Read The Art of Deception for Free Online Page B

snapped.
    “It certainly is.” For a moment, she nibbled on her thumbnail. “You’re entitled to another. Adam, come have a look.”
    He sent her a killing glance that caused her to grin. Trapped by manners, he crossed the studio and looked down at the clay.
    It was, he supposed, an adequate attempt—a partially formed hawk, talons exposed, beak just parted. The power, the life, that sung in his paints, and in his daughter’s sculptures, just wasn’t there. In vain, Adam searched for a way out.
    “Hmm,” he began, only to have Kirby pounce on the syllable.
    “There, he agrees with me.” Kirby patted her father’s head and looked smug.
    “What does he know?” Fairchild demanded. “He’s a painter.”
    “And so, darling Papa, are you. A brilliant one.”
    He struggled not to be pleased and poked a finger into the clay. “Soon, you hateful brat, I’ll be a brilliant sculptor as well.”
    “I’ll get you some Play-Doh for your birthday,” she offered, then let out a shriek as Fairchild grabbed her ear and twisted. “Fiend.” With a sniff, she rubbed at the lobe.
    “Mind your tongue or I’ll make a Van Gogh of you.”
    As Adam watched, the little man cackled; Kirby, however, froze—face, shoulders, hands. The fluidity he’d noticed in her even when she was still vanished. It wasn’t annoyance, he thought, but…fear? Not of Fairchild. Kirby, he was certain, would never be afraid of a man, particularly her father. For Fairchild was more feasible, and just as baffling.
    She recovered quickly enough and tilted her chin. “I’m going to show Adam my studio. He can settle in.”
    “Good, good.” Because he recognized the edge to her voice, Fairchild patted her hand. “Damn pretty girl, isn’t she, Adam?”
    “Yes, she is.”
    As Kirby heaved a gusty sigh, Fairchild patted her hand again. The clay on his smeared onto hers. “See, my sweet, aren’t you grateful for those braces now?”
    “Papa.” With a reluctant grin, Kirby laid her cheek against his balding head. “I never wore braces.”
    “Of course not. You inherited your teeth from me.” He gave Adam a flashing smile and a wink. “Come back when you’ve got settled, Adam. I need some masculine company.” He pinched Kirby’s cheek lightly. “And don’t think Adam’s going to sniff around your ankles like Rick Potts.”
    “Adam’s nothing like Rick,” Kirby murmured as she picked up a rag and wiped the traces of clay from her hands. “Rick is sweet.”
    “She inherited her manners from the milkman,” Fairchild observed.
    She shot a look at Adam. “I’m sure Adam can be sweet, too.” But there was no confidence in her voice. “Rick’s forte is watercolor. He’s the sort of man women want to mother. I’m afraid he stutters a bit when he gets excited.”
    “He’s madly in love with our little Kirby.” Fairchild would’ve cackled again, but for the look his daughter sent him.
    “He just thinks he is. I don’t encourage him.”
    “What about the clinch I happened in on in the library?” Pleased with himself, Fairchild turned back to Adam. “I ask you, when a man’s glasses are steamed, isn’t there a reason for it?”
    “Invariably.” He liked them, damn it, whether they were harmless lunatics or something more than harmless. He liked them both.
    “You know very well that was totally one-sided.” Barely shifting her stance, she became suddenly regal and dignified. “Rick lost control, temporarily. Like blowing a fuse, I suppose.” She brushed at the sleeve of her sweater. “Now that’s quite enough on the subject.”
    “He’s coming to stay for a few days next week.” Fairchild dropped the bombshell as Kirby walked to the door. To her credit, she barely broke stride. Adam wondered if he was watching a well-plotted game of chess or a wild version of Chinese checkers.
    “Very well,” Kirby said coolly. “I’ll tell Rick that Adam and I are lovers and that Adam’s viciously jealous, and keeps a stiletto