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

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.

Soft sighs, low murmurs, skin against skin. Moonlight and the rose tint from the lamp competed, then merged, as the mattress yielded under their weight. Her mouth was hot and open, her arms were strong. As she moved under him, inviting, taunting, he forgot how small she was.

Everything. All. Now. Needs drove them both to take without patience, and yet… Somehow, beneath the passion, under the heat, was a tenderness neither had expected from the other.

He touched. She trembled. She tasted. He throbbed. They wanted until the air seemed to spark with it. With each second both of them found more of what they’d needed, but the findings brought more greed. Take, she seemed to say, then give and give and give.

She had no time to float, only to throb. For him. From him. Her body craved—yearn was too soft a word. She required him, something unique for her. And he, with a kiss, with a touch of his hand, could raise her up to planes she’d only dreamed existed. Here was the completion, here was the delight, she’d hoped for without truly believing in. This was what she’d wanted so desperately in her life but had never found. Here and now. Him. There was and needed to be nothing else.

He edged toward madness. She held him, hard and tight, as they swung toward the edge together. Together was all she could think. Together.

Quiet. It was so quiet there might never have been such a thing as sound. Her hair brushed against his cheek. Her hand, balled into a loose fist, lay over his heart. Adam lay in the silence and hurt as he’d never expected to hurt.

How had he let it happen? Control? What had made him think he had control when it came to Kirby? Somehow she’d wrapped herself around him, body and mind, while he’d been pretending he’d known exactly what he’d been doing.

He’d come to do a job, he reminded himself. He still had to do it, no matter what had passed between them. Could he go on with what he’d come to do, and protect her? Was it possible to split himself in two when his road had always been so straight? He wasn’t certain of anything now, but the tug-of-war he’d lose whichever way the game ended. He had to think, create the distance he needed to do so. Better for both of them if he started now.

But when he shifted away, she held him tighter. Kirby lifted her head so that moonlight caught in her eyes and mesmerized him. “Don’t go,” she murmured. “Stay and sleep with me. I don’t want it to end yet.”

He couldn’t resist her now. Perhaps he never would. Saying nothing, Adam drew her close again and closed his eyes. For a little while he could pretend tomorrow would take care of itself.

Sunlight woke her, but Kirby tried to ignore it by piling pillows on top of her head. It didn’t work for long. Resigned, she tossed them on the floor and lay quietly, alone.

She hadn’t heard Adam leave, nor had she expected him to stay until morning. As it was, she was grateful to have woken alone. Now she could think.

How was it she’d given her complete trust to a man she hardly knew? No answer. Why hadn’t she evaded his questions, skirted her way around certain facts as she was well capable of doing? No answer.

It wasn’t true. Kirby closed her eyes a moment, knowing she’d been more honest with Adam than she was being with herself. She knew the answer.

She’d given him more than she’d ever given to any man. It had been more than a physical alliance, more than a few hours of pleasure in the night. The essence of self had been shared with him. There was no taking it back now, even if both of them would have preferred it.

Unknowingly, he’d taken her innocence. Emotional virginity was just as real, just as vital, as the physical. And it was just as impossible to reclaim. She, thinking of the night, knew that she had no desire to go back. Now they would both move forward to whatever waited for them.

Rising, she prepared to face the day.

Upstairs in Fairchild’s studio, Adam studied the rural landscape. He could feel the agitation and drama. The serene scene leaped with frantic life. Vivid, real, disturbing. Its creator stood beside him, not the Vincent van Gogh who Adam would’ve sworn had wielded the brush and pallette, but Philip Fairchild.

“It’s magnificent,” Adam murmured. The compliment was out before he could stop it.

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fond of it.” Fairchild spoke as a man who’d long before accepted his own superiority and the responsibility that came with it.

“Mr. Fairchild—”

“Philip,” Fairchild interrupted genially. “No reason for formality between us.”

Somehow Adam felt even the casual intimacy could complicate an already hopelessly tangled situation. “Philip,” he began again, “this is fraud. Your motives might be sterling, but the result remains fraud.”

“Absolutely.” Fairchild bobbed his head in agreement. “Fraud, misrepresentation, a bald-faced lie without a doubt.” He lifted his arms and let them fall. “I’m stripped of defenses.”

Like hell, Adam thought grimly. Unless he was very much mistaken, he was about to be treated to the biggest bag of pure, classic bull on record.

“Adam…” Fairchild drew out the name and steepled his hands. “You’re an astute man, a rational man. I pride myself on being a good judge of character.” As if he were very old and frail, Fairchild lowered himself into a chair. “Then, again, you’re imaginative and open-minded—that shows in your work.”

Adam reached for the coffee Cards had brought up. “So?”

“Your help with our little problem last night—and your skill in turning my own plot against me—leads me to believe you have the ability to adapt to what some might term the unusual.”

“Some might.”

“Now.” Accepting the cup Adam handed him, Fairchild leaned back. “You tell me Kirby filled you in on everything. Odd, but we’ll leave that for now.” He’d already drawn his own conclusions there and found them to his liking. He wasn’t about to lose on other points. “After what you’ve been told, can you find one iota of selfishness in my enterprise? Can you see my motive as anything but humanitarian?” On a roll, Fairchild set down his cup and let his hands fall between his bony knees. “Small, sick children, and those less fortunate than ourselves, have benefited from my hobby. Not one dollar have I kept, not a dollar, a franc, a sou. Never, never have I asked for credit or honor that, naturally, society would be anxious to bestow on me.”