Best Of Nora Roberts Books 1-6. Nora Roberts

into her face.

      “Thank you.” Kirby took the flowers Rick had partially strangled and smiled. “Come, let me fix you a drink. You’ve had a long drive, haven’t you? Cards, see to Mr. Potts’s luggage, please,” she continued without giving Rick a chance to speak. He’d need a little time, she knew, to draw words together. “Papa should be down soon.” She found a club soda and poured it over ice. “He’s been giving a lot of time to his new project; I’m sure he’ll want to discuss it with you.” After handing him his drink, she gestured to a chair. “So, how’ve you been?”

      He drank first, to separate his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Fine. That is, I had a bit of a cold last week, but I’m much better now. I’d never come to see you if I had any germs.”

      She turned in time to hide a grin and poured herself a glass of Perrier. “That’s very considerate of you, Rick.”

      “Have you—have you been working?”

      “Yes, I’ve nearly done enough for my spring showing.”

      “It’ll be wonderful,” he told her with blind loyalty. Though he recognized the quality of her work, the more powerful pieces intimidated him. “You’ll be staying in New York?”

      “Yes.” She walked over to sit beside him. “For a week.”

      “Then maybe—that is, I’d love to, if you had the time, of course, I’d like to take you to dinner.” He gulped down club soda. “If you had an evening free.”

      “That’s very sweet of you.”

      Astonished, he gaped, pupils dilating. From the doorway, Adam watched the puppylike adulation of the lanky, somewhat untidy man. In another ten seconds, Adam estimated, Kirby would have him at her feet whether she wanted him there or not.

      Kirby glanced up, and her expression changed so subtly Adam wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been so completely tuned in to her. “Adam.” If there’d been relief in her eyes, her voice was casual. “I was hoping you’d come down. Rick, this is Adam Haines. Adam, I think Papa mentioned Rick Potts to you the other day.”

      The message came across loud and clear. Be kind. With an easy smile, Adam accepted the damp handshake. “Yes, Philip said you were coming for a few days. Kirby tells me you work in watercolors.”

      “She did?” Nearly undone by the fact that Kirby would speak of him at all, Rick simply stood there a moment.

      “We’ll have to have a long discussion after dinner.” Rising, Kirby began to lead Rick gently toward the door. “I’m sure you’d like to rest a bit after your drive. You can find the way to your room, can’t you?”

      “Yes, yes, of course.”

      Kirby watched him wander down the hall before she turned back. She walked back to Adam and wrapped her arms around him. “I hate to repeat myself, but I love you.”

      He framed her face with his hands and kissed her softly, lightly, with the promise of more. “Repeat yourself as often as you like.” He stared down at her, suddenly and completely aroused by no more than her smile. He pressed his mouth into her palm with a restraint that left her weak. “You take my breath away,” he murmured. “It’s no wonder you turn Rick Potts to jelly.”

      “I’d rather turn you to jelly.”

      She did. It wasn’t an easy thing to admit. With a half smile, Adam drew her away. “Are you really going to tell him I’m a jealous lover with a stiletto?”

      “It’s for his own good.” Kirby picked up her glass of Perrier. “He’s always so embarrassed after he loses control. Did you learn any more from Papa?”

      “No.” Puzzled, he frowned. “Why?”

      “I was coming to see you right before Rick arrived. I heard you talking.”

      She slipped a hand into his and he fought to keep the tension from being noticeable. “I don’t want to press things now.” That much was the truth, he thought fiercely. That much wasn’t a lie.

      “No, you’re probably right about that. Papa tends to get obstinate easily. Let’s sit in front of the fire for a little while,” she said as she drew him over to it. “And do nothing.”

      He sat beside her, holding her close, and wished things were as simple as they seemed.

      Hours went by before they sat in the parlor again, but they were no longer alone. After an enormous meal, Fairchild and Rick settled down with them to continue the ongoing discussion of art and technique. Assisted by two glasses of wine and half a glass of brandy, Rick began to heap praise on Kirby’s work. Adam recognized the warning signals of battle—Fairchild’s pink ears and Kirby’s guileless eyes.

      “Thank you, Rick.” With a smile, Kirby lifted her brandy. “I’m sure you’d like to see Papa’s latest work. It’s an attempt in clay. A bird or something, isn’t it, Papa?”

      “A bird? A bird?” In a quick circle, he danced around the table. “It’s a hawk, you horrid girl. A bird of prey, a creature of cunning.”

      A veteran, Rick tried to soothe. “I’d love to see it, Mr. Fairchild.”

      “And so you will.” In one dramatic gulp, Fairchild finished off his drink. “I intend to donate it to the Metropolitan.”

      Whether Kirby’s snort was involuntary or contrived, it produced results.

      “Do you mock your father?” Fairchild demanded. “Have you no faith in these hands?” He held them out, fingers spread. “The same hands that held you fresh from your mother’s womb?”

      “Your hands are the eighth wonder of the world,” Kirby told him. “However…” She set down her glass, sat back and crossed her legs. Meticulously she brought her fingers together and looked over them. “From my observations, you have difficulty with your structure. Perhaps with a few years of practice, you’ll develop the knack of construction.”

      “Structure?” he sputtered. “Construction?” His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. “Cards!” Kirby sent him an easy smile and picked up her glass again. “Cards!”

      “Yes, Mr. Fairchild.”

      “Cards,” Fairchild repeated, glaring at the dignified butler, who stood waiting in the doorway.

      “Yes, Mr. Fairchild.”

      “Cards!” He bellowed and pranced.

      “I believe Papa wants a deck of cards—Cards,” Kirby explained. “Playing cards.”

      “Yes, miss.” With a slight bow, Cards went to get some.

      “What’s the matter with that man?” Fairchild muttered. In hurried motions, he began to clear off a small table. Exquisite Wedgwood and delicate Venetian glass were dumped unceremoniously on the floor. “You’d think I didn’t make myself clear.”

      “It’s so hard to get good help these days,” Adam said into his glass.

      “Your cards, Mr. Fairchild.” The butler placed two sealed decks on the table before gliding from the room.

      “Now I’ll show you about construction.” Fairchild pulled up a chair and wrapped his skinny legs around its legs. Breaking the seal on the first deck, he poured the cards on the table. With meticulous care, he leaned one card against another and formed an arch. “A steady hand and a discerning eye,” Fairchild mumbled as he began slowly, and with total intensity, to build a house of cards.

      “That should keep him out of trouble for a while,” Kirby declared. Sending Adam a wink, she turned to Rick and drew him into a discussion on mutual friends.

      An hour drifted by over brandy and quiet conversation. Occasionally there was a mutter or a grumble from the architect in the corner. The fire crackled. When Montique entered and jumped into Adam’s lap,