The Art of Deception

fierce, so that the simple setting had a frenzied kind of motion. No, it didn’t sit still waiting for admiration. It reached out and grabbed by the throat. It spoke of pain, of triumph, of agonies and joys. Her lips tilted because she had no choice. Van Gogh, she knew, could have done no better.
    “Papa.” When she turned her head, their eyes met in perfect understanding. “You are incomparable.”
     
    By seven, Kirby had not only resigned herself to their house guest, but was prepared to enjoy him. It was a basic trait of her character to enjoy what she had to put up with. As she poured vermouth into a glass, she realized she was looking forward to seeing him again, and to getting beneath the surface gloss. She had a feeling there might be some fascinating layers in Adam Haines.

    She dropped into a high-backed chair, crossed her legs and tuned back in to her father’s rantings.
    “It hates me, fails me at every turn. Why, Kirby?” He spread his hands in an impassioned plea. “I’m a good man, loving father, faithful friend.”
    “It’s your attitude, Papa.” She shrugged a shoulder as she drank. “Your emotional plane’s faulty.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with my emotional plane.” Sniffing, Fairchild lifted his glass. “Not a damn thing wrong with it. It’s the clay that’s the problem, not me.”
    “You’re cocky,” she said simply. Fairchild made a sound like a train straining up a long hill.
    “Cocky? Cocky? What the devil kind of word is that?”
    “Adjective. Two syllables, five letters.”
    Adam heard the byplay as he walked toward the parlor. After a peaceful afternoon, he wondered if he was ready to cope with another bout of madness. Fairchild’s voice was rising steadily, and as Adam paused in the doorway, he saw that the artist was up and shuffling again.
    McIntyre was going to pay for this, Adam decided. He’d see to it that revenge was slow and thorough. When Fairchild pointed an accusing finger, Adam followed its direction. For an instant he was totally and uncharacteristically stunned.
    The woman in the chair was so completely removed from the grimy, pigtailed chimney sweep, he found it nearly impossible to associate the two. She wore a thin silk dress as dark as her hair, draped at the bodice and slit up the side to show off one smooth thigh. He studied her profile as she watched her father rant. It was gently molded, classically oval with a very subtle sweep of cheekbones. Her lips were full, curved now in just a hint of a smile. Without the soot, her skin was somewhere between gold and honey with a look of luxurious softness. Only the eyes reminded him this was the same woman—gray and large and amused. Lifting one hand, she tossed back the dark hair that covered her shoulders.
    There was something more than beauty here. Adam knew he’d seen women with more beauty than Kirby Fairchild. But there was something… He groped for the word, but it eluded him.
    As if sensing him, she turned—just her head. Again she stared at him, openly and with curiosity, as her father continued his ravings. Slowly, very slowly, she smiled. Adam felt the power slam into him.
    Sex, he realized abruptly. Kirby Fairchild exuded sex the way other women exuded perfume. Raw, unapologetic sex.
    With a quick assessment typical of him, Adam decided she wouldn’t be easy to deceive. However he handled Fairchild, he’d have to tread carefully with Fairchild’s daughter. He decided as well that he already wanted to make love to her. He’d have to tread very carefully.
    “Adam.” She spoke in a soft voice that nonetheless carried over her father’s shouting. “You seem to have found us. Come in, Papa’s nearly done.”
    “Done? I’m undone. And by my own child.” Fairchild moved toward Adam as he entered the room. “Cocky, she says. I ask you, is that a word for a daughter to use?”
    “An aperitif?” Kirby asked. She rose with a fluid motion that Adam had always associated with tall, willowy women.
    “Yes, thank you.”

    “Your room’s agreeable?” His face wreathed in smiles again, Fairchild plopped down on the sofa.
    “Very agreeable.” The best way to handle it, Adam decided, was to pretend everything was normal. Pretenses were, after all, part of the game. “You have an…exceptional house.”
    “I’m fond of it.” Content, Fairchild leaned back. “It was built near the turn of the century by a wealthy and insane English lord. You’ll take Adam on a tour tomorrow,