The Art of Deception (18 page)

Catching Adam's surprised glance, Kirby shifted uncomfortably. “Harriet, think of my reputation.”

“She's sensitive about her good deeds,” Harriet told Adam with a squeeze for his knee.

“I simply had nothing else to do.” With a shrug, Kirby turned away. “Are you going to Saint Moritz this year, Melly?”

Fraud, Adam thought as he watched her guide the
subject away from herself. A beautiful, sensitive fraud. And finding her so, he loved her more.

By the time Harriet and Melanie rose to leave, Kirby was fighting off a raging headache. Too much strain, she knew, but she wouldn't admit it. She could tell herself she needed only a good night's sleep, and nearly believe it.

“Kirby.” Harriet swirled her six-foot shawl over her shoulder before she took Kirby's chin in her hand. “You look tired, and a bit pale. I haven't seen you look pale since you were thirteen and had the flu. I remember you swore you'd never be ill again.”

“After that disgusting medicine you poured down my throat, I couldn't afford to. I'm fine.” But she threw her arms around Harriet's neck and held on. “I'm fine, really.”

“Mmm.” Over her head, Harriet frowned at Fairchild. “You might think about Australia. We'll put some color in your cheeks.”

“I will. I love you.”

“Go to sleep, child,” Harriet murmured.

The moment the door was closed, Adam took Kirby's arm. Ignoring her father and Rick, he began to pull her up the stairs. “You belong in bed.”

“Shouldn't you be dragging me by the hair instead of the arm?”

“Some other time, when my intentions are less peaceful.” He stopped outside her door. “You're going to sleep.”

“Tired of me already?”

The words were hardly out of her mouth when his covered it. Holding her close, he let himself go for a moment, releasing the needs, the desires, the love. He could feel her heart thud, her bones melt. “Can't you see
how tired I am of you?” He kissed her again with his hands framing her face. “You must see how you bore me.”

“Anything I can do?” she murmured, slipping her hands under his jacket.

“Get some rest.” He took her by the shoulders. “This is your last opportunity to sleep alone.”

“Am I sleeping alone?”

It wasn't easy for him. He wanted to devour her, he wanted to delight her. He wanted, more than anything else, to have a clean slate between them before they made love again. If she hadn't looked so weary, so worn, he'd have told her everything then and there. “This may come as a shock to you,” he said lightly. “But you're not Wonder Woman.”

“Really?”

“You're going to get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow.” He took her hands and the look, the sudden intenseness, confused her. “Tomorrow, Kirby, we have to talk.”

“About what?”

“Tomorrow,” he repeated before he could change his mind. “Rest now.” He gave her a nudge inside. “If you're not feeling any better tomorrow, you're going to stay in bed and be pampered.”

She managed one last wicked grin. “Promise?”

I
t was clear after Kirby had tossed in bed and fluffed up her pillow for more than an hour that she wasn't going to get the rest everyone seemed to want for her. Her body was dragging, but her mind refused to give in to it.

She tried. For twenty minutes she recited dull poetry. Closing her eyes, she counted five hundred and twenty-seven camels. She turned on her bedside radio and found chamber music. She was, after all of it, wide awake.

It wasn't fear. If Stuart had indeed tried to kill her, he'd failed. She had her own wits, and she had Adam. No, it wasn't fear.

The Rembrandt. She couldn't think of anything else after seeing Harriet laughing, after remembering how Harriet had nursed her through the flu and had given her a sweet and totally unnecessary woman-to-woman talk when she'd been a girl.

Kirby had grieved for her own mother, and though she'd died when Kirby had been a child, the memory remained perfectly clear. Harriet hadn't been a substitute. Harriet had simply been Harriet. Kirby loved her for that alone.

How could she sleep?

Annoyed, Kirby rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe, just maybe, she could make use of the insomnia and sort it all out and make some sense out of it.

Her father, she was certain, would do nothing to hurt Harriet without cause. Was revenge on Stuart cause enough? After a moment, she decided it didn't follow.

Harriet had gone to Africa—that was first. It had been nearly two weeks after that when Kirby had broken her engagement with Stuart. Afterward she had told her father of Stuart's blackmail threats and he'd been unconcerned. He'd said, Kirby remembered, that Stuart wasn't in any position to make waves.

Then it made sense to assume they'd already begun plans to switch the paintings. Revenge was out.

Then why?

Not for money, Kirby thought. Not for the desire to own the painting himself. That wasn't his way—she knew better than anyone how he felt about greed. But then, stealing from a friend wasn't his way either.

If she couldn't find the reason, perhaps she could find the painting itself.

Still staring at the ceiling, she began to go over everything her father had said. So many ambiguous comments, she mused. But then, that was typical of him. In the house—that much was certain. In the house, hidden with appropriate affection and respect. Just how many hundreds of possibilities could she sort through in one night?

