The Art of Deception Read Online Free PDF

it again before she could say something foolish. “Let’s just say I’m flexible. You’ll enjoy this room,” she said, pushing open a door. “It’s rather sturdy and staid.”
    Taking the insult in stride, Adam walked through with her. For nearly an hour they wandered from room to room. It occurred to him that he’d underestimated the sheer size of the place. Halls snaked and angled, rooms popped up where they were least expected, some tiny, some enormous. Unless he got very, very lucky, Adam concluded, the job would take him a great deal of time.
    Pushing open two heavy, carved doors, Kirby led him into the library. It had two levels and was the size of an average two-bedroom apartment. Faded Persian rugs were scattered over the floor. The far wall was glassed in the small diamond panes that graced most of the windows in the house. The rest of the walls were lined floor to ceiling with books. A glance showed Chaucer standing beside D. H. Lawrence. Stephen King leaned against Milton. There wasn’t even the pretense of organization, but there was the rich smell of leather, dust and lemon oil.
    The books dominated the room and left no space for paintings. But there was sculpture.
    Adam crossed the room and lifted a figure of a stallion carved in walnut. Freedom, grace, movement, seemed to vibrate in his hands. He could almost hear the steady heartbeat against his palm.

    There was a bronze bust of Fairchild on a high, round stand. The artist had captured the puckishness, the energy, but more, she’d captured a gentleness and generosity Adam had yet to see.
    In silence, he wandered the room, examining each piece as Kirby looked on. He made her nervous, and she struggled against it. Nerves were something she felt rarely, and never acknowledged. Her work had been looked at before, she reminded herself. What else did an artist want but recognition? She linked her fingers and remained silent. His opinion hardly mattered, she told herself, then moistened her lips.
    He picked up a piece of marble shaped into a roaring mass of flames. Though the marble was white, the fire was real. Like every other piece he’d examined, the mass of marble flames was physical. Kirby had inherited her father’s gift for creating life.
    For a moment, Adam forgot all the reasons he was there and thought only of the woman and the artist. “Where did you study?”
    The flip remark she’d been prepared to make vanished from her mind the moment he turned and looked at her with those calm brown eyes. “École des Beaux-Arts formally. But Papa taught me always.”
    He turned the marble in his hands. Even a pedestrian imagination would’ve felt the heat. Adam could all but smell it. “How long have you been sculpting?”
    “Seriously? About four years.”
    “Why the hell have you only had one exhibition? Why are you burying it here?”
    Anger. She lifted her brow at it. She’d wondered just what sort of a temper he’d have, but she hadn’t expected to see it break through over her work. “I’m having another in the spring,” she said evenly. “Charles Larson’s handling it.” Abruptly uncomfortable, she shrugged. “Actually, I was pressured into having the other. I wasn’t ready.”
    “That’s ridiculous.” He held up the marble as if she hadn’t seen it before. “Absolutely ridiculous.”
    Why should it make her feel vulnerable to have her work in the palm of his hand? Turning away, Kirby ran a finger down her father’s bronze nose. “I wasn’t ready,” she repeated, not sure why, when she never explained herself to anyone, she was explaining such things to him. “I had to be sure, you see. There are those who say—who’ll always say—that I rode on Papa’s coattails. That’s to be expected.” She blew out a breath, but her hand remained on the bust of her father. “I had to know differently. I had to know.”
    He hadn’t expected sensitivity, sweetness, vulnerability. Not from her. But he’d seen it in her work,