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

“Explanations don’t seem to be enough at this point,” he murmured. Very slowly he rose. The sound of sirens cut through the quiet. “I’ll phone Harriet.”

Almost an hour had passed before Adam could wash the blood from his hands. Unconscious still, Melanie was speeding on her way to the hospital. His only thought was for Kirby now, and he left his room to find her. When he reached the bottom landing, he came upon an argument in full gear. Though the shouting was all one-sided, the noise vibrated through the hall.

“I want to see Adam Haines and I want to see him immediately!”

“Gate-crashing, Mac?” Adam moved forward to stand beside Cards.

“Adam, thank God.” The small, husky man with the squared-off face and disarming eyes ran a hand through his disheveled mat of hair. “I didn’t know what’d happened to you. Tell this wall to move aside, will you?”

“It’s all right, Cards.” He drew an expressionless stare. “He’s not a reporter. I know him.”

“Very well, sir.”

“What the hell’s going on?” McIntyre demanded when Cards walked back down the hall. “Who just got carted out of here in an ambulance? Damn it, Adam, I thought it might be you. Last thing I know, you’re shouting and breaking transmission.”

“It’s been a rough night.” Putting a hand on his shoulder, Adam led him into the parlor. “I need a drink.” Going directly to the bar, Adam poured, drank and poured again. “Drink up, Mac,” he invited. “This has to be better than the stuff you’ve been buying in that little motel down the road. Philip,” he continued as Fairchild walked into the room, “I imagine you could use one of these.”

“Yes.” With a nod of acknowledgment for McIntyre, and no questions, Fairchild accepted the glass Adam offered.

“We’d better sit down. Philip Fairchild,” Adam went on as Fairchild settled himself, “Henry McIntyre, investigator for the Commonwealth Insurance company.”

“Ah, Mr. McIntyre.” Fairchild drank half his Scotch in one gulp. “We have quite a bit to discuss. But first, Adam, satisfy my curiosity. How did you become involved with the investigation?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve worked for Mac, but it’s the last.” He sent McIntyre a quiet look that was lined in steel. “There’s a matter of our being cousins,” he added. “Second cousins.”

“Relatives.” Fairchild smiled knowingly, then gave McIntyre a charming smile.

“You knew why I was here,” Adam said. “How?”

“Well, Adam, my boy, it’s nothing to do with your cleverness.” Fairchild tossed off the rest of the Scotch, then rose to fill his glass again. “I was expecting someone to come along. You were the only one who did.” He sat back down with a sigh. “Simple as that.”

“Expecting?”

“Would someone tell me who was in that ambulance?” McIntyre cut in.

“Melanie Burgess.” Fairchild looked into his Scotch. “Melly.” It would hurt, he knew, for a long time. For himself, for Harriet and for Kirby. It was best to begin to deal with it. “She was shot when Kirby tried to take her gun away—the gun she was pointing at my daughter.”

“Melanie Burgess,” McIntyre mused. “It fits with the information I got today. Information,” he added to Adam, “I was about to give you when you broke transmission. I’d like it from the beginning, Mr. Fairchild. I assume the police are on their way.”

“Yes, no way around that.” Fairchild sipped at his Scotch and deliberated on just how to handle things. Then he saw he no longer had McIntyre’s attention. He was staring at the doorway.

Dressed in jeans and a white blouse, Kirby stood just inside the room. She was pale, but her eyes were dark. She was beautiful. It was the first thing McIntyre thought. The second was that she was a woman who could empty a man’s mind the way a thirsty man empties a bottle.

“Kirby.” Adam was up and across the room. He had his hands on hers. Hers were cold, but steady. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Melanie?”

“The paramedics handled everything. I got the impression the wound wasn’t as bad as it looked. Go lie down,” he murmured. “Forget it for a while.”

“No.” She shook her head and managed a weak smile. “I’m fine, really. I’ve been washed and patted and plied with liquor, though I wouldn’t mind another. The police will want to question me.” Her gaze drifted to McIntyre. She didn’t ask, but simply assumed he was with the police. “Do you need to talk to me?”

It wasn’t until then he realized he’d been staring. Clearing his throat, McIntyre rose. “I’d like to hear your father’s story first, Miss Fairchild.”

“Wouldn’t we all?” Struggling to find some balance, she walked to her father’s chair. “Are you going to come clean, Papa, or should I hire a shady lawyer?”

“Unnecessary, my sweet.” He took her hand and held it. “The beginning,” he continued with a smile for McIntyre. “It started, I suppose, a few days before Harriet flew off to Africa. She’s an absentminded woman. She had to return to the gallery one night to pick up some papers she’d forgotten. When she saw the light in Stuart’s office, she started to go in and scold him for working late. Instead she eavesdropped on his phone conversation and learned of his plans to steal the Rembrandt. Absentminded but shrewd, Harriet left and let Stuart think his plans were undetected.” He grinned and squeezed Kirby’s hand. “An intelligent woman, she came directly to a friend known for his loyalty and his sharp mind.”

