The Art of Deception by Nora Roberts Page B

was more than one Kirby Fairchild. He wondered just how many she’d show him.
    He discarded one outfit after another. This one wastoo drab, that one too chic. He found a pair of baggy overalls thrown over the same hanger with a slinky sequin dress with a two-thousand-dollar label. Pushing aside a three-piece suit perfect for an assistant D.A., he found it.
    Scarlet silk. It was undoubtedly expensive, but not chic in the way he imagined Melanie Burgess would design. The square-necked bodice tapered to a narrow waist before the material flared into a full skirt. There were flounces at the hem and underskirts of white and black and fuchsia. The sleeves were short and puffed, running with stripes of the same colors. It was made for a wealthy gypsy. It was perfect.
    â€œThis.” Adam carried it to the bed and stood over Kirby. With a frown, she continued to stare up at the ceiling. “Put it on and come up to the studio. I’ll do some sketches.”
    She spoke without looking at him. “Do you realize that not once have you asked me to pose for you? You told me you wanted to paint me, you told me you were going to paint me, but you’ve never asked if you could paint me.” With her hands still folded, one finger began to tap. “Instinct tells me you’re basically a gentleman, Adam. Perhaps you’ve just forgotten to say please.”
    â€œI haven’t forgotten.” He tossed the dress across the bottom of the bed. “But I think you hear far too many pleases from men. You’re a woman who brings men to their knees with the bat of an eye. I’m not partial to kneeling.” No, he wasn’t partial to kneeling, and it was becoming imperative that he handle the controls, for both of them. Bending over, he put his hands on either side of her head then sat beside her. “And I’m just as used to getting my own way as you are.”
    She studied him, thinking over his words and her position. “Then again, I haven’t batted my eyes at you yet.”
    â€œHaven’t you?” he murmured.
    He could smell her, that wild, untamed fragrance that was suited to isolated winter nights. Her lips pouted, not by design, but mood. It was that that tempted him. He had to taste them. He did so lightly, as he’d intended. Just a touch, just a taste, then he’d go about his business. But her mouth yielded to him as the whole woman hadn’t. Or perhaps it conquered.
    Desire scorched him. Fire was all he could relate to. Flames and heat and smoke. That was her taste. Smoke and temptation and a promise of unreasonable delights.
    He tasted, but it was no longer enough. He had to touch.
    Her body was small, delicate, something a man might fear to take. He did, but no longer for her sake. For his own. Small and delicate she might be, but she could slice a man in two. Of that he was certain. But as he touched, as he tasted, he didn’t give a damn.
    Never had he wanted a woman more. She made him feel like a teenager in the back seat of a car, like a man paying for the best whore in a French bordello, like a husband nuzzling into the security of a wife. Her complexities were more erotic than satin and lace and smoky light—the soft, agile mouth, the strong, determined hands. He wasn’t certain he’d ever escape from either. In possessing her, he’d invite an endless cycle of complications, of struggles, of excitement. She was an opiate. She was a dive from a cliff. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to overdose and hit the rocks.
    It cost him more than he would have believed to drawback. She lay with her eyes half closed, her mouth just parted. Don’t get involved, he told himself frantically. Get the Rembrandt and walk away. That’s what you came to do.
    â€œAdam…” She whispered his name as if she’d never said it before. It felt so beautiful on her tongue. The only thought that stayed with her was that no one had ever made