The Art of Deception (10 page)

He thought of Cleopatra, floating on her barge. Just how many men other than Caesar and Antony had she driven mad? He glanced at the long mirrored wall behind the sink. It was fogged with the steam that rose in visible columns from her bath. “Got the water hot enough?”

“Do you know what that is?” she demanded, and plucked her soap from the dish. The cake was a pale, pale pink and left a creamy lather on her skin. “It's a filthy-tasting mixture Tulip tries to force on me periodically. It has raw eggs in it and other vile things.” Making a face she lifted one surprisingly long leg out of the bath and soaped it. “Tell me the truth, Adam, would you voluntarily drink raw eggs?”

He watched her run soap and fingertips down her calf. “I can't say I would.”

“Well, then.” Satisfied, she switched legs. “Down the drain with it.”

“She told me to see that you drank it. All,” he added, beginning to enjoy himself.

Her lower lip moved forward a bit as she considered. “Puts you in an awkward position, doesn't it?”

“A position in any case.”

“Tell you what, I'll have a sip. Then when she asks if I drank it I can say I did. I'm trying to cut down on my lying.”

Adam handed her the glass, watching as she sipped and grimaced. “I'm not sure you're being truthful this way.”

“I said cutting down, not eliminating. Into the sink,” she added. “Unless you'd care for the rest.”

“I'll pass.” He poured it out then sat on the lip of the tub.

Surprised by the move, she tightened her fingers on the soap. It plopped into the water. “Hydrophobia,” she muttered. “No, don't bother, I'll find it.” Dipping her hand in, she began to search. “You'd think they could make a soap that wasn't forever leaping out of your hands.” Grateful for the distraction, she gripped the soap again. “Aha. I appreciate your bringing me that revolting stuff, Adam. Now if you'd like to run along…”

“I'm in no hurry.” Idly he picked up her loofah. “You mentioned something about scrubbing your back.”

“Robbery!” Fairchild's voice boomed into the room just ahead of him. “Call the police. Call the FBI. Adam, you'll be a witness.” He nodded, finding nothing odd in the audience to his daughter's bath.

“I'm so glad I have a large bathroom,” she murmured. “Pity I didn't think to serve refreshments.” Relieved by the interruption, she ran the soap down her arm. “What's been stolen, Papa? The Monet street scene, the Renoir portrait? I know, your sweat socks.”

“My black dinner suit!” Dramatically he pointed a finger to the ceiling. “We'll have to take fingerprints.”

“Obviously stolen by a psychotic with a fetish for formal attire,” Kirby concluded. “I love a mystery. Let's list the suspects.” She pushed a lock of hair out of her
eyes and leaned back—a naked, erotic Sherlock Holmes. “Adam, have you an alibi?”

With a half smile, he ran the damp abrasive sponge through his hands. “I've been seducing Polly all afternoon.”

Her eyes lit with amusement. She'd known he had potential. “That won't do,” she said soberly. “It wouldn't take above fifteen minutes to seduce Polly. You have a black dinner suit, I suppose.”

“Circumstantial evidence.”

“A search warrant,” Fairchild chimed in, inspired. “We'll get a search warrant and go through the entire house.”

“Time-consuming,” Kirby decided. “Actually, Papa, I think we'd best look to Cards.”

“The butler did it.” Fairchild cackled with glee, then immediately sobered. “No, no, my suit would never fit Cards.”

“True. Still, as much as I hate to be an informer, I overheard Cards telling Tulip he intended to take your suit.”

“Trust,” Fairchild mumbled to Adam. “Can't trust anyone.”

“His motive was sponging and pressing, I believe.” She sank down to her neck and examined her toes. “He'll crumble like a wall if you accuse him. I'm sure of it.”

“Very well.” Fairchild rubbed his thin, clever hands together. “I'll handle it myself and avoid the publicity.”

“A brave man,” Kirby decided as her father strode out of the room. Relaxed and amused, she smiled at Adam. “Well, my bubbles seem to be melting, so we'd better continue this discussion some other time.”

Reaching over, Adam yanked the chain and drew the old-fashioned plug out of the stupendous tub. “The time's coming when we're going to start—and finish—much more than a conversation.”

