The Art Of Deception: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Нора Робертс

eyes clouded over. It was time for secrets again. “I found out quite a bit that night,” she murmured. “I’ve never thought of myself as a fool, but it seems I’d been one.”

      Again, Melanie reached for her hand. “It must have been a dreadful shock to learn Stuart was unfaithful even before you were married.”

      “What?” Blinking, Kirby brought herself back. “Oh, that. Yes, that, too.”

      “Too? What else?”

      “Nothing.” With a shake of her head, Kirby swept it all aside. “It’s all dead and buried now.”

      “I feel terrible. Damn it, I introduced you.”

      “Perhaps you should shave your head in restitution, but I’d advise you to forget it.”

      “Can you?”

      Kirby’s lips curved up, her brow lifted. “Tell me, Melly, do you still hold André Fayette against me?”

      Melanie folded her hands primly. “It’s been five years.”

      “Six, but who’s counting?” Grinning, Kirby leaned forward. “Besides, who expects an oversexed French art student to have any taste?”

      Melanie’s pretty mouth pouted. “He was very attractive.”

      “But base.” Kirby struggled with a new grin. “No class, Melly. You should thank me for luring him away, however unintentionally.”

      Deciding it was time to make his presence known, Adam stepped inside. Kirby glanced up and smiled without a trace of the ice or the fury. “Hello, Adam. Did you have a nice chat with Papa?”

      “Yes.”

      Melanie, he decided as he glanced in her direction, was even more stunning at close quarters. Classic face, classic figure draped in a pale rose dress cut with style and simplicity. “Am I interrupting?”

      “Just gossip. Melanie Burgess, Adam Haines. Adam’s our guest for a few weeks.”

      Adam accepted the slim rose-tipped hand. It was soft and pampered, without the slight ridge of callus that Kirby’s had just under the fingers. He wondered what had happened in the past twenty-four hours to make him prefer the untidy artist to the perfectly groomed woman smiling up at him. Maybe he was coming down with something.

      “The Adam Haines?” Melanie’s smile warmed. She knew of him, the irreproachable lineage and education. “Of course you are,” she continued before he could comment. “This place attracts artists like a magnet. I have one of your paintings.”

      “Do you?” Adam lit her cigarette, then one of his own. “Which one?”

      “A Study in Blue.” Melanie tilted her face to smile into his eyes, a neat little feminine trick she’d learned soon after she’d learned to walk.

      From across the table, Kirby studied them both. Two extraordinary faces, she decided. The tips of her fingers itched to capture Adam in bronze. A year before, she’d done Melanie in ivory—smooth, cool and perfect. With Adam, she’d strive for the undercurrents.

      “I wanted the painting because it was so strong,” Melanie continued. “But I nearly let it go because it made me sad. You remember, Kirby. You were there.”

      “Yes, I remember.” When she looked up at him, her eyes were candid and amused, without the traces of flirtation that flitted in Melanie’s. “I was afraid she’d break down and disgrace herself, so I threatened to buy it myself. Papa was furious that I didn’t.”

      “Uncle Philip could practically stock the Louvre already,” Melanie said with a casual shrug.

      “Some people collect stamps,” Kirby returned, then smiled again. “The still life in my room is Melanie’s work, Adam. We studied together in France.”

      “No, don’t ask,” Melanie said quickly, holding up her hand. “I’m not an artist. I’m a designer who dabbles.”

      “Only because you refuse to dig your toes in.”

      Melanie inclined her head, but didn’t agree or refute. “I must go. Tell Uncle Philip I said hello. I won’t risk disturbing him, as well.”

      “Stay for lunch, Melly. We haven’t seen you in two months.”

      “Another time.” She rose with the grace of one who’d been taught to sit and stand and walk. Adam stood with her, catching the drift of Chanel. “I’ll see you this weekend at the party.” With another smile, she offered Adam her hand. “You’ll come, too, won’t you?”

      “I’d like that.”

      “Wonderful.” Snapping open her bag, Melanie drew out thin leather gloves. “Nine o’clock, Kirby. Don’t forget. Oh!” On her way to the door, she stopped, whirling back. “Oh, God, the invitations were sent out before I… Kirby, Stuart’s going to be there.”

      “I won’t pack my derringer, Melly.” She laughed, but it wasn’t quite as rich or quite as free. “You look as though someone’s just spilled caviar on your Saint Laurent. Don’t worry about it.” She paused, and the chill passed quickly in and out of her eyes. “I promise you, I won’t.”

      “If you’re sure…” Melanie frowned. It was, however, not possible to discuss such a thing in depth in front of a guest. “As long as you won’t be uncomfortable.”

      “I won’t be the one who suffers discomfort.” The careless arrogance was back.

      “Saturday, then.” Melanie gave Adam a final smile before she slipped from the room.

      “A beautiful woman,” Adam commented, coming back to the table.

      “Yes, exceptional.” The simple agreement had no undertones of envy or spite.

      “How do two women, two exceptional women, of totally different types, remain friends?”

      “By not attempting to change one another.” She picked up the wood again and began to roll it around in her hands. “I overlook what I see as Melanie’s faults, and she overlooks mine.” She saw the pad and pencil in his hand and lifted a brow. “What’re you doing?”