The Art of Deception (13 page)

“Well,” she mused as she looked at her father. “He seems comfortable enough, but I think I'll just stretch him out.”

Adam leaned against the doorjamb and waited as she
settled her father for the night. After loosening his tie and pulling off his shoes, she tossed her cape over him and kissed his balding head. “Papa,” she murmured. “You've been outmaneuvered.”

“We'll talk upstairs, Kirby. Now.”

Straightening, Kirby gave Adam a long, mild look. “Since you ask so nicely.” She plucked a decanter of brandy and two glasses from the bar. “We may as well be sociable during the inquisition.” She swept by him and up the stairs.

K
irby switched on the rose-tinted bedside lamp before she poured brandy. After handing Adam a snifter, she kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged on the bed. She watched as he ripped off the wrapping and examined the painting.

Frowning, he studied the brush strokes, the use of color, the Venetian technique that had been Titian's. Fascinating, he thought. Absolutely fascinating. “This is a copy?”

She had to smile. She warmed the brandy between her hands but didn't drink. “Papa's mark's on the frame.”

Adam saw the red circle but didn't find it conclusive. “I'd swear it was authentic.”

“So would anyone.”

He propped the painting against the wall and turned to her. She looked like an Indian priestess—the nightfall of hair against the virgin white silk. With an enig
matic smile, she continued to sit in the lotus position, the brandy cupped in both hands.

“How many other paintings in your father's collection are copies?”

Slowly she lifted the snifter and sipped. She had to work at not being annoyed by the question, telling herself he was entitled to ask. “All of the paintings in Papa's collection are authentic. Excepting now this Titian.” She moved her shoulders carelessly. It hardly mattered at this point.

“When you spoke of his technique in treating paints for age, you didn't give the impression he'd only used it on one painting.”

What had given her the idea he wouldn't catch on to a chance remark like that one? she wondered. The fat's in the fire in any case, she reminded herself. And she was tired of trying to dance around it. She swirled her drink and red and amber lights glinted against the glass.

“I trust you,” she murmured, surprising them both. “But I don't want to involve you, Adam, in something you'll regret knowing about. I really want you to understand that. Once I tell you, it'll be too late for regrets.”

He didn't care for the surge of guilt. Who was deceiving whom now? his conscience demanded of him. And who'd pay the price in the end? “Let me worry about that,” he stated, dealing with Kirby now and saving his conscience for later. He swallowed brandy and let the heat ease through him. “How many copies has your father done?”

“Ten—no, eleven,” she corrected, and ignored his quick oath. “Eleven, not counting the Titian, which falls into a different category.”

“A different category,” he murmured. Crossing the
room, he splashed more brandy into his glass. He was certain to need it. “How is this different?”

“The Titian was a personal agreement between Harriet and Papa. Merely a way to avoid bad feelings.”

“And the others?” He sat on a fussily elegant Queen Anne chair. “What sort of arrangements did they entail?”

“Each is individual, naturally.” She hesitated as she studied him. If they'd met a month from now, would things have been different? Perhaps. Timing again, she mused and sipped the warming brandy. “To simplify matters, Papa painted them, then sold them to interested parties.”

“Sold them?” He stood because he couldn't be still. Wishing it had been possible to stop her before she'd begun, he started to pace the room. “Good God, Kirby. Don't you understand what he's done? What he's doing? It's fraud, plain and simple.”

“I wouldn't call it fraud,” she countered, giving her brandy a contemplative study. It was, after all, something she'd given a great deal of thought to. “And certainly not plain or simple.”

“What then?” If he'd had a choice, he'd have taken her away then and there—left the Titian, the Rembrandt and her crazy father in the ridiculous castle and taken off. Somewhere. Anywhere.

“Fudging,” Kirby decided with a half smile.

“Fudging,” he repeated in a quiet voice. He'd forgotten she was mad as well. “Fudging. Selling counterfeit paintings for large sums of money to the unsuspecting is fudging? Fixing a parking ticket's fudging.” He paced another moment, looking for answers. “Damn it, his work's worth a fortune. Why does he do it?”

