The Art of Deception

  She worked in silence, in total concentration. Adam, her father, the Van Gogh were forgotten. The wood in her hand was the center of the universe. There was life there; she could feel it. It only waited for her to find the key to release it. She would find it, and the soaring satisfaction that went hand in hand with the discovery.

  Painting had never given her that. She’d played at it, enjoyed it, but she’d never possessed it. She’d never been possessed by it. Art was a lover that demanded complete allegiance. Kirby understood that.

  As she worked, the wood seemed to take a tentative breath. She felt suddenly, clearly, the temper she sought pushing against the confinement. Nearly—nearly free.

  At the sound of her name, she jerked her head up. “Bloody murder!”

  “Kirby, I’m so sorry.”

  “Melanie.” She swallowed the abuse, barely. “I didn’t hear you come up.” Though she set down her tools, she continued to hold the wood. She couldn’t lose it now. “Come in. I won’t shout at you.”

  “I’m sure you should.” Melanie hesitated at the doorway. “I’m disturbing you.”

  “Yes, you are, but I forgive you. How was New York?” Kirby gestured to a chair as she smiled at her oldest friend.

  Pale blond hair was elegantly styled around a heart-shaped face. Cheekbones, more prominent than Kirby’s, were tinted expertly. The Cupid’s-bow mouth was carefully glossed in deep rose. Kirby decided, as she did regularly, that Melanie Burgess had the most perfect profile ever created.

  “You look wonderful, Melly. Did you have fun?”

  Melanie wrinkled her nose as she brushed off the seat of her chair. “Business. But my spring designs were well received.”

  Kirby brought up her legs and crossed them under her. “I’ll never understand how you can decide in August what we should be wearing next April.” She was losing the power of the wood. Telling herself it would come back, she set it on the table, within reach. “Have you done something nasty to the hemlines again?”

  “You never pay any attention anyway.” She gave Kirby’s sweater a look of despair.

  “I like to think of my wardrobe as timeless rather than trendy.” She grinned, knowing which buttons to push. “This sweater’s barely twelve years old.”

  “And looks every day of it.” Knowing the game and Kirby’s skill, Melanie switched tactics. “I ran into Ellen Parker at 21.”

  “Did you?” After lacing her hands, Kirby rested her chin on them. She never considered gossiping rude, particularly if it was interesting. “I haven’t seen her for months. Is she still spouting French when she wants to be confidential?”

  “You won’t believe it.” Melanie shuddered as she pulled a long, slender cigarette from an enameled case. “I didn’t believe it myself until I saw it with my own eyes. Jerry told me. You remember Jerry Turner, don’t you?”

  “Designs women’s underwear.”

  “Intimate apparel,” Melanie corrected with a sigh. “Really, Kirby.”

  “Whatever. I appreciate nice underwear. So what did he tell you?”

  Melanie pulled out a monogrammed lighter and flicked it on. She took a delicate puff. “He told me that Ellen was having an affair.”

  “There’s news,” Kirby returned dryly. With a yawn, she stretched her arms to the ceiling and relieved the stiffness in her shoulder blades. “Is this number two hundred and three, or have I missed one?”

  “But, Kirby—” Melanie tapped her cigarette for emphasis as she leaned forward “—she’s having this one with her son’s orthodontist.”

  It was the sound of Kirby’s laughter that caused Adam to pause on his way up the tower steps. It rang against the stone walls, rich, real and arousing. He stood as it echoed and faded. Moving quietly, he continued up.

  “Kirby, really. An orthodontist.” Even knowing Kirby as well as she did, Melanie was stunned by her reaction. “It’s so—so middle-class.”

  “Oh, Melanie, you’re such a wonderful snob.” She smothered another chuckle as Melanie gave an indignant huff. When Kirby smiled, it was irresistible. “It’s perfectly acceptable for Ellen to have any number of affairs, as long as she keeps her choice socially prominent but an orthodontist goes beyond good taste?”

  “It’s not acceptable, of course,” Melanie muttered, finding herself caught in the trap of Kirby’s logic. “But if one is discreet, and…”

  “Selective?” Kirby supplied good-naturedly. “Actually, it is rather nasty. Here’s Ellen carrying on with her son’s orthodontist, while poor Harold shells out a fortune for the kid’s overbite. Where’s the justice?”

  “You say the most astonishing things.”

  “Orthodonture work is frightfully expensive.”

  With an exasperated sigh, Melanie tried another change of subject. “How’s Stuart?”

  Though he’d been about to enter, Adam stopped in the doorway and kept his silence. Kirby’s smile had vanished. The eyes that had been alive with humor were frigid. Something hard, strong and unpleasant came into them. Seeing the change, Adam realized she’d make a formidable enemy. There was grit behind the careless wit, the raw sexuality and the eccentric-rich-girl polish. He wouldn’t forget it.

  “Stuart,” Kirby said in a brittle voice. “I really wouldn’t know.”