Wary, Kirby watched her water level and last defense recede. When cornered, she determined, it was best to be nonchalant. She tried a smile that didn't quite conceal the nerves. “Let me know when you're ready.”

“I intend to,” he said softly. Without another word, he rose and left her alone.

 

Later, when he descended the stairs, Adam grinned when he heard her voice.

“Yes, Tulip, I drank the horrid stuff. I won't disgrace you by fainting in the Merrick living room from malnutrition.” The low rumble of response that followed was dissatisfied. “Cricket wings, I've been walking in heels for half my life. They're not six inches, they're three. And I'll still have to look up at everyone over twelve. Go bake a cake, will you?”

He heard Tulip's mutter and sniff before she stomped out of the room and passed him.

“Adam, thank God. Let's go before she finds something else to nag me about.”

Her dress was pure, unadorned white, thin and floaty. It covered her arms, rose high at the throat, as modest as a nun's habit, as sultry as a tropical night. Her hair fell, black and straight over the shoulders.

Tossing it back, she picked up a black cape and swirled it around her. For a moment she stood, adjusting it while the light from the lamps flitted over the absence of color. She looked like a Manet portrait—strong, romantic and timeless.

“You're a fabulous-looking creature, Kirby.”

They both stopped, staring. He'd given compliments before, with more style, more finesse, but he'd never meant one more. She'd been flattered by princes, in foreign tongues and with smooth deliveries. It had never made her stomach flutter.

“Thank you,” she managed. “So're you.” No longer sure it was wise, she offered her hand. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Your father?”

“He's already gone,” she told him as she walked toward the door. And the sooner they were, the better. She needed a little more time before she was alone with him again. “We don't drive to parties together, especially to Harriet's. He likes to get there early and usually stays longer, trying to talk Harriet into bed. I've had my car brought around.” She shut the door and led him to a silver Porsche. “I'd rather drive than navigate, if you don't mind.”

But she didn't wait for his response as she dropped into the driver's seat. “Fine,” Adam agreed.

“It's a marvelous night.” She turned the key in the ignition. The power vibrated under their feet. “Full moon, lots of stars.” Smoothly she released the brake, engaged the clutch and pressed the accelerator. Adam was tossed against the seat as they roared down the drive.

“You'll like Harriet,” Kirby continued, switching gears as Adam stared at the blurring landscape. “She's like a mother to me.” When they came to the main road, Kirby downshifted and swung to the left, tires squealing. “You met Melly, of course. I hope you won't desert me completely tonight after seeing her again.”

Adam braced his feet against the floor. “Does anyone
notice her when you're around?” And would they make it to the Merrick home alive?

“Of course.” Surprised by the question, she turned to look at him.

“Good God, watch where you're going!” None too gently, he pushed her head around.

“Melly's the most perfectly beautiful woman I've ever known.” Downshifting again, Kirby squealed around a right turn then accelerated. “She's a very clever designer and very, very proper. Wouldn't even take a settlement from her husband when they divorced. Pride, I suppose, but then she wouldn't need the money. There's a marvelous view of the Hudson coming up on your side, Adam.” Kirby leaned over to point it out. The car swerved.

“I prefer seeing it from up here, thanks,” Adam told her as he shoved her back in her seat. “Do you always drive this way?”

“Yes. There's the road you take to the gallery,” she continued. She waved her hand vaguely as the car whizzed by an intersection. Adam glanced down at the speedometer.

“You're doing ninety.”

“I always drive slower at night.”

“There's good news.” Muttering, he flicked on the lighter.

“There's the house up ahead.” She raced around an ess curve. “Fabulous when it's all lit up this way.”

The house was white and stately, the type you expected to see high above the riverbank. It glowed with elegance from dozens of windows. Without slackening pace, Kirby sped up the circular drive. With a squeal of brakes, and a muttered curse from Adam, she stopped the Porsche at the front entrance.

Reaching over, Adam pulled the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. “I'm driving back.”

“How thoughtful.” Offering her hand to the valet, Kirby stepped out. “Now I won't have to limit myself to one drink. Champagne,” she decided, moving up the steps beside him. “It seems like a night for it.”

