The Art of Deception by Nora Roberts Page A

too late. With her back pressed against the wall, Kirby closed her eyes and pretended to be invisible.
    Stuart wrenched open the door and stalked from the room, blind with rage. Without a backward glance he plunged down the steps. His face, Adam noted as he passed, was murderous. At the moment, he lacked a weapon. But if he found one, he wouldn’t hesitate.
    Kirby stood, still and silent, as the footsteps receded. She sucked in a deep breath, then let it out on a huff. What now? What now? she thought, and wanted to just bury her face in her hands and surrender. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and went in to confront her father.
    “Papa.” The word was quiet and accusing. Fairchild’s head jerked up, but his surprise was quickly masked by a genial smile.
    “Hello, love. My hawk’s beginning to breathe. Come have a look.”
    She took another deep breath. All of her life she’d loved him, stood by him. Adored him. None of that had ever stopped her from being angry with him. Slowly, keeping her eyes on him, she crossed the front panels of her robe and tied the sash. As she approached, Fairchild thought she looked like a gunslinger buckling on his six-gun. She wouldn’t, he thought with a surge of pride, intimidate like Hiller.
    “Apparently you haven’t kept me up to date,” she began. “A riddle, Papa. What do Philip Fairchild, Stuart Hiller and Rembrandt have in common?”
    “You’ve always been clever at riddles, my sweet.”
    “ Now, Papa.”
    “Just business.” He gave her a quick, hearty smile as he wondered just how much he’d have to tell her.
    “Let’s be specific, shall we?” She moved so that only the table separated them. “And don’t give me that blank, foolish look. It won’t work.” Bending over, she stared directly into his eyes. “I heard quite a bit while I was outside. Tell me the rest.”
    “Eavesdropping.” He made a disapproving tsk-tsk. “Rude.”
    “I come by it honestly. Now tell me or I’ll annihilate your hawk.” Sweeping up her arm, she held her palm three inches above his clay.
    “Vicious brat.” With his bony fingers, he grabbed her wrist, each knowing who’d win if it came down to it. He gave a windy sigh. “All right.”
    With a nod, Kirby removed her hand then folded her arms under her breasts. The habitual gesture had him sighing again.
    “Stuart came to me with a little proposition some time ago. You know, of course, he hasn’t a cent to his name, no matter what he pretends.”
    “Yes, I know he wanted to marry me for my money.” No one but her father would’ve detected the slight tightening in her voice.
    “I didn’t bring that up to hurt you.” His hand reached for hers in the bond that had been formed when she’d taken her first breath.
    “I know, Papa.” She squeezed his hand, then stuck both of hers in the pockets of her robe. “My pride suffered. It has to happen now and again, I suppose. But I don’t care for humiliation,” she said with sudden fierceness. “I don’t care for it one bloody bit.” With a toss of her head, she looked down at him. “The rest.”
    “Well.” Fairchild puffed out his cheeks, then blew out the breath. “Among his other faults, Stuart’s greedy. He needed a large sum of money, and didn’t see why he had to work for it. He decided to help himself to the Rembrandt self-portrait from Harriet’s gallery.”

    “He stole it?” Kirby’s eyes grew huge. “Great buckets of bedbugs! I wouldn’t have given him credit for that much nerve.”
    “He thought himself clever.” Rising, Fairchild walked to the little sink in the corner to wash off his hands. “Harriet was going on her safari, and there’d be no one to question the disappearance for several weeks. Stuart’s a bit dictatorial with the staff at the gallery.”
    “It’s such a treat to flog underlings.”
    “In any case—” lovingly, Fairchild draped his hawk for the night “—he came to me with an offer—a rather paltry offer,