  “Oh, dear.” At the arctic tone, Melanie caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “Have you two had a row?”

  “A row?” The smile remained unpleasant. “One might put it that way.” Something flared—the temper she’d been prodding out of the wood. With an effort, Kirby shrugged it aside. “As soon as I’d agreed to marry him, I knew I’d made a mistake. I should’ve dealt with it right away.”

  “You’d told me you were having doubts.” After stubbing out her cigarette, Melanie leaned forward to take Kirby’s hands. “I thought it was nerves. You’d never let any relationship get as far as an engagement before.”

  “It was an error in judgment.” No, she’d never let a relationship get as far as an engagement. Engagements equaled commitment. Commitments were a lock, perhaps the only lock, Kirby considered sacred. “I corrected it.”

  “And Stuart? I suppose he was furious.”

  The smile that came back to Kirby’s lips held no humor. “He gave me the perfect escape hatch. You know he’d been pressuring me to set a date?”

  “And I know that you’d been putting him off.”

  “Thank God,” Kirby murmured. “In any case, I’d finally drummed up the courage to renege. I think it was the first time in my life I’ve felt genuine guilt.” Moving her shoulders restlessly, she picked up the wood again. It helped to steady her, helped her to concentrate on temper. “I went by his place, unannounced. It was a now-or-never sort of gesture. I should’ve seen what was up as soon as he answered the door, but I was already into my neat little speech when I noticed a few—let’s say articles of intimate apparel tossed around the room.”

  “Oh, Kirby.”

  Letting out a long breath, Kirby went on. “That part of it was my fault, I suppose. I wouldn’t sleep with him. There was just no driving urge to be intimate with him. No…” She searched for a word. “Heat,” she decided, for lack of anything better. “I guess that’s why I knew I’d never marry him. But, I was faithful.” The fury whipped through her again. “I was faithful, Melly.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Distress vibrated in her voice. “I’m so sorry, Kirby.”

  Kirby shook her head at the sympathy. She never looked for it. “I wouldn’t have been so angry if he hadn’t stood there, telling me how much he loved me, when he had another woman keeping the sheets warm. I found it humiliating.”

  “You have nothing to be humiliated about,” Melanie returned with some heat. “He was a fool.”

  “Perhaps. It would’ve been bad enough if we’d stuck to the point, but we got off the track of love and fidelity. Things got nasty.”

  Her voice trailed off. Her eyes clouded over. It was time for secrets again. “I found out quite a bit
that night,” she murmured. “I’ve never thought of myself as a fool, but it seems I’d been one.”

  Again, Melanie reached for her hand. “It must have been a dreadful shock to learn Stuart was unfaithful even before you were married.”

  “What?” Blinking, Kirby brought herself back. “Oh, that. Yes, that, too.”

  “Too? What else?”

  “Nothing.” With a shake of her head, Kirby swept it all aside. “It’s all dead and buried now.”

  “I feel terrible. Damn it, I introduced you.”

  “Perhaps you should shave your head in restitution, but I’d advise you to forget it.”

  “Can you?”

  Kirby’s lips curved up, her brow lifted. “Tell me, Melly, do you still hold André Fayette against me?”

  Melanie folded her hands primly. “It’s been five years.”

  “Six, but who’s counting?” Grinning, Kirby leaned forward. “Besides, who expects an oversexed French art student to have any taste?”

  Melanie’s pretty mouth pouted. “He was very attractive.”

  “But base.” Kirby struggled with a new grin. “No class, Melly. You should thank me for luring him away, however unintentionally.”

  Deciding it was time to make his presence known, Adam stepped inside. Kirby glanced up and smiled without a trace of the ice or the fury. “Hello, Adam. Did you have a nice chat with Papa?”

  “Yes.”

  Melanie, he decided as he glanced in her direction, was even more stunning at close quarters. Classic face, classic figure draped in a pale rose dress cut with style and simplicity. “Am I interrupting?”

  “Just gossip. Melanie Burgess, Adam Haines. Adam’s our guest for a few weeks.”

  Adam accepted the slim rose-tipped hand. It was soft and pampered, without the slight ridge of callus that Kirby’s had just under the fingers. He wondered what had happened in the past twenty-four hours to make him prefer the untidy artist to the perfectly groomed woman smiling up at him. Maybe he was coming down with something.

  “The Adam Haines?” Melanie’s smile warmed. She knew of him, the irreproachable lineage and education. “Of course you are,” she continued before he could comment. “This place attracts artists like a magnet. I have one of your paintings.”

  “Do you?” Adam lit her cigarette, then one of his own. “Which one?”

  “A Study in Blue.” Melanie tilted her face to smile into his eyes, a neat little feminine trick she’d learned soon after she’d learned to walk.

  From across the table, Kirby studied them both. Two extraordinary faces, she decided. The tips of her fingers itched to capture Adam in bronze. A year before, she’d done Melanie in ivory—smooth, cool and perfect. With Adam, she’d strive for the undercurrents.

