The Art Of Deception: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Нора РобертсЧитать онлайн книгу.
ction>
The Art of Deception
Nora Roberts
Adam Haines was an artist visiting the Fairchild mansion to do some undercover digging, and that was a problem for a man who preferred to be straightforward. An even bigger problem was Kirby Fairchild, daughter of the world-famous painter he'd been sent to investigate. She was part child, part elf, and the most fascinating woman he'd ever encountered.
However, Kirby had a disconcertingly fluid sense of right and wrong—one completely at odds with Adam's own code of ethics. Adam wished he wasn't wrapped quite so tightly around her little finger….
For the Romance Writers of America,
in gratitude for the friends I’ve made
and the friends still to come.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 1
It was more like a castle than a house. The stone was gray, but beveled at the edges, Herodian-style, so that it shimmered with underlying colors. Towers and turrets jutted toward the sky, joined together by a crenellated roof. Windows were mullioned, long and narrow with diamond-shaped panes.
The structure—Adam would never think of it as anything so ordinary as a house—loomed over the Hudson, audacious and eccentric and, if such things were possible, pleased with itself. If the stories were true, it suited its owner perfectly.
All it required, Adam decided as he crossed the flagstone courtyard, was a dragon and a moat.
Two grinning gargoyles sat on either side of the wide stone steps. He passed by them with a reservation natural to a practical man. Gargoyles and turrets could be accepted in their proper place—but not in rural New York, a few hours’ drive out of Manhattan.
Deciding to reserve judgment, he lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall against a door of thick Honduras mahogany. After a third pounding, the door creaked open. With strained patience, Adam looked down at a small woman with huge gray eyes, black braids and a soot-streaked face. She wore a rumpled sweatshirt and jeans that had seen better days. Lazily, she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and stared back.
“Hullo.”
He bit back a sigh, thinking that if the staff ran to half-witted maids, the next few weeks were going to be very tedious. “I’m Adam Haines. Mr. Fairchild is expecting me,” he enunciated.
Her eyes narrowed with curiosity or suspicion, he couldn’t be sure. “Expecting you?” Her accent was broad New England. After another moment of staring, she frowned, shrugged, then moved aside to let him in.
The hall was wide and seemingly endless. The paneling gleamed a dull deep brown in the diffused light. Streaks of sun poured out of a high angled window and fell over the small woman, but he barely noticed. Paintings. For the moment, Adam forgot the fatigue of the journey and his annoyance. He forgot everything else but the paintings.
Van Gogh, Renoir, Monet. A museum could claim no finer exhibition. The power pulled at him. The hues, the tints, the brush strokes, and the overall magnificence they combined to create, tugged at his senses. Perhaps, in some strange way, Fairchild had been right to house them in something like a fortress. Turning, Adam saw the maid with her hands loosely folded, her huge gray eyes on his face. Impatience sprang back.
“Run along, will you? Tell Mr. Fairchild I’m here.”
“And who might you be?” Obviously impatience didn’t affect her.
“Adam Haines,” he repeated. He was a man accustomed to servants—and one who expected efficiency.
“Ayah, so you said.”
How could her eyes be smoky and clear at the same time? he wondered fleetingly. He gave a moment’s thought to the fact that they reflected a maturity and intelligence at odds with her braids and smeared face. “Young lady…” He paced the words, slowly and distinctly. “Mr. Fairchild is expecting me. Just tell him I’m here. Can you handle that?”
A sudden dazzling smile lit her face. “Ayah.”
The smile threw him off. He noticed for the first time that she had an exquisite mouth, full and sculpted. And there was something…something under the soot. Without thinking, he lifted a hand, intending to brush some off. The tempest hit.
“I can’t do it! I tell you it’s impossible. A travesty!” A man barreled down the long, curved stairs at an alarming rate. His face was shrouded in tragedy, his voice croaked with doom. “This is all your fault.” Coming to a breathless stop, he pointed a long, thin finger at the little maid. “It’s on your head, make no mistake.”
Robin Goodfellow, Adam thought instantly. The man was the picture of Puck, short with a spritely build, a face molded on cherubic lines. The spare thatch of light hair nearly stood on end. He seemed to dance. His thin legs lifted and fell on the landing as he waved the long finger at the dark-haired woman. She remained serenely undisturbed.
“Your blood pressure’s rising every second, Mr. Fairchild. You’d better take a deep breath or two before you have a spell.”
“Spell!” Insulted, he danced faster. His face glowed pink with the effort. “I don’t have spells, girl. I’ve never had a spell in my life.”
“There’s always a first time.” She nodded, keeping her fingers lightly linked. “Mr. Adam Haines is here to see you.”
“Haines? What the devil does Haines have to do with it? It’s the end, I tell you. The climax.” He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. The pale blue eyes watered so that for one awful moment, Adam thought he’d weep. “Haines?” he repeated. Abruptly he focused on Adam with a brilliant smile. “I’m expecting you, aren’t I?”
Cautiously Adam offered his hand. “Yes.”
“Glad you could come, I’ve been looking forward to it.” Still showing his teeth, he pumped Adam’s hand. “Into the parlor,” he said, moving his grip from Adam’s hand to his arm. “We’ll have a drink.” He walked with the quick bouncing stride of a man who hadn’t a worry in the world.
In the parlor Adam had a quick impression of antiques and old magazines. At a wave of Fairchild’s hand he sat on a horsehair sofa that was remarkably uncomfortable. The maid went to an enormous stone fireplace and began to scrub out the hearth with quick, tuneful little whistles.
“I’m having Scotch,” Fairchild decided, and reached for a decanter of Chivas Regal.
“That’ll be fine.”
“I admire your work, Adam Haines.” Fairchild offered the Scotch with a steady hand. His face was calm, his voice moderate. Adam wondered if he’d imagined the scene on the stairs.
“Thank you.” Sipping Scotch, Adam studied the little genius across from him.
Small networks of lines crept out from Fairchild’s eyes and mouth. Without them and the thinning hair, he might have been taken for a very young man. His aura of youth seemed to spring from an inner vitality, a feverish energy. The eyes were pure, unfaded blue. Adam knew they could see beyond what others saw.
Philip Fairchild was, indisputably, one of the greatest living artists of the