“Because he can,” she said simply. She spread one hand, palm out. “Papa's a genius, Adam. I don't say that
just as his daughter, but as a fellow artist. With the genius comes a bit of eccentricity, perhaps.” Ignoring the sharp sound of derision, she went on. “To Papa, painting's not just a vocation. Art and life are one, interchangeable.”

“I'll go along with all that, Kirby, but it doesn't explain why—”

“Let me finish.” She had both hands on the snifter again, resting it in her lap. “One thing Papa can't tolerate is greed, in any form. To him greed isn't just the worship of money, but the hoarding of art. You must know his collection's constantly being lent out to museums and art schools. Though he has strong feelings that art belongs in the private sector, as well as public institutions, he hates the idea of the wealthy buying up great art for investment purposes.”

“Admirable, Kirby. But he's made a business out of selling fraudulent paintings.”

“Not a business. He's never benefited financially.” She set her glass aside and clasped her hands together. “Each prospective buyer of one of Papa's emulations is first researched thoroughly.” She waited a beat. “By Harriet.”

He nearly sat back down again. “Harriet Merrick's in on all of this?”

“All of this,” she said mildly, “has been their joint hobby for the last fifteen years.”

“Hobby,” he murmured and did sit.

“Harriet has very good connections, you see. She makes certain the buyer is very wealthy and that he or she lives in a remote location. Two years ago, Papa sold an Arabian sheik a fabulous Renoir. It was one of my favorites. Anyway—” she continued, getting up to freshen Adam's drink, then her own “—each buyer would also be known for his or her attachment to money,
and/or a complete lack of any sense of community spirit or obligation. Through Harriet, they'd learn of Papa's ownership of a rare, officially undiscovered artwork.”

Taking her own snifter, she returned to her position on the bed while Adam remained silent. “At the first contact, Papa is always uncooperative without being completely dismissive. Gradually he allows himself to be worn down until the deal's made. The price, naturally, is exorbitant, otherwise the art fanciers would be insulted.” She took a small sip and enjoyed the warm flow of the brandy. “He deals only in cash, so there's no record. Then the paintings float off to the Himalayas or Siberia or somewhere to be kept in seclusion. Papa then donates the money anonymously to charity.”

Taking a deep breath at the end of her speech, Kirby rewarded herself with more brandy.

“You're telling me that he goes through all that, all the work, all the intrigue, for nothing?”

“I certainly am not.” Kirby shook her head and leaned forward. “He gets a great deal. He gets satisfaction, Adam. What else is necessary after all?”

He struggled to remember the code of right and wrong. “Kirby, he's stealing!”

Kirby tilted her head and considered. “Who caught your support and admiration, Adam? The Sheriff of Nottingham or Robin Hood?”

“It's not the same.” He dragged a hand through his hair as he tried to convince them both. “Damn it, Kirby, it's not the same.”

“There's a newly modernized pediatric wing at the local hospital,” she began quietly. “A little town in Appalachia has a new fire engine and modern equipment. Another, in the dust bowl, has a wonderful new library.”

“All right.” He rose again to cut her off. “In fifteen years I'm sure there's quite a list. Maybe in some strange way it's commendable, but it's also illegal, Kirby. It has to stop.”

“I know.” Her simple agreement broke his rhythm. With a half smile, Kirby moved her shoulders. “It was fun while it lasted, but I've known for some time it had to stop before something went wrong. Papa has a project in mind for a series of paintings, and I've convinced him to begin soon. It should take him about five years and give us a breathing space. But in the meantime, he's done something I don't know how to cope with.”

She was about to give him more. Even before she spoke, Adam knew Kirby was going to give him all her trust. He sat in silence, despising himself, as she told him everything she knew about the Rembrandt.

“I imagine part of it's revenge on Stuart,” she continued, while Adam smoked in silence and she again swirled her brandy without drinking. “Somehow Stuart found out about Papa's hobby and threatened exposure the night I broke our engagement. Papa told me not to worry, that Stuart wasn't in a position to make waves. At the time I had no idea about the Rembrandt business.”

She was opening up to him, no questions, no hesitation. He was going to probe, God help him, he hadn't a choice. “Do you have any idea where he might've hidden it?”