The moment the door opened, Kirby was enveloped by a flurry of dazzling, trailing silks. “Harriet.” Kirby squeezed the statuesque woman with flaming red hair. “It's wonderful to see you, but I think I'm being gnawed by the denture work of your crocodile.”

“Sorry, darling.” Harriet held her necklace and drew back to press a kiss to each of Kirby's cheeks. She was an impressive woman, full-bodied in the style Rubens had immortalized. Her face was wide and smooth, dominated by deep green eyes that glittered with silver on the lids. Harriet didn't believe in subtlety. “And this must be your house-guest,” she continued with a quick sizing up of Adam.

“Harriet Merrick, Adam Haines.” Kirby grinned and pinched Harriet's cheek. “And behave yourself, or Papa'll have him choosing weapons.”

“Wonderful idea.” With one arm still linked with Kirby's, Harriet twined her other through Adam's. “I'm sure you have a fascinating life story to tell me, Adam.”

“I'll make one up.”

“Perfect.” She liked the look of him. “We've a crowd already, though they're mostly Melanie's stuffy friends.”

“Harriet, you've got to be more tolerant.”

“No, I don't.” She tossed back her outrageous hair. “I've been excruciatingly polite. Now that you're here, I don't have to be.”

“Kirby.” Melanie swept into the hall in an ice-blue sheath. “What a picture you make. Take her cloak, Ellen,
though it's a pity to spoil that effect.” Smiling, she held out a hand to Adam as the maid slipped Kirby's cloak off her shoulders. “I'm so glad you came. We've some mutual acquaintances here, it seems. The Birminghams and Michael Towers from New York. You remember Michael, Kirby?”

“The adman who clicks his teeth?”

Harriet let out a roar of laughter while Adam struggled to control his. With a sigh, Melanie led them toward the party. “Try to behave, will you?” But Adam wasn't certain whether she spoke to Kirby or her mother.

This was the world he was used to—elegant people in elegant clothes having rational conversations. He'd been raised in the world of restrained wealth where champagne fizzed quietly and dignity was as essential as the proper alma mater. He understood it, he fit in.

After fifteen minutes, he was separated from Kirby and bored to death.

“I've decided to take a trek through the Australian bush,” Harriet told Kirby. She fingered her necklace of crocodile teeth. “I'd love you to come with me. We'd have such fun brewing a billy cup over the fire.”

“Camping?” Kirby asked, mulling it over. Maybe what she needed was a change of scene, after her father settled down.

“Give it some thought,” Harriet suggested. “I'm not planning on leaving for another six weeks. Ah, Adam.” Reaching out, she grabbed his arm. “Did Agnes Birmingham drive you to drink? No, don't answer. It's written all over your face, but you're much too polite.”

He allowed himself to be drawn between her and Kirby, where he wanted to be. “Let's just say I was looking for more stimulating conversation. I've found it.”

“Charming.” She decided she liked him, but would reserve judgment a bit longer as to whether he'd suit her Kirby. “I admire your work, Adam. I'd like to put the first bid in on your next painting.”

He took glasses from a passing waiter. “I'm doing a portrait of Kirby.”

“She's posing for you?” Harriet nearly choked on her champagne. “Did you chain her?”

“Not yet.” He gave Kirby a lazy glance. “It's still a possibility.”

“You have to let me display it when it's finished.” She might've been a woman who ran on emotion on many levels, but the bottom line was art, and the business of it. “I can promise to cause a nasty scene if you refuse.”

“No one does it better,” Kirby toasted her.

“You'll have to see the portrait of Kirby that Philip painted for me. She wouldn't sit for it, but it's brilliant.” She toyed with the stem of her glass. “He painted it when she returned from Paris—three years ago, I suppose.”

“I'd like to see it. I'd planned on coming by the gallery.”

“Oh, it's here, in the library.”

“Why don't you two just toddle along then?” Kirby suggested. “You've been talking around me, you might as well desert me physically, as well.”

“Don't be snotty,” Harriet told her. “You can come, too. And I… Well, well,” she murmured in a voice suddenly lacking in warmth. “Some people have no sense of propriety.”