The Art of Deception by Nora Roberts Page B

too—if I’d do the forgery for the Rembrandt’s replacement.”
    She hadn’t thought he could do anything to surprise her. Certainly nothing to hurt her. “Papa, it’s Harriet’s Rembrandt,” she said in shock.
    “Now, Kirby, you know I’m fond of Harriet. Very fond.” He put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Our Stuart has a very small brain. He handed over the Rembrandt when I said I needed it to do the copy.” Fairchild shook his head. “There wasn’t any challenge to it, Kirby. Hardly any fun at all.”
    “Pity,” she said dryly and dropped into a chair.
    “Then I told him I didn’t need the original any longer, and gave him the copy instead. He never suspected.” Fairchild linked his hands behind his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I wish you’d seen it. It was superlative. It was one of Rembrandt’s later works, you know. Rough textures, such luminous depth—”
    “Papa!” Kirby interrupted what would’ve become a lecture.
    “Oh, yes, yes.” With an effort, Fairchild controlled himself. “I told him it’d take just a little more time to complete the copy and treat it for the illusion of age. He bought it. Gullibility,” Fairchild added and clucked his tongue. “It’s been almost three weeks, and he just got around to having the painting tested. I made certain it wouldn’t stand up to the most basic of tests, of course.”
    “Of course,” Kirby murmured.
    “Now he has to leave the copy in the gallery. And I have the original.”
    She gave herself a moment to absorb all he’d told her. It didn’t make any difference in how she felt. Furious. “Why, Papa? Why did you do this! It isn’t like all the others. It’s Harriet.”
    “Now, Kirby, don’t lose control. You’ve such a nasty temper.” He did his best to look small and helpless. “I’m much too old to cope with it. Remember my blood pressure.”
    “Blood pressure be hanged.” She glared up at him with fury surging into her eyes. “Don’t think you’re going to get around me with that. Old?” she tossed back. “You’re still your youngest child.”
    “I feel a spell coming on,” he said, inspired by Kirby’s own warning two days before. He pressed a trembling hand to his heart and staggered. “I’ll end up a useless heap of cold spaghetti. Ah, the paintings I might have done. The world’s losing a genius.”
    Clenching her fists, Kirby beat them on his worktable. Tools bounced and clattered while she let out a long wail. Protective, Fairchild placed his hands around his hawk and waited for the crisis to pass. At length, she slumped back in the chair, breathless.
    “You used to do better than that,” he observed. “I think you’re mellowing.”
    “Papa.” Kirby clamped her teeth to keep from grinding them. “I know I’ll be forced to beat you about the head and ears, then I’ll be arrested for patricide. You know I’ve a terror of closed-in places. I’d go mad in prison. Do you want that on your conscience?”
    “Kirby, have I ever given you cause for one moment’s worry?”
    “Don’t force me into a recital, Papa, it’s after midnight. What have you done with the Rembrandt?”
    “Done with it?” He frowned and fiddled with the cover of his hawk. “What do you mean, done with it?”
    “Where is it?” she asked, carefully spacing the words. “You can’t leave a painting like that lying around the house, particularly when you’ve chosen to have company.”
    “Company? Oh, you mean Adam. Fine boy. I’m fond of him already.” His eyebrows wiggled twice. “You seem to be finding him agreeable.”
    Kirby narrowed her eyes. “Leave Adam out of this.”
    “Dear, dear, dear.” Fairchild grinned lavishly. “And I thought you’d brought him up.”
    “Where is the Rembrandt?” All claim to patience disintegrated. Briefly, she considered banging her head on the table, but she’d given up that particular ploy at ten.
    “Safe and secure, my sweet.” Fairchild’s voice was