She blew out a disgusted breath and rolled over again. With a last thump for her pillow, she closed her eyes. The yawn, she felt, was a hopeful sign. As she snuggled deeper, a tiny memory probed.

She'd think about it tomorrow…. No, now, she thought, and rolled over again. She'd think about it now. What was it her father had been saying to Adam when she'd walked into his studio the night after the Titian switch? Something… Something…about involving her figuratively.

“Root rot,” she muttered, and squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. “What the devil was that supposed to mean?” Just as she was about to give up, the idea seeped in. Her eyes sprang open as she sprang up. “It'd be just like him!”

Grabbing a robe, she dashed from the room.

For a moment in the hall she hesitated. Perhaps she should wake Adam and tell him of her theory. Then again, it was no more than that, and he hadn't had the easiest day of it, either. If she produced results, then she'd wake him. And if she was wrong, her father would kill her.

She made a quick trip to her father's studio, then went down to the dining room.

On neither trip did she bother with lights. She wanted no one to pop out of their room and ask what she was up to. Carrying a rag, a bottle and a stack of newspapers, she went silently through the dark. Once she'd reached the dining room, she turned on the lights. No one would investigate downstairs except Cards. He'd never question her. She worked quickly.

Kirby spread the newspapers in thick pads on the dining room table. Setting the bottle and the rag on them, she turned to her own portrait.

“You're too clever for your own good, Papa,” she murmured as she studied the painting. “I'd never be able to tell if this was a duplicate. There's only one way.”

Once she'd taken the portrait from the wall, Kirby laid it on the newspaper. “Its value goes below the surface,” she murmured. Isn't that what he'd said to Harriet? And he'd been smug. He'd been smug right from the start. Kirby opened the bottle and tipped the liquid onto the rag. “Forgive me, Papa,” she said quietly.

With the lightest touch—an expert's touch—she began to remove layers of paint in the lower corner. Minutes passed. If she was wrong, she wanted the damage to be minimal. If she was right, she had something priceless in her hands. Either way, she couldn't rush.

She dampened the rag and wiped again. Her father's bold signature disappeared, then the bright summer grass beneath it, and the primer.

And there, beneath where there should have been only canvas, was a dark, somber brown. One letter, then another, appeared. It was all that was necessary.

“Great buckets of blood,” she murmured. “I was right.”

Beneath the feet of the girl she'd been was Rembrandt's signature. She'd go no further. As carefully as she'd unstopped it, Kirby secured the lid of the bottle.

“So, Papa, you put Rembrandt to sleep under a copy of my portrait. Only you would've thought to copy yourself to pull it off.”

“Very clever.”

Whirling, Kirby looked behind her into the dark outside the dining room. She knew the voice; it didn't frighten her. As her heart pounded, the shadows moved. What now? she asked herself quickly. Just how would she explain it?

“Cleverness runs in the family, doesn't it, Kirby?”

“So I'm told.” She tried to smile. “I'd like to explain. You'd better come in out of the dark and sit down. It could take—” She stopped as the first part of the invitation was accepted. She stared at the barrel of a small polished revolver. Lifting her gaze from it, she stared into clear, delicate blue eyes. “Melly, what's going on?”

“You look surprised. I'm glad.” With a satisfied smile, Melanie aimed the gun at Kirby's head. “Maybe you're not so clever after all.”

“Don't point that at me.”

“I intend to point it at you.” She lowered the gun to chest level. “And I'll do more than point it if you move.”

“Melly.” She wasn't afraid, not yet. She was confused, even annoyed, but she wasn't afraid of the woman she'd grown up with. “Put that thing away and sit down. What're you doing here this time of night?”

“Two reasons. First, to see if I could find any trace of the painting you've so conveniently found for me. Second, to finish the job that was unsuccessful this morning.”

“This morning?” Kirby took a step forward then froze when she heard the quick, deadly click. Good God, could it actually be loaded? “Melly…”

“I suppose I must have miscalculated a bit or you'd be dead already.” The elegant rose silk whispered as she shrugged. “I know the passages very well. Remember, you used to drag me around in them when we were children—before you went in with a faulty flashlight. I'd changed the batteries in it, you see. I'd never told you about that, had I?” She laughed as Kirby remained silent. “I used the passages this morning. Once I was sure you and Adam were settled in, I went out and turned on the gas by the main valve—I'd already broken the switch on the unit.”

“You can't be serious.” Kirby dragged a hand through her hair.

“Deadly serious, Kirby.”

“Why?”

“Primarily for money, of course.”

“Money?” She would've laughed, but her throat was closing. “But you don't need money.”

“You're so smug.” The venom came through. Kirby wondered that she'd never heard it before. “Yes, I need money.”

“You wouldn't take a settlement from your ex-husband.”

“He wouldn't give me a dime,” Melanie corrected. “He cut me off, and as he had me cold on adultery, I wasn't in a position to take him to court. He let me get a quiet, discreet divorce so that our reputations wouldn't suffer. And except for one incident, I'd been very discreet. Stuart and I were always very careful.”

