Surprised, Melanie glanced up. “Oh course, I’d love to. But I’ve been trying to talk you into it for years and you’ve always refused to go through the fittings.”
Kirby shrugged. A wedding dress was a different matter, she mused. Still, she didn’t mention her plans with Adam. Her father would know first. “I usually buy on impulse, whatever appeals at the time.”
“From Goodwill to Rive Gauche,” Melanie murmured. “So this must be special.”
“I’m taking a page from your book,” Kirby evaded. “You know I’ve always admired your talent, I just knew I wouldn’t have the patience for all the preliminaries.” She laughed. “Do you think you can design a dress that’d make me look demure?”
“Demure?” Harriet cut in, pouncing on the word. “Poor Melanie would have to be a sorceress to pull that off. Even as a child in that sweet little muslin you looked capable of battling a tribe of Comanches. Philip, you must let me borrow that painting of Kirby for the gallery.”
“We’ll see.” His eyes twinkled. “You’ll have to soften me up a bit first. I’ve always had a deep affection for that painting.” With a hefty sigh, he leaned back with his drink. “Its value goes below the surface.”
“He still begrudges me my sitting fee.” Kirby sent her father a sweet smile. “He forgets I never collected for any of the others.”
“You never posed for the others,” Fairchild reminded her.
“I never signed a release for them, either.”
“Melly posed for me out of the goodness of her heart.”
“Melly’s nicer than I am,” Kirby said simply. “I like being selfish.”
“Heartless creature,” Harriet put in mildly. “It’s so selfish of you to teach sculpture in the summer to those handicapped children.”
Catching Adam’s surprised glance, Kirby shifted uncomfortably. “Harriet, think of my reputation.”
“She’s sensitive about her good deeds,” Harriet told Adam with a squeeze for his knee.
“I simply had nothing else to do.” With a shrug, Kirby turned away. “Are you going to Saint Moritz this year, Melly?”
Fraud, Adam thought as he watched her guide the subject away from herself. A beautiful, sensitive fraud. And finding her so, he loved her more.
By the time Harriet and Melanie rose to leave, Kirby was fighting off a raging headache. Too much strain, she knew, but she wouldn’t admit it. She could tell herself she needed only a good night’s sleep, and nearly believe it.
“Kirby.” Harriet swirled her six-foot shawl over her shoulder before she took Kirby’s chin in her hand. “You look tired, and a bit pale. I haven’t seen you look pale since you were thirteen and had the flu. I remember you swore you’d never be ill again.”
“After that disgusting medicine you poured down my throat, I couldn’t afford to. I’m fine.” But she threw her arms around Harriet’s neck and held on. “I’m fine, really.”
“Mmm.” Over her head, Harriet frowned at Fairchild. “You might think about Australia. We’ll put some color in your cheeks.”
“I will. I love you.”
“Go to sleep, child,” Harriet murmured.
The moment the door was closed, Adam took Kirby’s arm. Ignoring her father and Rick, he began to pull her up the stairs. “You belong in bed.”
“Shouldn’t you be dragging me by the hair instead of the arm?”
“Some other time, when my intentions are less peaceful.” He stopped outside her door. “You’re going to sleep.”
“Tired of me already?”
The words were hardly out of her mouth when his covered it. Holding her close, he let himself go for a moment, releasing the needs, the desires, the love. He could feel her heart thud, her bones melt. “Can’t you see how tired I am of you?” He kissed her again with his hands framing her face. “You must see how you bore me.”
“Anything I can do?” she murmured, slipping her hands under his jacket.
“Get some rest.” He took her by the shoulders. “This is your last opportunity to sleep alone.”
“Am I sleeping alone?”
It wasn’t easy for him. He wanted to devour her, he wanted to delight her. He wanted, more than anything else, to have a clean slate between them before they made love again. If she hadn’t looked so weary, so worn, he’d have told her everything then and there. “This may come as a shock to you,” he said lightly. “But you’re not Wonder Woman.”
“Really?”
“You’re going to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow.” He took her hands and the look, the sudden intenseness, confused her. “Tomorrow, Kirby, we have to talk.”
“About what?”
“Tomorrow,” he repeated before he could change his mind. “Rest now.” He gave her a nudge inside. “If you’re not feeling any better tomorrow, you’re going to stay in bed and be pampered.”
She managed one last wicked grin. “Promise?”
Chapter 11
It was clear after Kirby had tossed in bed and fluffed up her pillow for more than an hour that she wasn’t going to get the rest everyone seemed to want for her. Her body was dragging, but her mind refused to give in to it.
She tried. For twenty minutes she recited dull poetry. Closing her eyes, she counted five hundred and twenty-seven camels. She turned on her bedside radio and found chamber music. She was, after all of it, wide awake.
It wasn’t fear. If Stuart had indeed tried to kill her, he’d failed. She had her own wits, and she had Adam. No, it wasn’t fear.
The Rembrandt. She couldn’t think of anything else after seeing Harriet laughing, after remembering how Harriet had nursed her through the flu and had given her a sweet and totally unnecessary woman-to-woman talk when she’d been a girl.
Kirby had grieved for her own mother, and though she’d died when Kirby had been a child, the memory remained perfectly clear. Harriet hadn’t been a substitute. Harriet had simply been Harriet. Kirby loved her for that alone.
How could she sleep?
Annoyed, Kirby rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe, just maybe, she could make use of the insomnia and sort it all out and make some sense out of it.
Her father, she was certain, would do nothing to hurt Harriet without cause. Was revenge on Stuart cause enough? After a moment, she decided it didn’t follow.
Harriet had gone to Africa—that was first. It had been nearly two weeks after that when Kirby had broken her engagement with Stuart. Afterward she had told her father of Stuart’s blackmail threats and he’d been unconcerned. He’d said, Kirby remembered, that Stuart wasn’t in any position to make waves.
Then it made sense to assume they’d already begun plans to switch the paintings. Revenge was out.
Then why?
Not for money, Kirby thought. Not for the desire to own the painting himself. That wasn’t his way—she knew better than anyone how he felt about greed. But then, stealing from a friend wasn’t his way either.
If she couldn’t find the reason, perhaps she could find the painting itself.
Still staring at the ceiling, she began to go