to bestow on me.”
“You haven’t asked for the jail sentence they’d bestow on you, either.”
Fairchild tilted his head in acknowledgment but didn’t miss a beat. “It’s my gift to mankind, Adam. My payment for the talent awarded to me by a higher power. These hands…” He held them up, narrow, gaunt and oddly beautiful. “These hands hold a skill I’m obliged to pay for in my own way. This I’ve done.” Bowing his head, Fairchild dropped them into his lap. “However, if you must condemn me, I understand.”
Fairchild looked, Adam mused, like a stalwart Christian faced by pagan lions: firm in his belief, resigned to his fate. “One day,” Adam murmured, “your halo’s going to slip and strangle you.”
“A possibility.” Grinning, he lifted his head again. “But in the meantime, we enjoy what we can. Let’s have one of those Danishes, my boy.”
Wordlessly, Adam handed him the tray. “Have you considered the repercussions to Kirby if your…hobby is discovered?”
“Ah.” Fairchild swallowed pastry. “A straight shot to my Achilles’ heel. Naturally both of us know that Kirby can meet any obstacle and find a way over, around or through it.” He bit off more Danish, enjoying the tang of raspberry. “Still, merely by being, Kirby demands emotion of one kind or another. You’d agree?”
Adam thought of the night, and what it had changed in him. “Yes.”
The brief, concise answer was exactly what Fairchild had expected. “I’m taking a hiatus from this business for various reasons, the first of which is Kirby’s position.”
“And her position as concerns the Merrick Rembrandt?”
“A different kettle of fish.” Fairchild dusted his fingers on a napkin and considered another pastry. “I’d like to share the ins and outs of that business with you, Adam, but I’m not free to just yet.” He smiled and gazed over Adam’s head. “One could say I’ve involved Kirby figuratively, but until things are resolved, she’s a minor player in the game.”
“Are you casting as well as directing this performance, Papa?” Kirby walked into the room and picked up the Danish Fairchild had been eyeing. “Did you sleep well, darling?”
“Like a rock, brat,” he muttered, remembering the confusion of waking up on the sofa under her cape. He didn’t care to be outwitted, but was a man who acknowledged a quick mind. “I’m told your evening activities went well.”
“The deed’s done.” She glanced at Adam before resting her hands on her father’s shoulders. The bond was there, unbreakable. “Maybe I should leave the two of you alone for a while. Adam has a way of digging out information. You might tell him what you won’t tell me.”
“All in good time.” He patted her hands. “I’m devoting the morning to my hawk.” Rising, he went to uncover his clay, an obvious dismissal. “You might give Harriet a call and tell her all’s well before you two amuse yourselves.”
Kirby held out her hand. “Have you any amusements in mind, Adam?”
“As a matter of fact…” He went with the impulse and kissed her as her father watched and speculated. “I had a session of oils and canvas in mind. You’ll have to change.”
“If that’s the best you can do. Two hours only,” she warned as they walked from the room. “Otherwise my rates go up. I have my own work, you know.”
“Three.”
“Two and a half.” She paused at the second-floor landing.
“You looked like a child this morning,” he murmured, and touched her cheek. “I couldn’t bring myself to wake you.” He left his hand there only a moment, then moved away. “I’ll meet you upstairs.”
Kirby went to her room and tossed the red dress on the bed. While she undressed with one hand, she dialed the phone with the other.
“Harriet, it’s Kirby to set your mind at rest.”
“Clever child. Was there any trouble?”
“No.” She wiggled out of her jeans. “We managed.”
“We? Did Philip go with you?”
“Papa was snoozing on the couch after Adam switched drinks.”
“Oh, dear.” Amused, Harriet settled back. “Was he very angry?”
“Papa or Adam?” Kirby countered, then shrugged. “No matter, in the end they were both very reasonable. Adam was a great help.”
“The test isn’t for a half hour. Give me the details.”
Struggling in and out of clothes, Kirby told her everything.
“Marvelous!” Pleased with the drama, Harriet beamed at the phone. “I wish I’d done it. I’ll have to get to know your Adam better and find some spectacular way of showing him my gratitude. Do you think he’d like the crocodile teeth?”
“Nothing would please him more.”
“Kirby, you know how grateful I am to you.” Harriet’s voice was abruptly serious and maternal. “The situation’s awkward to say the least.”
“The contract’s binding?”
“Yes.” She let out a sigh at the thought of losing the Titian. “My fault. I should’ve explained to Stuart that the painting wasn’t to be sold. Philip must be furious with me.”
“You can handle him. You always do.”
“Yes, yes. Lord knows what I’d do without you, though. Poor Melly just can’t understand me as you do.”
“She’s just made differently.” Kirby stared down at the floor and tried not to think about the Rembrandt and the guilt it brought her. “Come to dinner tonight, Harriet, you and Melanie.”
“Oh, I’d love to, darling, but I’ve a meeting. Tomorrow?”
“Fine. Shall I call Melly, or will you speak with her?”
“I’ll see her this afternoon. Take care and do thank Adam for me. Damn shame I’m too old to give him anything but crocodile teeth.”
With a laugh, Kirby hung up.
The sun swept over her dress, shooting it with flames or darkening it to blood. It glinted from the rings at her ears, the bracelets on her arms. Knowing the light was as perfect as it would ever be, Adam worked feverishly.
He was an artist of subtle details, one who used light and shadow for mood. In his portraits he strove for an inner reality, the truth beneath the surface of the model. In Kirby he saw the essence of woman—power and frailty and that elusive, mystical quality of sex. Aloof, alluring. She was both. Now, more than ever, he understood it.
Hours passed without him giving them a thought. His model, however, had a different frame of mind.
“Adam, if you’ll consult your watch, you’ll see I’ve given you more than the allotted time already.”
He ignored her and continued to paint.
“I can’t stand here another moment.” She let her arms drop from their posed position, then wiggled them from the shoulders down. “As it is, I’ll probably never pole-vault again.”
“I can work on the background awhile,” he muttered. “I need another three hours in the morning. The light’s best then.”
Kirby bit off a retort. Rudeness was something to be expected when an artist was taken over by his art. Stretching her muscles, she went to look over his shoulder.
“You’ve a good hand with light,” she decided as she studied the emerging painting. “It’s very flattering, certainly, rather fiery and defiant with the colors you’ve chosen.” She looked carefully at the vague