“Stuart?” Kirby lifted a hand to rub at her temple. “You and Stuart?”

“We've been lovers for over three years. Questions are just buzzing around in your head, aren't they?” Enjoying herself, Melanie stepped closer. The whiff of Chanel followed her. “It was more practical for us if we pretended to be just acquaintances. I convinced Stuart to ask you to marry him. My inheritance has dwindled to next to nothing. Your money would have met Stuart's and my tastes very nicely. And we'd have got close to Uncle Philip.”

She ignored the rest and homed in on the most important. “What do you want from my father?”

“I found out about the little game he and Mother indulged in years ago. Not all the details, but enough to
know I could use it if I had to. I thought it was time to use your father's talent for my own benefit.”

“You made plans to steal from your own mother.”

“Don't be so self-righteous.” Her voice chilled. The gun was steady. “Your father betrayed her without a murmur, then double-crossed us in the bargain. Now you've solved that little problem for me.” With her free hand, she gestured to the painting. “I should be grateful I failed this morning. I'd still be looking for the painting.”

Somehow, some way, she'd deal with this. Kirby started with the basics. “Melly, how could you hurt me? We've been friends all our lives.”

“Friends?” The word sounded like an obscenity. “I've hated you for as long as I can remember.”

“No—”

“Hated,” Melanie repeated, coldly this time and with the ring of truth. “It was always you people flocked around, always you men preferred. My own mother preferred you.”

“That's not true.” Did it go so deep? Kirby thought with a flood of guilt. Should she have seen it before? “Melly—” But as she started forward, Melanie gestured with the gun.

“'Melanie, don't be so stiff and formal…. Melanie, where's your sense of humor?”' Her eyes narrowed into slits. “She never came right out and said I should be more like you, but that's what she wanted.”

“Harriet loves you—”

“Love?” Melanie cut Kirby off with a laugh. “I don't give a damn for love. It won't buy what I need. You may have taken my mother, but that was a minor offense. The men you snatched from under my nose time and time again is a bigger one.”

“I never took a man from you. I've never shown an interest in anyone you were serious about.”

“There have been dozens,” Melanie corrected. Her voice was as brittle as glass. “You'd smile and say something stupid and I'd be forgotten. You never had my looks, but you'd use that so-called charm and lure them away, or you'd freeze up and do the same thing.”

“I might've been friendly to someone you cared for,” Kirby said quickly. “If I froze it was to discourage them. Good God, Melly, I'd never have done anything to hurt you. I love you.”

“I've no use for your love any longer. It served its purpose well enough.” She smiled slowly as tears swam in Kirby's eyes. “My only regret is that you didn't fall for Stuart. I wanted to see you fawn over him, knowing he preferred me—married you only because I wanted it. When you came to see him that night, I nearly came out of the bedroom just for the pleasure of seeing your face. But…” She shrugged. “We had long-range plans.”

“You used me,” Kirby said quietly when she could no longer deny it. “You had Stuart use me.”

“Of course. Still, it wasn't wise of me to come back from New York for the weekend to be with him.”

“Why, Melanie? Why have you pretended all these years?”

“You were useful. Even as a child I knew that. Later, in Paris, you opened doors for me, then again in New York. It was even due to you that I spent a year of luxury with Carlyse. You wouldn't sleep with him and you wouldn't marry him. I did both.”

“And that's all?” Kirby murmured. “That's all?”

“That's all. You're not useful any longer, Kirby. In
fact, you're an inconvenience. I'd planned your death as a warning to Uncle Philip, now it's just a necessity.”

She wanted to turn away, but she needed to face it. “How could I have known you all my life and not seen it? How could you have hated me and not shown it?”

“You let emotions rule your life, I don't. Pick up the painting, Kirby.” With the gun, she gestured. “And be careful with it. Stuart and I have been offered a healthy sum for it. If you call out,” she added, “I'll shoot you now and be in the passage with the painting before anyone comes down.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We're going into the passage. You're going to have a nasty spill, Kirby, and break your neck. I'm going to take the painting home and wait for the call to tell me of your accident.”

She'd stall. If only she'd woken Adam… No, if she'd woken him, he, too, would have a gun pointed at him. “Everyone knows how I feel about the passages.”

“It'll be a mystery. When they find the empty space on the wall, they'll know the Rembrandt was responsible. Stuart should be the first target, but he's out of town and has been for three days. I'll be devastated by the death of my oldest and dearest friend. It'll take months in Europe to recover from the grief.”

“You've thought this out carefully.” Kirby rested against the table. “But are you capable of murder, Melly?” Slowly she closed her fingers around the bottle, working off the top with her thumb. “Face-to-face murder, not remote-control like this morning.”

“Oh, yes.” Melanie smiled beautifully. “I prefer it. I feel better with you knowing who's going to kill you. Now pick up the painting, Kirby. It's time.”