The Art of Deception

herself. Another first. It wasn’t going to go on, she determined. Whatever the cost, she was going to whip Kirby Fairchild back into shape. Starting now. At a brisk pace, she started back to the cabin.

    She liked the way it looked, set deep in the trees by itself. The roof was pitched high and the glass sparkled. Today, she thought as she went in through the back door, she’d work. After she’d worked, she’d eat until she couldn’t move.
    Peeling off her coat as she went, she walked directly to the worktable she’d set up in the corner of the living room. Without looking around, she tossed the coat aside and looked at her equipment. She hadn’t touched it in days. Now she sat and picked up a formless piece of wood. This was to be her Passion . Perhaps now more than ever, she needed to put that emotion into form.
    There was silence as she explored the feel and life of the wood in her hands. She thought of Adam, of the nights, the touches, the tastes. It hurt. Passion could. Using it, she began to work.
     
    An hour slipped by. She only noticed when her fingers cramped. With a sigh, she set the wood down and stretched them. The healing had begun. She could be certain of it now. “A start,” she murmured to herself. “It’s a start.”
    “It’s Passion . I can already see it.”
    The knife slipped out of her hand and clattered on the table as she whirled. Across the room, calmly sitting in a faded wingback chair, was Adam. She’d nearly sprung out of the chair to go to him before she stopped herself. He looked the same, just the same. But nothing was. That she had to remember.
    “How did you get in here?”
    He heard the ice in her voice. But he’d seen her eyes. In that one instant, she’d told him everything he’d ached for. Still, he knew she couldn’t be rushed. “The front door wasn’t locked.” He rose and crossed to her. “I came inside to wait for you, but when you came in, you looked so intense; then you started right in. I didn’t want to disturb your work.” When she said nothing, he picked up the wood and turned it over in his hand. He thought it smoldered. “Amazing,” he murmured. “Amazing what power you have.” Just holding it made him want her more, made him want what she’d put into the wood. Carefully he set it down again, but his eyes were just as intense when he studied her. “What the hell’ve you been doing? Starving yourself?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” She stood and walked away from him, but she didn’t know where to go.
    “Am I to blame for that, too?”
    His voice was quiet, serious. She’d never be able to resist that tone. Gathering her strength, she turned back to him. “Did Tulip send you to check up on me?”
    She was too thin. Damn it. Had the pounds melted off her? She was so small. How could she be so small and look so arrogant? He wanted to go to her. Beg. He was nearly certain she’d listen now. Yet she wouldn’t want it that way. Instead, he tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “This is a cozy little place. I wandered around a bit while you were out.”
    “Glad you made yourself at home.”
    “It’s everything Harriet said it would be.” He looked at her again and smiled. “Isolated, cozy, charming.”
    She lifted a brow. It was easiest with the distance between them. “You’ve spoken to Harriet?”
    “I took your portrait to the gallery.”
    Emotion came and went again in her eyes. Picking up a small brass pelican, she caressed it absently. “My portrait?”
    “I promised her she could exhibit it when I’d finished.” He watched her nervous fingers run over the brass. “It wasn’t difficult to finish without you. I saw you everywhere I looked.”
    Quickly she turned to walk to the front wall. It was all glass, open to the woods. No one could feel trapped with that view. Kirby clung to it. “Harriet’s having a difficult time.”
    “The strain shows a bit.” In her, he thought, and in you. “I think it’s better for her that Melanie won’t see her at this point. With Stuart out of the way, the gallery’s keeping Harriet busy.” He stared at her back, trying to imagine what expression he’d find on her face. “Why aren’t you pressing charges, Kirby?”
    “For what purpose?” she countered. She set the piece of brass down. A crutch was a crutch, and she was through with them. “Both Stuart and Melanie are disgraced, banished from the elite that means so much to them. The