The Art Of Deception: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

“Perceptive, too.” She smiled, that slow curving of lips that was fascinating to watch. When he answered it, she made up her mind quickly. She’d always found it the best way. Still watching him, she set down her brandy. “I’m impulsive,” she explained. “I want to see what it feels like.”

Her arms were around him, her lips on his, in a move that caught him completely off balance. He had a very brief impression of wood smoke and roses, of incredible softness and strength, before she drew back. The hint of a smile remained as she picked up her brandy and finished it off. She’d enjoyed the brief kiss, but she’d enjoyed shocking him a great deal more.

“Very nice,” she said with borderline approval. “Breakfast is from seven on. Just ring for Cards if you need anything. Good night.”

She turned to leave, but he took her arm. Kirby found herself whirled around. When their bodies collided, the surprise was hers.

“You caught me off guard,” he said softly. “I can do much better than nice.”

He took her mouth swiftly, molding her to him. Soft to hard, thin silk to crisp linen. There was something primitive in her taste, something…ageless. She brought to his mind the woods on an autumn evening—dark, pungent and full of small mysteries.

The kiss lengthened, deepened without plan on either side. Her response was instant, as her responses often were. It was boundless as they often were. She moved her hands from his shoulders, to his neck, to his face, as if she were already sculpting. Something vibrated between them.

For the moment, blood ruled. She was accustomed to it; he wasn’t. He was accustomed to reason, but he found none here. Here was heat and passion, needs and desires without questions or answers.

Ultimately, reluctantly, he drew back. Caution, because he was used to winning, was his way.

She could still taste him. Kirby wondered, as she felt his breath feather over her lips, how she’d misjudged him. Her head was spinning, something new for her. She understood heated blood, a fast pulse, but not the clouding of her mind.

Not certain how long he’d have the advantage, Adam smiled at her. “Better?”

“Yes.” She waited until the floor became solid under her feet again. “That was quite an improvement.” Like her father, she knew when to dodge and weave. She eased herself away and moved to the doorway. She’d have to do some thinking, and some reevaluating. “How long are you here, Adam?”

“Four weeks,” he told her, finding it odd she didn’t know.

“Do you intend to sleep with me before you go?”

Torn between amusement and admiration, he stared at her. He respected candor, but he wasn’t used to it in quite so blunt a form. In this case, he decided to follow suit. “Yes.”

She nodded, ignoring the little thrill that raced up her spine. Games—she liked to play them. To win them. Kirby sensed one was just beginning between her and Adam. “I’ll have to think about that, won’t I? Good night.”

Chapter 2

Shafts of morning light streamed in the long windows of the dining room and tossed their diamond pattern on the floor. Outside the trees were touched with September. Leaves blushed from salmon to crimson, the colors mixed with golds and rusts and the last stubborn greens. The lawn was alive with fall flowers and shrubs that seemed caught on fire. Adam had his back to the view as he studied Fairchild’s paintings.

Again, Adam was struck with the incredible variety of styles Fairchild cultivated. There was a still life with the light and shadows of a Goya, a landscape with the frantic colors of a Van Gogh, a portrait with the sensitivity and grace of a Raphael. Because of its subject, it was the portrait that drew him.

A frail, dark-haired woman looked out from the canvas. There was an air of serenity, of patience, about her. The eyes were the same pure gray as Kirby’s, but the features were gentler, more even. Kirby’s mother had been a rare beauty, a rare woman who looked like she’d had both strength and understanding. While she wouldn’t have scrubbed at a hearth, she would have understood the daughter who did. That Adam could see this, be certain of it, without ever having met Rachel Fairchild, was only proof of Fairchild’s genius. He created life with oil and brush.

The next painting, executed in the style of Gainsborough, was a full-length portrait of a young girl. Glossy black curls fell over the shoulders of a white muslin dress, tucked at the bodice, belled at the skirt. She wore white stockings and neat black buckle shoes. Touches of color came from the wide pink sash around her waist and the dusky roses she carried in a basket. But this was no demure Pinky.

The girl held her head high, tilting it with youthful arrogance. The half smile spoke of devilment while the huge gray eyes danced with both. No more than eleven or twelve, Adam calculated. Even then, Kirby must have been a handful.

“An adorable child, isn’t she?” Kirby stood at the doorway as she had for five full minutes. She’d enjoyed watching and dissecting him as much as Adam had enjoyed dissecting the painting.

