Best of Nora Roberts Books 1-6: The Art of Deception / Lessons Learned / Mind Over Matter / Risky Business / Second Nature / Unfinished Business

“Yes, I know he wanted to marry me for my money.” No one but her father would’ve detected the slight tightening in her voice.

“I didn’t bring that up to hurt you.” His hand reached for hers in the bond that had been formed when she’d taken her first breath.

“I know, Papa.” She squeezed his hand, then stuck both of hers in the pockets of her robe. “My pride suffered. It has to happen now and again, I suppose. But I don’t care for humiliation,” she said with sudden fierceness. “I don’t care for it one bloody bit.” With a toss of her head, she looked down at him. “The rest.”

“Well.” Fairchild puffed out his cheeks, then blew out the breath. “Among his other faults, Stuart’s greedy. He needed a large sum of money, and didn’t see why he had to work for it. He decided to help himself to the Rembrandt self-portrait from Harriet’s gallery.”

“He stole it?” Kirby’s eyes grew huge. “Great buckets of bedbugs! I wouldn’t have given him credit for that much nerve.”

“He thought himself clever.” Rising, Fairchild walked to the little sink in the corner to wash off his hands. “Harriet was going on her safari, and there’d be no one to question the disappearance for several weeks. Stuart’s a bit dictatorial with the staff at the gallery.”

“It’s such a treat to flog underlings.”

“In any case—” lovingly, Fairchild draped his hawk for the night “—he came to me with an offer—a rather paltry offer, too—if I’d do the forgery for the Rembrandt’s replacement.”

She hadn’t thought he could do anything to surprise her. Certainly nothing to hurt her. “Papa, it’s Harriet’s Rembrandt,” she said in shock.

“Now, Kirby, you know I’m fond of Harriet. Very fond.” He put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Our Stuart has a very small brain. He handed over the Rembrandt when I said I needed it to do the copy.” Fairchild shook his head. “There wasn’t any challenge to it, Kirby. Hardly any fun at all.”

“Pity,” she said dryly and dropped into a chair.

“Then I told him I didn’t need the original any longer, and gave him the copy instead. He never suspected.” Fairchild linked his hands behind his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I wish you’d seen it. It was superlative. It was one of Rembrandt’s later works, you know. Rough textures, such luminous depth—”

“Papa!” Kirby interrupted what would’ve become a lecture.

“Oh, yes, yes.” With an effort, Fairchild controlled himself. “I told him it’d take just a little more time to complete the copy and treat it for the illusion of age. He bought it. Gullibility,” Fairchild added and clucked his tongue. “It’s been almost three weeks, and he just got around to having the painting tested. I made certain it wouldn’t stand up to the most basic of tests, of course.”

“Of course,” Kirby murmured.

“Now he has to leave the copy in the gallery. And I have the original.”

She gave herself a moment to absorb all he’d told her. It didn’t make any difference in how she felt. Furious. “Why, Papa? Why did you do this! It isn’t like all the others. It’s Harriet.”

“Now, Kirby, don’t lose control. You’ve such a nasty temper.” He did his best to look small and helpless. “I’m much too old to cope with it. Remember my blood pressure.”

“Blood pressure be hanged.” She glared up at him with fury surging into her eyes. “Don’t think you’re going to get around me with that. Old?” she tossed back. “You’re still your youngest child.”

“I feel a spell coming on,” he said, inspired by Kirby’s own warning two days before. He pressed a trembling hand to his heart and staggered. “I’ll end up a useless heap of cold spaghetti. Ah, the paintings I might have done. The world’s losing a genius.”

Clenching her fists, Kirby beat them on his worktable. Tools bounced and clattered while she let out a long wail. Protective, Fairchild placed his hands around his hawk and waited for the crisis to pass. At length, she slumped back in the chair, breathless.

“You used to do better than that,” he observed. “I think you’re mellowing.”

“Papa.” Kirby clamped her teeth to keep from grinding them. “I know I’ll be forced to beat you about the head and ears, then I’ll be arrested for patricide. You know I’ve a terror of closed-in places. I’d go mad in prison. Do you want that on your conscience?”

“Kirby, have I ever given you cause for one moment’s worry?”

“Don’t force me into a recital, Papa, it’s after midnight. What have you done with the Rembrandt?”

“Done with it?” He frowned and fiddled with the cover of his hawk. “What do you mean, done with it?”

“Where is it?” she asked, carefully spacing the words. “You can’t leave a painting like that lying around the house, particularly when you’ve chosen to have company.”

“Company? Oh, you mean Adam. Fine boy. I’m fond of him already.” His eyebrows wiggled twice. “You seem to be finding him agreeable.”

Kirby narrowed her eyes. “Leave Adam out of this.”

“Dear, dear, dear.” Fairchild grinned lavishly. “And I thought you’d brought him up.”

“Where is the Rembrandt?” All claim to patience disintegrated. Briefly, she considered banging her head on the table, but she’d given up that particular ploy at ten.

“Safe and secure, my sweet.” Fairchild’s voice was calm and pleased. “Safe and secure.”

“Here? In the house?”

“Of course.” He gave her an astonished look. “You don’t think I’d keep it anywhere else?”

“Where?”

“You don’t need to know everything.” With a flourish, he whipped off his painting smock and tossed it over a chair. “Just content yourself that it’s safe, hidden with appropriate respect and affection.”

“Papa.”

“Kirby.” He smiled—a gentle father’s smile. “A child must trust her parent, must abide by the wisdom of his years. You do trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

He cut her off with the first bars of “Daddy’s Little Girl” in a wavering falsetto.

Kirby moaned and lowered her head to the table. When would she learn? And how was she going to deal with him this time? He continued to sing until the giggles welled up and escaped. “You’re incorrigible.” She lifted her head and took a deep breath. “I have this terrible feeling that you’re leaving out a mountain of details and that I’m going to go along with you anyway.”

“Details, Kirby.” His hand swept them aside. “The world’s too full of details, they clutter things up. Remember, art reflects life, and life’s an illusion. Come now, I’m tired.” He walked to her and held out his hand. “Walk your old papa to bed.”

Defeated, she accepted his hand and stood. Never, never would she learn. And always, always would she adore him. Together they walked from the room.

Adam watched as they started down the steps, arm in arm.

“Papa…” Only feet away from Adam’s hiding place, Kirby stopped. “There is, of course, a logical reason for all this?”

“Kirby.” Adam could see the mobile face move into calm, sober lines. “Have I ever done anything without a sensible, logical reason?”

She started with a near-soundless chuckle. In moments, her laughter rang out, rich and musical. It echoed back, faint and ghostly, until she rested her head against her father’s shoulder. In the half-light, with her eyes shining, Adam thought she’d never looked more alluring. “Oh, my papa,” she began in a clear contralto. “To me he is so wonderful.” Linking her arm through Fairchild’s, she continued down the steps.

Rather pleased with himself, and with his offspring, Fairchild joined her in his wavery falsetto. Their mixed voices drifted over Adam until the distance swallowed them.

Leaving the shadows, he stood at the head of the stairway. Once he heard Kirby’s laugh, then there was silence.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” he murmured.