    They grinned at each other. For a flash, the resemblance was so striking, Adam wondered how he’d missed it. Kirby Fairchild, Philip’s only child, a well-respected artist and eccentric in her own right. Just what, Adam wondered, was the darling of the jet set doing scrubbing out hearths?
    “Come along, Adam.” Kirby turned to him with a casual smile. “I’ll show you to your room. You look tired. Oh, Papa,” she added as she moved to the door, “this week’s issue of People came. It’s on the server. That’ll keep him entertained,” she said to Adam as she led him up the stairs.
    He followed her slowly, noting that she walked with the faultless grace of a woman who’d been taught how to move. The pigtails swung at her back. Jeans, worn white at the stress points, had no designer label on the back pocket. Her canvas Nikes had broken shoelaces.
    Kirby glided along the second floor, passing half a dozen doors before she stopped. She glanced at her hands, then at Adam. “You’d better open it. I’ll get the knob filthy.”
    He pushed open the door and felt like he was stepping back in time. Wedgwood blue dominated the color scheme. The furniture was all Middle Georgian—carved armchairs, ornately worked tables. Again there were paintings, but this time, it was the woman behind him who held his attention.
    “Why did you do that?”
    “Do what?”
    “Put on that act at the door.” He walked back to where she stood at the threshold. Looking down, he calculated that she barely topped five feet. For the second time he had the urge to brush the soot from her face to discover what lay beneath.
    “You looked so polished, and you positively glowered.” She leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. There was an elegance about him that intrigued her, because his eyes were sharp and arrogant. Though she didn’t smile, the amusement in her expression was soft and ripe. “You were expecting a dimwitted parlor maid, so I made it easy for you. Cocktails at seven. Can you find your way back, or shall I come for you?”
    He’d make do with that for now. “I’ll find it.”
    “All right. Ciao , Adam.”
    Unwillingly fascinated, he watched her until she’d turned the corner at the end of the hall. Perhaps Kirby Fairchild would be as interesting a nut to crack as her father. But that was for later.
    Adam closed the door and locked it. His bags were already set neatly beside the rosewood wardrobe. Taking the briefcase, Adam spun the combination lock and drew up the lid. He pulled out a small transmitter and flicked a switch.
    “I’m in.”
    “Password,” came the reply.
    He swore, softly and distinctly. “Seagull. And that is, without a doubt, the most ridiculous password on record.”
    “Routine, Adam. We’ve got to follow routine.”
    “Sure.” There’d been nothing routine since he’d stopped his car at the end of the winding uphill drive. “I’m in, McIntyre, and I want you to know how much I appreciate your dumping me in this madhouse.” With a flick of his thumb, he cut McIntyre off.
     
    Without stopping to wash, Kirby jogged up the steps to her father’s studio. She opened the door, then slammed it so that jars and tubes of paint shuddered on their shelves.
    “What have you done this time?” she demanded.
    “I’m starting over.” Wispy brows knit, he huddled over a moist lump of clay. “Fresh start. Rebirth.”
    “I’m not talking about your futile attempts with clay. Adam Haines,”