  “I wanted the painting because it was so strong,” Melanie continued. “But I nearly let it go because it made me sad. You remember, Kirby. You were there.”

  “Yes, I remember.” When she looked up at him, her eyes were candid and amused, without the traces of flirtation that flitted in Melanie’s. “I was afraid she’d break down and disgrace herself, so I threatened to buy it myself. Papa was furious that I didn’t.”

  “Uncle Philip could practically stock the Louvre already,” Melanie said with a casual shrug.

  “Some people collect stamps,” Kirby returned, then smiled again. “The still life in my room is Melanie’s work, Adam. We studied together in France.”

  “No, don’t ask,” Melanie said quickly, holding up her hand. “I’m not an artist. I’m a designer who dabbles.”

  “Only because you refuse to dig your toes in.”

  Melanie inclined her head, but didn’t agree or refute. “I must go. Tell Uncle Philip I said hello. I won’t risk disturbing him, as well.”

  “Stay for lunch, Melly. We haven’t seen you in two months.”

  “Another time.” She rose with the grace of one who’d been taught to sit and stand and walk. Adam stood with her, catching the drift of Chanel. “I’ll see you this weekend at the party.” With another smile, she offered Adam her hand. “You’ll come, too, won’t you?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Wonderful.” Snapping open her bag, Melanie drew out thin leather gloves. “Nine o’clock, Kirby. Don’t forget. Oh!” On her way to the door, she stopped, whirling back. “Oh, God, the invitations were sent out before I… Kirby, Stuart’s going to be there.”

  “I won’t pack my derringer, Melly.” She laughed, but it wasn’t quite as rich or quite as free. “You look as though someone’s just spilled caviar on your Saint Laurent. Don’t worry about it.” She paused, and the chill passed quickly in and out of her eyes. “I promise you, I won’t.”

  “If you’re sure…” Melanie frowned. It was, however, not possible to discuss such a thing in depth in front of a guest. “As long as you won’t be uncomfortable.”

  “I won’t be the one who suffers discomfort.” The careless arrogance was back.

  “Saturday, then.” Melanie gave Adam a final smile before she slipped from the room.

  “A beautiful woman,” Adam commented, coming back to the table.

  “Yes, exceptional.” The simple agreement had no undertones of envy or spite.

  “How do two women, two exceptional women, of totally different types, remain friends?”

  “By not attempting to change one another.” She picked up the wood again and began to roll it around in her hands. “I overlook what I see as Melanie’s faults, and she overlooks mine.” She saw the pad and pencil in his hand and lifted a brow. “What’re you doing?”

  “Some preliminary sketches. What are your faults?”

  “Too numerous to mention.” Setting the wood down again, she leaned back.

  “Any good points?”

  “Dozens.” Perhaps it was time to test him a bit, to see what button worked what switch. “Loyalty,” she began breezily. “Sporadic patience and honesty.”

  “Sporadic?”

  “I’d hate to be perfect.” She ran her tongue over her teeth. “And I’m terrific in bed.”

  His gaze shifted to her bland smile. Just what game was Kirby Fairchild playing? His lips curved as easily as hers. “I bet you are.”

  Laughing, she leaned forward again, chin cupped in her hands. “You don’t rattle easily, Adam. It makes me all the more determined to keep trying.”

  “Telling me something I’d already concluded isn’t likely to rattle me. Who’s Stuart?”

  The question had her stiffening. She’d challenged him, Kirby conceded, now she had to meet one of his. “A former fiancé,” she said evenly. “Stuart Hiller.”

  The name clicked, but Adam continued to sketch. “The same Hiller who runs the Merrick Gallery?”

  “The same.” He heard the tightening in her voice. For a moment he wanted to drop it, to leave her to her privacy and her anger. The job came first.

  “I know him by reputation,” Adam continued. “I’d planned to see the gallery. It’s about twenty miles from here, isn’t it?”

  She paled a bit, which confused him, but when she spoke her voice was steady. “Yes, it’s not far. Under the circumstances, I’m afraid I can’t take you.”

  “You may mend your differences over the weekend.” Prying wasn’t his style. He had a distaste for it, particularly when it involved someone he was beginning to care about. When he lifted his gaze, however, he didn’t see discomfort. She was livid.

  “I think not.” She made a conscious effort to relax her hands. Noting the gesture, Adam wondered how much it cost her. “It occurred to me that my name would be Fairchild-Hiller.” She gave a slow, rolling shrug. “That would never do.”

  “The Merrick Gallery has quite a reputation.”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, Melanie’s mother owns it, and managed it until a couple of years ago.”

  “Melanie? Didn’t you say her name was Burgess?”

  “She was married to Carlyse Burgess—Burgess Enterprises. They’re divorced.” r />
  “So, she’s Harriet Merrick’s daughter.” The cast of players was increasing. “Mrs. Merrick’s given the running of the gallery over to Hiller?”

  “For the most part. She dips her hand in now and then.”