He stood very straight—prep school training, Kirby decided. Yet his hands were dipped comfortably in his pockets. Even in a casual sweater and jeans, there was an air of formality about him. Contrasts intrigued her, as a woman and as an artist.

Turning, Adam studied her as meticulously as he had her portrait. The day before, he’d seen her go from grubby urchin to sleek sophisticate. Today she was the picture of the bohemian artist. Her face was free of cosmetics and unframed as her hair hung in a ponytail down her back. She wore a shapeless black sweater, baggy, paint-streaked jeans and no shoes. To his annoyance, she continued to attract him.

She turned her head and, by accident or design, the sunlight fell over her profile. In that instant, she was breathtaking. Kirby sighed as she studied her own face. “A veritable angel.”

“Apparently her father knew better.”

She laughed, low and rich. His calm, dry voice pleased her enormously. “He did at that, but not everyone sees it.” She was glad he had, simply because she appreciated a sharp eye and a clever mind. “Have you had breakfast?”

He relaxed. She’d turned again so that the light no longer illuminated her face. She was just an attractive, friendly woman. “No, I’ve been busy being awed.”

“Oh, well, one should never be awed on an empty stomach. It’s murder on the digestion.” After pressing a button, she linked her arm through his and led him to the table. “After we’ve eaten, I’ll take you through the house.”

“I’d like that.” Adam took the seat opposite her. She wore no fragrance this morning but soap—clean and sexless. It aroused nonetheless.

A woman clumped into the room. She had a long bony face, small mud-brown eyes and an unfortunate nose. Her graying hair was scraped back and bundled at the nape of her neck. The deep furrows in her brow indicated her pessimistic nature. Glancing over, Kirby smiled.

“Good morning, Tulip. You’ll have to send a tray up to Papa, he won’t budge out of the tower.” She drew a linen napkin from its ring. “Just toast and coffee for me, and don’t lecture. I’m not getting any taller.”

After a grumbling disapproval, Tulip turned to Adam. His order of bacon and eggs received the same grumble before she clumped back out again.

“Tulip?” Adam cocked a brow as he turned to Kirby.

“Fits beautifully, doesn’t it?” Lips sober, eyes amused, she propped her elbows on the table and dropped her face in her hands. “She’s really a marvel as far as organizing. We’ve had a running battle over food for fifteen years. Tulip insists that if I eat, I’ll grow. After I hit twenty, I figured I’d proved her wrong. I wonder why adults insist on making such absurd statements to children.”

The robust young maid who’d served dinner the night before brought in coffee. She showered sunbeam smiles over Adam.

“Thank you, Polly.” Kirby’s voice was gentle, but Adam caught the warning glance and the maid’s quick blush.

“Yes, ma’am.” Without a backward glance, Polly scurried from the room. Kirby poured the coffee herself.

“Our Polly is very sweet,” she began. “But she has a habit of becoming, ah, a bit too matey with two-thirds of the male population.” Setting down the silver coffee urn, Kirby smiled across the table. “If you’ve a taste for slap and tickle, Polly’s your girl. Otherwise, I wouldn’t encourage her. I’ve even had to warn her off Papa.”

The picture of the lusty young Polly with the Pucklike Fairchild zipped into Adam’s mind. It lingered there a moment with perfect clarity until he roared with laughter.

Well, well, well, Kirby mused, watching him. A man who could laugh like that had tremendous potential. She wondered what other surprises he had tucked away. Hopefully she’d discover quite a few during his stay.

Picking up the cream pitcher, he added a stream to his coffee. “You have my word, I’ll resist temptation.”

“She’s built stupendously,” Kirby observed as she sipped her coffee black.

“Really?” It was the first time she’d seen his grin—quick, crooked and wicked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Kirby studied him while the grin did odd things to her nervous system. Surprise again, she told herself, then reached for her coffee. “I’ve misjudged you, Adam,” she murmured. “A definite miscalculation. You’re not precisely what you seem.”

He thought of the small transmitter locked in his dignified briefcase. “Is anyone?”

“Yes.” She gave him a long and completely guileless look. “Yes, some people are precisely what they seem, for better or worse.”

“You?” He asked because he suddenly wanted to know badly who and what she was. Not for McIntyre, not for the job, but for himself.

She was silent a moment as a quick, ironic smile moved over her face. He guessed, correctly, that she was laughing at herself. “What I seem to be today is what I am—today.” With one of her lightning changes, she threw off the mood. “Here’s breakfast.”