“No, but I haven't looked.” When she looked at him, she wasn't the sultry gypsy or the exotic princess. She was only a daughter concerned about an adored father. “He's a good man, Adam. No one knows that better than I. I know there's a reason for what he's done, and for the time being, I have to accept that. I don't expect you to
share my loyalty, just my confidence.” He didn't speak, and she took his silence for agreement. “My main concern now is that Papa's underestimating Stuart's ruthlessness.”

“He won't when you tell him about the scene in the library.”

“I'm not going to tell him. Because,” she continued before Adam could argue, “I have no way of predicting his reaction. You may have noticed, Papa's a very volatile man.” Tilting her glass, she met his gaze with a quick change of mood. “I don't want you to worry about all this, Adam. Talk to Papa about it if you like. Have a chat with Harriet, too. Personally, I find it helpful to tuck the whole business away from time to time and let it hibernate. Like a grizzly bear.”

“Grizzly bear.”

She laughed and rose. “Let me get you some more brandy.”

He stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “Have you told me everything?”

With a frown, she brushed at a speck of lint on the bedspread. “Did I mention the Van Gogh?”

“Oh, God.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Somehow he'd hoped there'd be an end without really believing it. “What Van Gogh?”

Kirby pursed her lips. “Not exactly a Van Gogh.”

“Your father?”

“His latest. He's sold it to Victor Alvarez, a coffee baron in South America.” She smiled as Adam said nothing and stared straight ahead. “The working conditions on his farm are deplorable. Of course, there's nothing we can do to remedy that, but Papa's already allocated the purchase price for a school somewhere in the
area. It's his last for several years, Adam,” she added as he sat with his fingers pressed against his eyes. “And really, I think he'll be pleased that you know all about everything. He'd love to show this painting to you. He's particularly pleased with it.”

Adam rubbed his hands over his face. It didn't surprise him to hear himself laughing. “I suppose I should be grateful he hasn't decided to do the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel.”

“Only after he retires,” Kirby put in cheerfully. “And that's years off yet.”

Not certain whether she was joking or not, he let it pass. “I've got to give all this a little time to settle.”

“Fair enough.”

He wasn't going back to his room to report to McIntyre, he decided as he set his brandy aside. He wasn't ready for that yet, so soon after Kirby shared it all with him without questions, without limitations. It wasn't possible to think about his job, or remember outside obligations, when she looked at him with all her trust. No, he'd find a way, somehow, to justify what he chose to do in the end. Right and wrong weren't so well defined now.

Looking at her, he needed to give, to soothe, to show her she'd been right to give him that most precious of gifts—unqualified trust. Perhaps he didn't deserve it, but he needed it. He needed her.

Without a word, he pulled her into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers, no patience, no requests. Before either of them could think, he drew down the zipper at the back of her dress.

She wanted to give to him—anything, everything he wanted. She didn't want to question him but to forget
all the reasons why they shouldn't be together. It would be so easy to drown in the flood of feeling that was so new and so unique. And yet, anything real, anything strong, was never easy. She'd been taught from an early age that the things that mattered most were the hardest to obtain. Drawing back, she determined to put things back on a level she could deal with.

“You surprise me,” she said with a smile she had to work at.

He pulled her back. She wouldn't slip away from him this time. “Good.”

“You know, most women expect a seduction, no matter how perfunctory.”

The amusement might be in her eyes, but he could feel the thunder of her heart against his. “Most women aren't Kirby Fairchild.” If she wanted to play it lightly, he'd do his damnedest to oblige her—as long as the result was the same. “Why don't we call this my next spontaneous act?” he suggested, and slipped her dress down her shoulders. “I wouldn't want to bore you with a conventional pursuit.”

How could she resist him? The hands light on her skin, the mouth that smiled and tempted? She'd never hesitated about taking what she wanted…until now. Perhaps the time had come for the chess game to stop at a stalemate, with neither winning all and neither losing anything.

Slowly she smiled and let her dress whisper almost soundlessly to the floor.

He found her a treasure of cool satin and warm flesh. She was as seductive, as alluring, as he'd known she'd be. Once she'd decided to give, there were no restrictions. In a simple gesture she opened her arms to him and they came together.