In a quick move, Adam had the woman, the painting and himself pressed against the wall by the archway. Finding herself neatly sandwiched, and partially smothered, Kirby held back a desperate urge to giggle. Certain it would annoy Adam, she held her breath and swallowed.
The whistle grew louder.
In her mind’s eye, Kirby pictured the watchman strolling down the corridor, pausing to shine his light here and there as he walked. She hoped, for the watchman’s peace of mind and Adam’s disposition, the search was cursory.
Adam felt her trembling and held her tighter. Somehow he’d manage to protect her. He forgot that she’d gotten him into the mess in the first place. Now his only thought was to get her out of it.
A beam of light streamed past the doorway, with the whistle close behind. Kirby shook like a leaf. The light bounced into the room, sweeping over the walls in a curving arch. Adam tensed, knowing discovery was inches away. The light halted, rested a moment, then streaked away over its original route. And there was darkness.
They didn’t move, though Kirby wanted to badly, with the frame digging into her back. They waited, still and silent, until the whistling receded.
Because her light trembling had become shudder after shudder, Adam drew her away to whisper reassurance. “It’s all right. He’s gone.”
“You were wonderful.” She covered her mouth to muffle the laughter. “Ever thought about making breaking and entering a hobby?”
He slid the painting under one arm, then took a firm grip on hers. When the time was right, he’d pay her back for this one. “Let’s go.”
“Okay, since it’s probably a bad time to show you around. Pity,” she decided. “There are some excellent engravings in the next room, and a really marvelous still life Papa painted.”
“Under his own name?”
“Really, Adam.” They paused at the hallway to make certain it was clear. “That’s tacky.”
They didn’t speak again until they were hidden by the trees. Then Adam turned to her. “I’ll take the painting and follow you back. If you go over fifty, I’ll murder you.”
She stopped when they reached the cars, then threw him off balance with suddenly serious eyes. “I appreciate everything, Adam. I hope you don’t think too badly of us. It matters.”
He ran a finger down her cheek. “I’ve yet to decide what I think of you.”
Her lips curved up at the corners. “That’s all right then. Take your time.”
“Get in and drive,” he ordered before he could forget what had to be resolved. She had a way of making a man forget a lot of things. Too many things.
The trip back took nearly twice the time, as Kirby stayed well below the speed limit. Again she left the Porsche out front, knowing Cards would handle the details. Once inside, she went straight to the parlor.
“Well,” she mused as she looked at her father. “He seems comfortable enough, but I think I’ll just stretch him out.”
Adam leaned against the doorjamb and waited as she settled her father for the night. After loosening his tie and pulling off his shoes, she tossed her cape over him and kissed his balding head. “Papa,” she murmured. “You’ve been outmaneuvered.”
“We’ll talk upstairs, Kirby. Now.”
Straightening, Kirby gave Adam a long, mild look. “Since you ask so nicely.” She plucked a decanter of brandy and two glasses from the bar. “We may as well be sociable during the inquisition.” She swept by him and up the stairs.
Chapter 8
Kirby switched on the rose-tinted bedside lamp before she poured brandy. After handing Adam a snifter, she kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged on the bed. She watched as he ripped off the wrapping and examined the painting.
Frowning, he studied the brush strokes, the use of color, the Venetian technique that had been Titian’s. Fascinating, he thought. Absolutely fascinating. “This is a copy?”
She had to smile. She warmed the brandy between her hands but didn’t drink. “Papa’s mark’s on the frame.”
Adam saw the red circle but didn’t find it conclusive. “I’d swear it was authentic.”
“So would anyone.”
He propped the painting against the wall and turned to her. She looked like an Indian priestess—the nightfall of hair against the virgin white silk. With an enigmatic smile, she continued to sit in the lotus position, the brandy cupped in both hands.
“How many other paintings in your father’s collection are copies?”
Slowly she lifted the snifter and sipped. She had to work at not being annoyed by the question, telling herself he was entitled to ask. “All of the paintings in Papa’s collection are authentic. Excepting now this Titian.” She moved her shoulders carelessly. It hardly mattered at this point.
“When you spoke of his technique in treating paints for age, you didn’t give the impression he’d only used it on one painting.”
What had given her the idea he wouldn’t catch on to a chance remark like that one? she wondered. The fat’s in the fire in any case, she reminded herself. And she was tired of trying to dance around it. She swirled her drink and red and amber lights glinted against the glass.
“I trust you,” she murmured, surprising them both. “But I don’t want to involve you, Adam, in something you’ll regret knowing about. I really want you to understand that. Once I tell you, it’ll be too late for regrets.”
He didn’t care for the surge of guilt. Who was deceiving whom now? his conscience demanded of him. And who’d pay the price in the end? “Let me worry about that,” he stated, dealing with Kirby now and saving his conscience for later. He swallowed brandy and let the heat ease through him. “How many copies has your father done?”
“Ten—no, eleven,” she corrected, and ignored his quick oath. “Eleven, not counting the Titian, which falls into a different category.”
“A different category,” he murmured. Crossing the room, he splashed more brandy into his glass. He was certain to need it. “How is this different?”
“The Titian was a personal agreement between Harriet and Papa. Merely a way to avoid bad feelings.”
“And the others?” He sat on a fussily elegant Queen Anne chair. “What sort of arrangements did they entail?”
“Each is individual, naturally.” She hesitated as she studied him. If they’d met a month from now, would things have been different? Perhaps. Timing again, she mused and sipped the warming brandy. “To simplify matters, Papa painted them, then sold them to interested parties.”
“Sold them?” He stood because he couldn’t be still. Wishing it had been possible to stop her before she’d begun, he started to pace the room. “Good God, Kirby. Don’t you understand what he’s done? What he’s doing? It’s fraud, plain and simple.”
“I wouldn’t call it fraud,” she countered, giving her brandy a contemplative study. It was, after all, something she’d given a great deal of thought to. “And certainly not plain or simple.”
“What then?” If he’d had a choice, he’d have taken her away then and there—left the Titian, the Rembrandt and her crazy father in the ridiculous castle and taken off. Somewhere. Anywhere.
“Fudging,” Kirby decided with a half smile.
“Fudging,” he repeated in a quiet voice. He’d forgotten she was mad as well.