Best Of Nora Roberts Books 1-6. Nora Roberts

perhaps.” Ignoring the sharp sound of derision, she went on. “To Papa, painting’s not just a vocation. Art and life are one, interchangeable.”

      “I’ll go along with all that, Kirby, but it doesn’t explain why—”

      “Let me finish.” She had both hands on the snifter again, resting it in her lap. “One thing Papa can’t tolerate is greed, in any form. To him greed isn’t just the worship of money, but the hoarding of art. You must know his collection’s constantly being lent out to museums and art schools. Though he has strong feelings that art belongs in the private sector, as well as public institutions, he hates the idea of the wealthy buying up great art for investment purposes.”

      “Admirable, Kirby. But he’s made a business out of selling fraudulent paintings.”

      “Not a business. He’s never benefited financially.” She set her glass aside and clasped her hands together. “Each prospective buyer of one of Papa’s emulations is first researched thoroughly.” She waited a beat. “By Harriet.”

      He nearly sat back down again. “Harriet Merrick’s in on all of this?”

      “All of this,” she said mildly, “has been their joint hobby for the last fifteen years.”

      “Hobby,” he murmured and did sit.

      “Harriet has very good connections, you see. She makes certain the buyer is very wealthy and that he or she lives in a remote location. Two years ago, Papa sold an Arabian sheik a fabulous Renoir. It was one of my favorites. Anyway—” she continued, getting up to freshen Adam’s drink, then her own “—each buyer would also be known for his or her attachment to money, and/or a complete lack of any sense of community spirit or obligation. Through Harriet, they’d learn of Papa’s ownership of a rare, officially undiscovered artwork.”

      Taking her own snifter, she returned to her position on the bed while Adam remained silent. “At the first contact, Papa is always uncooperative without being completely dismissive. Gradually he allows himself to be worn down until the deal’s made. The price, naturally, is exorbitant, otherwise the art fanciers would be insulted.” She took a small sip and enjoyed the warm flow of the brandy. “He deals only in cash, so there’s no record. Then the paintings float off to the Himalayas or Siberia or somewhere to be kept in seclusion. Papa then donates the money anonymously to charity.”

      Taking a deep breath at the end of her speech, Kirby rewarded herself with more brandy.

      “You’re telling me that he goes through all that, all the work, all the intrigue, for nothing?”

      “I certainly am not.” Kirby shook her head and leaned forward. “He gets a great deal. He gets satisfaction, Adam. What else is necessary after all?”

      He struggled to remember the code of right and wrong. “Kirby, he’s stealing!”

      Kirby tilted her head and considered. “Who caught your support and admiration, Adam? The Sheriff of Nottingham or Robin Hood?”

      “It’s not the same.” He dragged a hand through his hair as he tried to convince them both. “Damn it, Kirby, it’s not the same.”

      “There’s a newly modernized pediatric wing at the local hospital,” she began quietly. “A little town in Appalachia has a new fire engine and modern equipment. Another, in the dust bowl, has a wonderful new library.”

      “All right.” He rose again to cut her off. “In fifteen years I’m sure there’s quite a list. Maybe in some strange way it’s commendable, but it’s also illegal, Kirby. It has to stop.”

      “I know.” Her simple agreement broke his rhythm. With a half smile, Kirby moved her shoulders. “It was fun while it lasted, but I’ve known for some time it had to stop before something went wrong. Papa has a project in mind for a series of paintings, and I’ve convinced him to begin soon. It should take him about five years and give us a breathing space. But in the meantime, he’s done something I don’t know how to cope with.”

      She was about to give him more. Even before she spoke, Adam knew Kirby was going to give him all her trust. He sat in silence, despising himself, as she told him everything she knew about the Rembrandt.

      “I imagine part of it’s revenge on Stuart,” she continued, while Adam smoked in silence and she again swirled her brandy without drinking. “Somehow Stuart found out about Papa’s hobby and threatened exposure the night I broke our engagement. Papa told me not to worry, that Stuart wasn’t in a position to make waves. At the time I had no idea about the Rembrandt business.”

      She was opening up to him, no questions, no hesitation. He was going to probe, God help him, he hadn’t a choice. “Do you have any idea where he might’ve hidden it?”

      “No, but I haven’t looked.” When she looked at him, she wasn’t the sultry gypsy or the exotic princess. She was only a daughter concerned about an adored father. “He’s a good man, Adam. No one knows that better than I. I know there’s a reason for what he’s done, and for the time being, I have to accept that. I don’t expect you to share my loyalty, just my confidence.” He didn’t speak, and she took his silence for agreement. “My main concern now is that Papa’s underestimating Stuart’s ruthlessness.”

      “He won’t when you tell him about the scene in the library.”

      “I’m not going to tell him. Because,” she continued before Adam could argue, “I have no way of predicting his reaction. You may have noticed, Papa’s a very volatile man.” Tilting her glass, she met his gaze with a quick change of mood. “I don’t want you to worry about all this, Adam. Talk to Papa about it if you like. Have a chat with Harriet, too. Personally, I find it helpful to tuck the whole business away from time to time and let it hibernate. Like a grizzly bear.”

      “Grizzly bear.”

      She laughed and rose. “Let me get you some more brandy.”

      He stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “Have you told me everything?”

      With a frown, she brushed at a speck of lint on the bedspread. “Did I mention the Van Gogh?”

      “Oh, God.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Somehow he’d hoped there’d be an end without really believing it. “What Van Gogh?”

      Kirby pursed her lips. “Not exactly a Van Gogh.”

      “Your father?”

      “His latest. He’s sold it to Victor Alvarez, a coffee baron in South America.” She smiled as Adam said nothing and stared straight ahead. “The working conditions on his farm are deplorable. Of course, there’s nothing we can do to remedy that, but Papa’s already allocated the purchase price for a school somewhere in the area. It’s his last for several years, Adam,” she added as he sat with his fingers pressed against his eyes. “And really, I think he’ll be pleased that you know all about everything. He’d love to show this painting to you. He’s particularly pleased with it.”

      Adam rubbed his hands over his face. It didn’t surprise him to hear himself laughing. “I suppose I should be grateful he hasn’t decided to do the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel.”

      “Only after he retires,” Kirby put in cheerfully. “And that’s years off yet.”

      Not certain whether she was joking or not, he let it pass. “I’ve got to give all this a little time to settle.”

      “Fair enough.”

      He wasn’t going back to his room to report to McIntyre, he decided as he set his brandy aside. He wasn’t ready for that yet, so soon after Kirby shared it all with him without questions, without limitations. It wasn’t possible to think about his job, or remember outside obligations, when she looked at him with all her trust. No, he’d find a way, somehow, to justify what he chose to do in the end. Right and wrong weren’t so well defined now.

      Looking at her, he needed to give, to soothe, to show