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

“Too many people,” Fairchild announced. “I much prefer small parties. Let’s have a drink in the parlor and gossip.”

Don’t look so bloody anxious, Kirby thought, and nearly scowled at him. “I’ll go tell Cards to see to the Rolls and my car.” Still, she hesitated as the men walked toward the parlor. Adam caught the indecision in her eyes before Fairchild cackled and slapped him on the back.

“And don’t hurry back,” he told Kirby. “I’ve had enough of women for a while.”

“How sweet.” The irony and strength came back into her voice. “I’ll just go in and eat Tulip’s lemon trifle. All,” she added as she swept past.

Fairchild thought of his midnight snack with regret. “Brat,” he muttered. “Well, we’ll have Scotch instead.”

Adam dipped his hands casually in his pockets and watched every move Fairchild made. “I had a chance to see Kirby’s portrait in Harriet’s library. It’s marvelous.”

“One of my best, if I say so myself.” Fairchild lifted the decanter of Chivas Regal. “Harriet’s fond of my brat, you know.” In a deft move, Fairchild slipped two pills from his pocket and dropped them into the Scotch.

Under normal circumstances Adam would’ve missed it. Clever hands, he thought as intrigued as he was amused. Very quick, very agile. Apparently they wanted him out of the way. He was going to find it a challenge to pit himself against both of them. With a smile, he accepted the drink, then turned to the Corot landscape behind him.

“Corot’s treatment of light,” Adam began, taking a small sip. “It gives all of his work such deep perspective.”

No ploy could’ve worked better. Fairchild was ready to roll. “I’m very partial to Corot. He had such a fine hand with details without being finicky and obscuring the overall painting. Now the leaves,” he began, and set down his drink to point them out. While the lecture went on, Adam set down his own drink, picked up Fairchild’s and enjoyed the Scotch.

Upstairs Kirby found the Titian already wrapped in heavy paper. “Bless you, Cards,” she murmured. She checked her watch and made herself wait a full ten minutes before she picked up the painting and left the room. Quietly she moved down the back stairs and out to where her car waited.

In the parlor, Adam studied Fairchild as he sat in the corner of the sofa, snoring. Deciding the least he could do was to make his host more comfortable, Adam started to swing Fairchild’s legs onto the couch. The sound of a car engine stopped him. Adam was at the window in time to see Kirby’s Porsche race down the drive.

“You’re going to have company,” he promised her. Within moments, he was behind the wheel of the Rolls.

The surge of speed added to Kirby’s sense of adventure. She drove instinctively while she concentrated on her task for the evening. It helped ease the guilt over Adam, a bit.

A quarter mile from the gallery, she stopped and parked on the side of the road. Grateful that the Titian was relatively small, though the frame added weight, she gathered it up again and began to walk. Her heels echoed on the asphalt.

Clouds drifted across the moon, obscuring the light then freeing it again. With her cape swirling around her, Kirby walked into the cover of trees that bordered the gallery. The light was dim, all shadows and secrets. Up ahead came the low moan of an owl. Tossing back her hair, she laughed.

“Perfect,” she decided. “All we need is a rumble of thunder and a few streaks of lightning. Skulking through the woods on a desperate mission,” she mused. “Surrounded by the sounds of night.” She shifted the bundle in her arms and continued on. “What one does for those one loves.”

She could see the stately red brick of the gallery through the trees. Moonlight slanted over it. Almost there, she thought with a quick glance at her watch. In an hour she’d be back home—and perhaps she’d have the lemon trifle after all.

A hand fell heavily on her shoulder. Her cape spread out like wings as she whirled. Great buckets of blood, she thought as she stared up at Adam.

“Out for a stroll?” he asked her.

“Why, hello, Adam.” Since she couldn’t disappear, she had to face him down. She tried a friendly smile. “What are you doing out here?”

“Following you.”

“Flattering. But wasn’t Papa entertaining you?”

“He dozed off.”

She stared up at him a moment, then let out a breath. A wry smile followed it. “I suppose he deserved it. I hope you left him comfortable.”

“Enough. Now what’s in the package?”

Though she knew it was useless, she fluttered her lashes. “Package?”

He tapped his finger on the wrapping.

“Oh, this package. Just a little errand I have to run. It’s getting late, shouldn’t you be starting back?”

“Not a chance.”

“No.” She moved her shoulders. “I thought not.”

“What’s in the package, Kirby, and what do you intend to do with it?”

“All right.” She thrust the painting into his arms because hers were tiring. When the jig was up, you had to make the best of it. “I suppose you deserve an explanation, and you won’t leave until you have one anyway. It has to be the condensed version, Adam, I’m running behind schedule.” She laid a hand on the package he held. “This is the Titian woman, and I’m going to put it in the gallery.”

He lifted a brow. He didn’t need Kirby to tell him that he held a painting. “I was under the impression that the Titian woman was in the gallery.”

“No…” She drew out the word. If she could have thought of a lie, a half-truth, a fable, she’d have used it. She could only think of the truth. “This is a Titian,” she told him with a nod to the package. “The painting in the gallery is a Fairchild.”

He let the silence hang a moment while the moonlight filtered over her face. She looked like an angel…or a witch. “Your father forged a Titian and palmed it off on the gallery as an original?”

“Certainly not!” Indignation wasn’t feigned. Kirby bit back on it and tried to be patient. “I won’t tell you any more if you insult my father.”

“I don’t know what came over me.”

“All right then.” She leaned back against a tree. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning.”

“Good choice.”

“Years ago, Papa and Harriet were vacationing in Europe. They came across the Titian, each one swearing they’d seen it first. Neither one would give way, and it would’ve been criminal to let the painting go altogether. They compromised.” She gestured at the package. “Each paid half, and Papa painted a copy. They rotate ownership of the original every six months, alternating with the copy, if you get the drift. The stipulation was that neither of them could claim ownership. Harriet kept hers in the gallery—not listing it as part of her private collection. Papa kept it in a guest room.”

He considered for a moment. “That’s too ridiculous for you to have made up.”

“Of course I didn’t make it up.” As it could, effectively, her bottom lip pouted. “Don’t you trust me?”

“No. You’re going to do a lot more explaining when we get back.”

Perhaps, Kirby thought. And perhaps not.

“Now just how do you intend to get into the gallery?”

“With Harriet’s keys.”

“She gave you her keys?”

Kirby let out a frustrated breath. “Pay attention, Adam. Harriet’s furious about Stuart selling the painting, but until she studies the contracts there’s no way to know how binding the sale is. It doesn’t look good, and we can’t take a chance on having the painting tested—my father’s painting, that is. If the procedure were sophisticated enough, it might prove that the painting’s not sixteenth-century.”

“Harriet’s aware that a forgery’s hanging in her gallery?”