The Art of Deception Read Free

altruistic.”
    â€œHah.”
    â€œAdam Haines is a brilliant young artist. You’ve said so yourself.”
    â€œYes, he is, and I’m sure he’d be delightful company under different circumstances.” She leaned forward, grabbing her father’s chin in her hand. “Not now.”
    â€œUngracious,” Fairchild said with disapproval. “Your mother, rest her soul, would be very disappointed in you.”
    Kirby ground her teeth. “Papa, the Van Gogh!”
    â€œComing along nicely,” he assured her. “Just a few more days.”
    Knowing she was in danger of tearing out her hair, she stalked to the tower window. “Oh, bloody murder.”
    Senility, she decided. It had to be senility. How could he consider having that man here now? Next week, next month, but now? That man, Kirby thought ruthlessly, was nobody’s fool.
    At first glance she’d decided he wasn’t just attractive—very attractive—but sharp. Those big camel’s eyes gleamed with intelligence. The long, thin mouth equaled determination. Perhaps he was a bit pompous in his bearing and manner, but he wasn’t soft. No, she was certain instinctively that Adam Haines would be hard as nails.
    She’d like to do him in bronze, she mused. The straight nose, the sharp angles and planes in his face. His hair was nearly the color of deep, polished bronze, and just a tad too long for convention. She’d want to capture his air of arrogance and authority. But not now!
    Sighing, she moved her shoulders. Behind her back, Fairchild grinned. When she turned back to him, he was studiously intent on his clay.
    â€œHe’ll want to come up here, you know.” Despite the soot, she dipped her hands in her pockets. They had a problem; now it had to be dealt with. For the better part of her life, Kirby had sorted through the confusion her father gleefully created. The truth was, she’d have had it no other way. “It would seem odd if we didn’t show him your studio.”
    â€œWe’ll show him tomorrow.”
    â€œHe mustn’t see the Van Gogh.” Kirby planted her feet, prepared to do battle on this one point, if not the others. “You’re not going to make this more complicated than you already have.”
    â€œHe won’t see it. Why should he?” Fairchild glanced up briefly, eyes wide. “It has nothing to do with him.”
    Though she realized it was foolish, Kirby was reassured. No, he wouldn’t see it, she thought. Her father might be a little…unique, she decided, but he wasn’t careless. Neither was she. “Thank God it’s nearly finished.”
    â€œAnother few days and off it goes, high into the mountains of South America.” He made a vague, sweeping gesture with his hands.
    Moving over, Kirby uncovered the canvas that stood on an easel in the far corner. She studied it as an artist, as a lover of art and as a daughter.
    The pastoral scene was not peaceful but vibrant. The brush strokes were jagged, almost 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.
    â€œPapa.” When she turned her head, their eyes met in perfect understanding. “You are incomparable.”
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    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.
    â€œIt