The Art of Deception Read Online Free PDF

intelligent give-and-take that skimmed over the surface and meant absolutely nothing.
    But Kirby found herself aware of him, more aware than she should have been. More aware than she wanted to be.
    Just what kind of man was he, she wondered as he sprinkled salt on his eggs. She’d already concluded he wasn’t nearly as conventional as he appeared to be—or perhaps as he thought himself to be. There was an adventurer in there, she was certain. Her only annoyance stemmed from the fact that it had taken her so long to see it.
    She remembered the strength and turbulence of the kiss they’d shared. He’d be a demanding lover. And a fascinating one. Which meant she’d have to be a great deal more careful. She no longer believed he’d be easily managed. Something in his eyes…
    Quickly she backed off from that line of thought. The point was, she had to manage him. Finishing off her coffee, she sent up a quick prayer that her father had the Van Gogh well concealed.
    â€œThe tour begins from bottom to top,” she said brightly. Rising, she held out her hand. “The dungeons are marvelously morbid and damp, but I think we’ll postpone that in respect of your cashmere sweater.”
    â€œDungeons?” He accepted her offered arm and walked from the room with her.
    â€œWe don’t use them now, I’m afraid, but if the vibrations are right, you can still hear a few moans and rattles.” She said it so casually, he nearly believed her. That, he realized, was one of her biggest talents. Making the ridiculous sound plausible. “Lord Wickerton, the original owner, was quite dastardly.”
    â€œYou approve?”
    â€œApprove?” She weighed this as they walked. “Perhaps not, but it’s easy to be intrigued by things that happened nearly a hundred years ago. Evil can become romantic after a certain period of time, don’t you think?”
    â€œI’ve never looked at it quite that way.”
    â€œThat’s because you have a very firm grip on what’s right and what’s wrong.”
    He stopped and, because their arms were linked, Kirby stopped beside him. He looked down at her with an intensity that put her on guard. “And you?”
    She opened her mouth, then closed 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