For a moment he wanted to drop it, to leave her to her privacy and her anger. The job came first.
“I know him by reputation,” Adam continued. “I’d planned to see the gallery. It’s about twenty miles from here, isn’t it?”
She paled a bit, which confused him, but when she spoke her voice was steady. “Yes, it’s not far. Under the circumstances, I’m afraid I can’t take you.”
“You may mend your differences over the weekend.” Prying wasn’t his style. He had a distaste for it, particularly when it involved someone he was beginning to care about. When he lifted his gaze, however, he didn’t see discomfort. She was livid.
“I think not.” She made a conscious effort to relax her hands. Noting the gesture, Adam wondered how much it cost her. “It occurred to me that my name would be Fairchild-Hiller.” She gave a slow, rolling shrug. “That would never do.”
“The Merrick Gallery has quite a reputation.”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, Melanie’s mother owns it, and managed it until a couple of years ago.”
“Melanie? Didn’t you say her name was Burgess?”
“She was married to Carlyse Burgess—Burgess Enterprises. They’re divorced.”
“So, she’s Harriet Merrick’s daughter.” The cast of players was increasing. “Mrs. Merrick’s given the running of the gallery over to Hiller?”
“For the most part. She dips her hand in now and then.”
Adam saw that she’d relaxed again, and concentrated on the shape of her eyes. Round? Not quite, he decided. They were nearly almond shaped, but again, not quite. Like Kirby, they were simply unique.
“Whatever my personal feelings, Stuart’s a knowledgeable dealer.” She gave a quick, short laugh. “Since she hired him, she’s had time to travel. Harriet’s just back from an African safari. When I phoned her the other day, she told me she’d brought back a necklace of crocodile teeth.”
To his credit, Adam closed his eyes only briefly. “Your families are close, then. I imagine your father’s done a lot of dealing through the Merrick Gallery.”
“Over the years. Papa had his first exhibition there, more than thirty years ago. It sort of lifted his and Harriet’s careers off at the same time.” Straightening in her chair, Kirby frowned across the table. “Let me see what you’ve done.”
“In a minute,” he muttered, ignoring her outstretched hand.
“Your manners sink to my level when it’s convenient, I see.” Kirby plopped back in her chair. When he didn’t comment, she screwed her face into unnatural lines.
“I wouldn’t do that for long,” Adam advised. “You’ll hurt yourself. When I start in oil, you’ll have to behave or I’ll beat you.”
Kirby relaxed her face because her jaw was stiffening. “Corkscrews, you wouldn’t beat me. You have the disadvantage of being a gentleman, inside and out.”
Lifting his head, he pinned her with a look. “Don’t bank on it.”
The look alone stopped whatever sassy rejoinder she might have made. It wasn’t the look of a gentleman, but of a man who made his own way however he chose. Before she could think of a proper response, the sound of shouting and wailing drifted up the tower steps and through the open door. Kirby made no move to spring up and investigate. She merely smiled.
“I’m going to ask two questions,” Adam decided. “First, what the hell is that?”
“Which that is that, Adam?” Her eyes were dove gray and guileless.
“The sound of mourning.”
“Oh, that.” Grinning, she reached over and snatched his sketch pad. “That’s Papa’s latest tantrum because his sculpture’s not going well—which of course it never will. Does my nose really tilt that way?” Experimentally she ran her finger down it. “Yes, I guess it does. What was your other question?”
“Why do you say ‘corkscrews’ or something equally ridiculous when a simple ‘hell’ or ‘damn’ would do?”
“It has to do with cigars. You really must show these sketches to Papa. He’ll want to see them.”
“Cigars.” Determined to have her full attention, Adam grabbed the pad away from her.
“Those big, nasty, fat ones. Papa used to smoke them by the carload. You needed a gas mask just to come in the door. I begged, threatened, even tried smoking them myself.” She swallowed on that unfortunate memory. “Then I came up with the solution. Papa is a sucker.”
“Is that so?”
“That is, he just can’t resist a bet, no matter what the odds.” She touched the wood again, knowing she’d have to come back to it later. “My language was, let’s say, colorful. I can swear eloquently in seven languages.”
“Quite an accomplishment.”
“It has its uses, believe me. I bet Papa ten thousand dollars that I could go longer without swearing than he could without smoking. Both my language and the ozone layer have been clean for three months.” Rising, Kirby circled the table. “I have the gratitude of the entire staff.” Abruptly she dropped in his lap. Letting her head fall back, she wound her arms around his neck. “Kiss me again, will you? I can’t resist.”
There can’t be another like her, Adam thought as he closed his mouth over hers. With a low sound of pleasure, Kirby melted against him, all soft demand.
Then neither of them thought, but felt only.
Desire was swift and sharp. It built and expanded so that they could wallow in it. She allowed herself the luxury, for such things were too often brief, too often hollow. She wanted the speed, the heat, the current. A risk, but life was nothing without them. A challenge, but each day brought its own. He made her feel soft, giddy, senseless. No one else had. If she could be swept away, why shouldn’t she be? It had never happened before.
She needed what she’d never realized she needed from a man before: strength, solidity.
Adam felt the initial stir turn to an ache—something deep and dull and constant. It wasn’t something he could resist, but something he found he needed. Desire had always been basic and simple and painless. Hadn’t he known she was a woman who would make a man suffer? Knowing it, shouldn’t he have been able to avoid it? But he hurt. Holding her soft and pliant in his arms, he hurt. From wanting more.
“Can’t you two wait until after lunch?” Fairchild demanded from the doorway.
With a quiet sigh, Kirby drew her lips from Adam’s. The taste lingered as she knew now it would. Like the wood behind her, it would be something that pulled her back again and again.
“We’re coming,” she murmured, then brushed Adam’s mouth again, as if in promise. She turned and rested her cheek against his in a gesture he found impossibly sweet. “Adam’s been sketching me,” she told her father.
“Yes, I can see that.” Fairchild gave a quick snort. “He can sketch you all he chooses after lunch. I’m hungry.”
Chapter 4
Food seemed to soothe Fairchild’s temperament. As he plowed his way through poached salmon, he went off on a long, technical diatribe on surrealism. It appeared breaking conventional thought to release the imagination had appealed to him to the extent that he’d given nearly a year of his time in study and application. With a good-humored shrug, he confessed that his attempts at surrealistic painting had been poor, and his plunge into abstraction little better.
“He’s banished those canvases to the attic,” Kirby told Adam as she poked at her salad. “There’s one in shades of blue and yellow, with clocks of all sizes and shapes sort of melting