“I’m not pompous.” He spoke very precisely and watched her lips tremble with fresh amusement.
“Perhaps that was a bad choice of words.”
“It was a completely incorrect choice.” Just barely, he caught himself before his brow lifted. Damn the woman, he thought, and swore he wouldn’t smile.
“Conventional.” Kirby patted his cheek. “I’m sure that’s what I meant.”
“I’m sure those two words mean the same thing to you. I won’t be categorized by either.”
Tilting her head, she studied him. “Maybe I’m wrong,” she said, to herself as much as him. “I’ve been wrong before. Give me a piggyback ride.”
“What?”
“A piggyback ride,” Kirby repeated.
“You’re crazy.” She might be sharp, she might be talented, he’d already conceded that, but part of her brain was permanently on holiday.
With a shrug, she started back toward the house. “I knew you wouldn’t. Pompous people never give or receive piggyback rides. It’s the law.”
“Damn.” She was doing it to him, and he was letting her. For a moment, he stuck his hands in his pockets and stood firm. Let her play her games with her father, Adam told himself. He wasn’t biting. With another oath, he caught up to her. “You’re an exasperating woman.”
“Why, thank you.”
They stared at each other, him in frustration, her in amusement, until he turned his back. “Get on.”
“If you insist.” Nimbly she jumped on his back, blew the hair out of her eyes and looked down. “Wombats, you’re tall.”
“You’re short,” he corrected, and hitched her to a more comfortable position.
“I’m going to be five-seven in my next life.”
“You’d better add pounds as well as inches to your fantasy.” Her hands were light on his shoulders, her thighs firm around his waist. Ridiculous, he thought. Ridiculous to want her now, when she’s making a fool of both of you. “What do you weigh?”
“An even hundred.” She sent a careless wave to Jamie.
“And when you take the ball bearings out of your pocket?”
“Ninety-six, if you want to be technical.” With a laugh, she gave him a quick hug. Her laughter was warm and distracting at his ear. “You might do something daring, like not wearing socks.”
“The next spontaneous act might be dropping you on your very attractive bottom.”
“Is it attractive?” Idly she swung her feet back and forth. “I see so little of it myself.” She held him for a moment longer because it felt so right, so good. Keep it light, she reminded herself. And watch your step. As long as she could keep him off balance, things would run smoothly. Leaning forward, she caught the lobe of his ear between her teeth. “Thanks for the lift, sailor.”
Before he could respond, she’d jumped down and dashed into the house.
It was night, late, dark and quiet, when Adam sat alone in his room. He held the transmitter in his hand and found he wanted to smash it into little pieces and forget it had ever existed. No personal involvements. That was rule number one, and he’d always followed it. He’d never been tempted not to.
He’d wanted to follow it this time, he reminded himself. It just wasn’t working that way. Involvement, emotion, conscience; he couldn’t let any of it interfere. Staring at Kirby’s painting of the Hudson, he flicked the switch.
“McIntyre?”
“Password.”
“Damn it, this isn’t a chapter of Ian Fleming.”
“Procedure,” McIntyre reminded him briskly. After twenty seconds of dead air, he relented. “Okay, okay, what’ve you found out?”
I’ve found out I’m becoming dangerously close to being crazy about a woman who makes absolutely no sense to me, he thought. “I’ve found out that the next time you have a brainstorm, you can go to hell with it.”
“Trouble?” McIntyre’s voice snapped into the receiver. “You were supposed to call in if there was trouble.”
“The trouble is I like the old man and the daughter’s…unsettling.” An apt word, Adam mused. His system hadn’t settled since he’d set eyes on her.
“It’s too late for that now. We’re committed.”
“Yeah.” He let out a breath between his teeth and blocked Kirby from his mind. “Melanie Merrick Burgess is a close family friend and Harriet Merrick’s daughter. She’s a very elegant designer who doesn’t seem to have any deep interest in painting. At a guess I’d say she’d be very supportive of the Fairchilds. Kirby recently broke off her engagement to Stuart Hiller.”
“Interesting. When?”
“I don’t have a date,” Adam retorted. “And I didn’t like pumping her about something that sensitive.” He struggled with himself as McIntyre remained silent. “Sometime during the last couple months, I’d say, no longer. She’s still smoldering.” And hurting, he said to himself. He hadn’t forgotten the look in her eyes. “I’ve been invited to a party this weekend. I should meet both Harriet Merrick and Hiller. In the meantime, I’ve had a break here. The place is riddled with secret passages.”
“With what?”
“You heard me. With some luck, I’ll have easy access throughout the house.”
McIntyre grunted in approval. “You won’t have any trouble recognizing it?”
“If he’s got it, and if it’s in the house, and if by some miracle I can find it in this anachronism, I’ll recognize it.” He switched off and, resisting the urge to throw the transmitter against the wall, dropped it back in the briefcase.
Clearing his mind, Adam rose and began to search the fireplace for the mechanism.
It took him nearly ten minutes, but he was rewarded with a groaning as a panel slid halfway open. He squeezed inside with a flashlight. It was both dank and musty, but he played the light against the wall until he found the inside switch. The panel squeaked closed and left him in the dark.
His footsteps echoed and he heard the scuttering sound of rodents. He ignored both. For a moment he stopped at the wall of Kirby’s room. Telling himself he was only doing his job, he took the time to find the switch. But he wondered if she was already sleeping in the big four-poster bed, under the wedding ring quilt.
He could press the button and join her. The hell with McIntyre and the job. The hell with everything but what lay beyond the wall. Procedure, he thought on an oath. He was sick to death of procedure. But Kirby had been right. Adam had a very firm grip on what was right and what was wrong.
He turned and continued down the passage.
Abruptly the corridor snaked off, with steep stone steps forking to the left. Mounting them, he found himself in another corridor. A spider scrambled on the wall as he played his light over it. Kirby hadn’t exaggerated much about the size. The third story, he decided, was as good a place to start as any.
He turned the first mechanism he found and slipped through the opening. Dust and dustcovers. Moving quietly, he began a slow, methodical search.
Kirby was restless. While Adam had been standing on the other side of the wall, fighting back the urge