The Art of Deception

deep affection for that painting.” With a hefty sigh, he leaned back with his drink. “Its value goes below the surface.”
    “He still begrudges me my sitting fee.” Kirby sent her father a sweet smile. “He forgets I never collected for any of the others.”
    “You never posed for the others,” Fairchild reminded her.
    “I never signed a release for them, either.”
    “Melly posed for me out of the goodness of her heart.”
    “Melly’s nicer than I am,” Kirby said simply. “I like being selfish.”
    “Heartless creature,” Harriet put in mildly. “It’s so selfish of you to teach sculpture in the summer to those handicapped children.”
    Catching Adam’s surprised glance, Kirby shifted uncomfortably. “Harriet, think of my reputation.”
    “She’s sensitive about her good deeds,” Harriet told Adam with a squeeze for his knee.
    “I simply had nothing else to do.” With a shrug, Kirby turned away. “Are you going to Saint Moritz this year, Melly?”
    Fraud, Adam thought as he watched her guide the subject away from herself. A beautiful, sensitive fraud. And finding her so, he loved her more.
    By the time Harriet and Melanie rose to leave, Kirby was fighting off a raging headache. Too much strain, she knew, but she wouldn’t admit it. She could tell herself she needed only a good night’s sleep, and nearly believe it.
    “Kirby.” Harriet swirled her six-foot shawl over her shoulder before she took Kirby’s chin in her hand. “You look tired, and a bit pale. I haven’t seen you look pale since you were thirteen and had the flu. I remember you swore you’d never be ill again.”
    “After that disgusting medicine you poured down my throat, I couldn’t afford to. I’m fine.” But she threw her arms around Harriet’s neck and held on. “I’m fine, really.”
    “Mmm.” Over her head, Harriet frowned at Fairchild. “You might think about Australia. We’ll put some color in your cheeks.”
    “I will. I love you.”
    “Go to sleep, child,” Harriet murmured.
    The moment the door was closed, Adam took Kirby’s arm. Ignoring her father and Rick, he began to pull her up the stairs. “You belong in bed.”
    “Shouldn’t you be dragging me by the hair instead of the arm?”
    “Some other time, when my intentions are less peaceful.” He stopped outside her door. “You’re going to sleep.”
    “Tired of me already?”
    The words were hardly out of her mouth when his covered it. Holding her close, he let himself go for a moment, releasing the needs, the desires, the love. He could feel her heart thud, her bones melt. “Can’t you see how tired I am of you?” He kissed her again with his hands framing her face. “You must see how you bore me.”
    “Anything I can do?” she murmured, slipping her hands under his jacket.
    “Get some rest.” He took her by the shoulders. “This is your last opportunity to sleep alone.”
    “Am I sleeping alone?”
    It wasn’t easy for him. He wanted to devour her, he wanted to delight her. He wanted, more than anything else, to have a clean slate between them before they made love again. If she hadn’t looked so weary, so worn, he’d have told her everything then and there. “This may come as a shock to you,” he said lightly. “But you’re not Wonder Woman.”
    “Really?”
    “You’re going to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow.” He took her hands and the look, the sudden intenseness, confused her. “Tomorrow, Kirby, we have to talk.”
    “About what?”
    “Tomorrow,” he repeated before he could change his mind. “Rest now.” He gave her a nudge inside. “If you’re not feeling any better tomorrow, you’re going to stay in bed and be pampered.”
    She managed one last wicked grin. “Promise?”

Chapter 11
    I t was clear after Kirby had tossed in bed and fluffed up her pillow for more than an hour that she wasn’t going to get the rest everyone seemed to want for her. Her body was dragging, but her mind refused to give in to it.
    She tried. For twenty minutes she recited dull poetry. Closing her eyes, she counted five hundred and twenty-seven camels. She turned on her bedside radio and found chamber music. She was, after all of it, wide awake.
    It wasn’t fear. If Stuart had indeed tried to kill her, he’d failed. She had her own wits, and she had Adam. No, it wasn’t fear.
    The Rembrandt. She couldn’t think of anything else after seeing Harriet laughing, after remembering how Harriet had nursed her