Best Of Nora Roberts Books 1-6. Nora Roberts

She lifted her head and took a deep breath. “I have this terrible feeling that you’re leaving out a mountain of details and that I’m going to go along with you anyway.”

      “Details, Kirby.” His hand swept them aside. “The world’s too full of details, they clutter things up. Remember, art reflects life, and life’s an illusion. Come now, I’m tired.” He walked to her and held out his hand. “Walk your old papa to bed.”

      Defeated, she accepted his hand and stood. Never, never would she learn. And always, always would she adore him. Together they walked from the room.

      Adam watched as they started down the steps, arm in arm.

      “Papa…” Only feet away from Adam’s hiding place, Kirby stopped. “There is, of course, a logical reason for all this?”

      “Kirby.” Adam could see the mobile face move into calm, sober lines. “Have I ever done anything without a sensible, logical reason?”

      She started with a near-soundless chuckle. In moments, her laughter rang out, rich and musical. It echoed back, faint and ghostly, until she rested her head against her father’s shoulder. In the half-light, with her eyes shining, Adam thought she’d never looked more alluring. “Oh, my papa,” she began in a clear contralto. “To me he is so wonderful.” Linking her arm through Fairchild’s, she continued down the steps.

      Rather pleased with himself, and with his offspring, Fairchild joined her in his wavery falsetto. Their mixed voices drifted over Adam until the distance swallowed them.

      Leaving the shadows, he stood at the head of the stairway. Once he heard Kirby’s laugh, then there was silence.

      “Curiouser and curiouser,” he murmured.

      Both Fairchilds were probably mad. They fascinated him.

      Chapter 5

      In the morning the sky was gray and the rain sluggish. Adam was tempted to roll over, close his eyes and pretend he was in his own well-organized home, where a housekeeper tended to the basics and there wasn’t a gargoyle in sight. Partly from curiosity, partly from courage, he rose and prepared to deal with the day.

      From what he’d overheard the night before, he didn’t count on learning much from Kirby. Apparently she’d known less about the matter of the Rembrandt than he. Adam was equally sure that no matter how much he prodded and poked, Fairchild would let nothing slip. He might look innocent and harmless, but he was as shrewd as they came. And potentially dangerous, Adam mused, remembering how cleanly Fairchild had dealt with Hiller.

      The best course of action remained the nightly searches with the aid of the passages. The days he determined for his own sanity to spend painting.

      I shouldn’t be here in the first place, Adam told himself as he stood in the shower under a strong cold spray of water. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Mac tantalized me with the Rembrandt, I wouldn’t be here. The last time, he promised himself as he toweled off. The very last time.

      Once the Fairchild hassle was over, painting would not only be his first order of business, it would be his only business.

      Dressed, and content with the idea of ending his secondary career in a few more weeks, Adam walked down the hallway thinking of coffee. Kirby’s door was wide open. As he passed, he glanced in. Frowning, he stopped, walked back and stood in the doorway.

      “Good morning, Adam. Isn’t it a lovely day?” She smiled, upside down, as she stood on her head in the corner.

      Deliberately he glanced at the window to make sure he was on solid ground. “It’s raining.”

      “Don’t you like the rain? I do.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Look at it this way, there must be dozens of places where the sun’s shining. It’s all relative. Did you sleep well?”

      “Yes.” Even in her current position, Adam could see that her face glowed, showing no signs of a restless night.

      “Come in and wait a minute, I’ll go down to breakfast with you.”

      He walked over to stand directly in front of her. “Why are you standing on your head?”

      “It’s a theory of mine.” She crossed her ankles against the wall while her hair pooled onto the carpet. “Could you sit down a minute? It’s hard for me to talk to you when your head’s up there and mine’s down here.”

      Knowing he’d regret it, Adam crouched. Her sweater had slipped up, showing a thin line of smooth midriff.

      “Thanks. My theory is that all night I’ve been horizontal, and most of the day I’ll be right side up. So…” Somehow she managed to shrug. “I stand on my head in the morning and before bed. That way the blood can slosh around a bit.”

      Adam rubbed his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I think I understand. That terrifies me.”

      “You should try it.”

      “I’ll just let my blood stagnate, thanks.”

      “Suit yourself. You’d better stand back, I’m coming up.”

      She dropped her feet and righted herself with a quick athletic agility that surprised him. Facing him, she pushed at the hair that floated into her eyes. As she tossed it back she gave him a long, slow smile.

      “Your face is red,” he murmured, more in his own defense than for any other reason.

      “Can’t be helped, it’s part of the process.” She’d spent a good many hours arguing with herself the night before. This morning she’d decided to let things happen as they happened. “It’s the only time I blush,” she told him. “So, if you’d like to say something embarrassing…or flattering…?”

      Against his better judgment, he touched her, circling her waist with his hands. She didn’t move back, didn’t move forward, but simply waited. “Your blush is already fading, so it seems I’ve missed my chance.”

      “You can give it another try tomorrow. Hungry?”

      “Yes.” Her lips made him hungry, but he wasn’t ready to test himself quite yet. “I want to go through your clothes after breakfast.”

      “Oh, really?” She drew out the word, catching her tongue between her teeth.

      His brow lifted, but only she was aware of the gesture. “For the painting.”

      “You don’t want to do a nude.” The humor in her eyes faded into boredom as she drew away. “That’s the usual line.”

      “I don’t waste my time with lines.” He studied her—the cool gray eyes that could warm with laughter, the haughty mouth that could invite and promise with no more than a smile. “I’m going to paint you because you were meant to be painted. I’m going to make love with you for exactly the same reason.”

      Her expression didn’t change, but her pulse rate did. Kirby wasn’t foolish enough to pretend even to herself it was anger. Anger and excitement were two different things. “How decisive and arrogant of you,” she drawled. Strolling over to her dresser, she picked up her brush and ran it quickly through her hair. “I haven’t agreed to pose for you, Adam, nor have I agreed to sleep with you.” She flicked the brush through a last time then set it down. “In fact, I’ve serious doubts that I’ll do either. Shall we go?”

      Before she could get to the door, he had her. The speed surprised her, if the strength didn’t. She’d hoped to annoy him, but when she tossed her head back to look at him, she didn’t see temper. She saw cool, patient determination. Nothing could have been more unnerving.

      Then he had her close, so that his face was a blur and his mouth was dominant. She didn’t resist. Kirby rarely resisted what she wanted. Instead she let the heat wind through her in a slow continuous stream that was somehow both terrifying and peaceful.

      Desire. Wasn’t that how