“Papa.” With a laugh of relief, she bent over and kissed his head. “You were working together, I should’ve known.”

“We developed a plan. Perhaps unwisely, we decided not to bring Kirby into it.” He looked up at her. “Should I apologize?”

“Never.”

But the fingers brushing over her hand said it for him. “Kirby’s relationship with Stuart helped us along in that decision. And her occasional shortsightedness. That is, when she doesn’t agree with my point of view.”

“I might take the apology after all.”

“In any case.” Rising, Fairchild began to wander around the room, hands clasped behind his back. His version of Sherlock Holmes, Kirby decided, and settled back for the show. “Harriet and I both knew Stuart wasn’t capable of constructing and carrying through on a theft like this alone. Harriet hadn’t any idea whom he’d been talking to on the phone, but my name had been mentioned. Stuart had said he’d, ah, ‘feel me out on the subject of producing a copy of the painting.’” His face fell easily into annoyed lines. “I’ve no idea why he should’ve thought a man like me would do something so base, so dishonest.”

“Incredible,” Adam murmured, and earned a blinding smile from father and daughter.

“We decided I’d agree, after some fee haggling. I’d then have the original in my possession while palming the copy off on Stuart. Sooner or later, his accomplice would be forced into the open to try to recover it. Meanwhile, Harriet reported the theft, but refused to file a claim. Instead she demanded that the insurance company act with discretion. Reluctantly she told them of her suspicion that I was involved, thereby ensuring that the investigation would be centered around me, and by association, Stuart and his accomplice. I concealed the Rembrandt behind a copy of a painting of my daughter, the original of which is tucked away in my room. I’m sentimental.”

“Why didn’t Mrs. Merrick just tell the police and the insurance company the truth?” McIntyre demanded after he’d worked his way through the explanation.

“They might have been hasty. No offense,” Fairchild added indulgently. “Stuart might’ve been caught, but his accomplice would probably have gotten away. And, I confess, it was the intrigue that appealed to both of us. It was irresistible. You’ll want to corroborate my story, of course.”

“Of course,” McIntyre agreed, and wondered if he could deal with another loony.

“We’d have done things differently if we’d had any idea that Melanie was involved. It’s going to be difficult for Harriet.” Pausing, he aimed a long look at McIntyre that was abruptly no-nonsense. “Be careful with her. Very careful. You might find our methods unorthodox, but she’s a mother who’s had two unspeakable shocks tonight: her daughter’s betrayal and the possibility of losing her only child.” He ran a hand over Kirby’s hair as he stopped by her. “No matter how deep the hurt, the love remains, doesn’t it, Kirby?”

“All I feel is the void,” she murmured. “She hated me, and I think, I really think, she wanted me dead more than she wanted the painting. I wonder…I wonder just how much I’m to blame for that.”

“You can’t blame yourself for being, Kirby.” Fairchild cupped her chin. “You can’t blame a tree for reaching for the sun or another for rotting from within. We make our own choices and we’re each responsible for them. Blame and credit belong to the individual. You haven’t the right to claim either from someone else.”

“You won’t let me cover the hurt with guilt.” After a long breath she rose and kissed his cheek. “I’ll have to deal with it.” Without thinking, she held out a hand for Adam before she turned to McIntyre. “Do you need a statement from me?”

“No, the shooting’s not my jurisdiction, Miss Fairchild. Just the Rembrandt.” Finishing off the rest of his Scotch he rose. “I’ll have to take it with me, Mr. Fairchild.”

All graciousness, Fairchild spread his arms wide. “Perfectly understandable.”

“I appreciate your cooperation.” If he could call it that. With a weary smile, he turned to Adam. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten your terms. If everything’s as he says, I should be able to keep them out of it officially, as we agreed the other day. Your part of the job’s over, and all in all you handled it well. So, I’ll be sorry if you’re serious about not working for me anymore. You got the Rembrandt back, Adam. Now I’ve got to get started on untangling the red tape.”

“Job?” Going cold, Kirby turned. Her hand was still linked in Adam’s, but she felt it go numb as she drew it slowly away. “Job?” she repeated, pressing the hand to her stomach as if to ward off a blow.

Not now, he thought in frustration, and searched for the words he’d have used only a few hours later. “Kirby—”

With all the strength she had left, all the bitterness she’d felt, she brought her hand across his face. “Bastard,” she whispered. She fled at a dead run.